#or maybe it's something about the way they work itself

[strang3lov3]

Kitten Fur

Tommy takes a deep breath, groaning as his cock stirs in his denim. “S’just a big secret to keep,” he says. Tommy continues, “An’ I can keep quiet for ya, but I gotta know what’s in it for me, right? S’all I’m askin’.”

You can’t get anything past Joel, but that won’t stop you from trying.

Tags - one shot, smut, unprotected piv, creampies, uncle tommy blowjobs/facefucking, cum swallowing, cunnilingus, fingering, spanking/violence, Joel gets dark, then comforts you, cat scratches, wound care, coercion/manipulation/blackmail, dark/icky daddy themes, daddy kink, dark fluff, girthy legal age gap. 8.5k words. A/N - thanks for all the love and patience 🩷🫂 thank you L who edited, i love you sweet friend

The flowers are blooming nicely. 

In the spring, when the snow was all but melted, dirty and icy on the brown grass, you were depressed. It was still cold outside and there wasn’t much to do. Joel took you out to pick out some seeds, give you something to care for, to keep yourself busy. Touching soil - it’s good for a person, you know? 

You water Joel’s flowers first: roses, daisies, tulips, and his favorite, lilies. There are honey bees buzzing about, worms wiggling through the soil. You like your flowers better, your snapdragons and gardenias. You love how your honeysuckle smells, so sweet and sugary you could almost taste it. 

Joel joins you in your shared garden, wearing a gray t-shirt and some weathered jeans. His curls are combed back, and he looks handsome in the sunlight. He reaches up and pulls a birdfeeder off of the hook of a post that’s taller than you can reach and fills it with seed, then fills a hanging glass container with sugar water for the hummingbirds. 

Joel dampens a rag with some oil and runs it along the metal post, top to bottom, all the way up and down. 

“What’re you doing, Daddy?” 

“Tryin’ somethin’ out…” Joel puts the cap back on the bottle of oil. “Gonna see if this won’t keep away the goddamn squirrels.” 

“I like the squirrels.” 

“I know you do, Pumpkin, but they’re stealin’ all my birdseed.” 

You make a face. “Maybe I’ll put peanut butter out or something for them, then. So they don’t steal your birdseed.” 

“Oh, will ya?” Joel sounds less than impressed. The critters are giving you trouble too, snacking on your flowers you’ve worked so hard to grow. You don’t mind, though. It’s a joy to watch them frolic through the garden, chasing each other. You like seeing familiar faces, but your favorite part is seeing the babies. If you’re quiet, and if you’re lucky, you’ll catch glimpses of the sweet baby animals. 

Like you’re doing right now. Under the rocking swing you and Joel sway on is a little black kitten, hanging out all alone. It’s cleaning itself, pink tongue darting out to lick its paw before swiping it over its ears. “Joel - Daddy,” you hiss urgently, tugging on Joel’s shirt. 

“What is it, Punk’n?”

“Shh.” Joel makes a face in mock offense that disappears when you point to the kitten, and then he tilts his head. “Ahh. Kitty cat, huh?” 

“Mhm. Can we bring it inside?” 

Joel sighs. “No, sweetheart.” 

Ouch. He’s inspecting his work, considering if petroleum jelly might be a better move. Those fuckers are crafty. “Hon, do we still have some Vasel - oh, don’t you give me that look.”

You cross your arms and raise your eyebrows. “M’not giving you a look.” 

Joel knows better than to get into an argument with you about whether or not you’re giving him a “look”. He’s learned to pick and choose his battles with you, and he’ll gladly lose that one, but this one, absolutely not. 

“Honey, he’s probably got worms an’ fleas and whatnot. He can’t come inside, baby.” 

“But it’s hot out,” you argue. “And - he’s black.”

“Look at ‘im,” Joel says, pointing to the kitten, which is now laying in a shady patch of dirt. “He’s coolin’ off in the shade. He’s alright, sweet pea. Look - why don’t ya go an’ play with him, okay? Tell him ‘bout what a mean old man I am. I’m gonna go make us some lunch.” 

“I’m really not hungry.” 

“Ya really are,” Joel says, parroting your tone. He gives your shoulder two quick squeezes and heads inside to make you both some sandwiches, give you some time to spook the kitten and get your mind un-addled from this thing before you’re in too deep. He hopes that this stray will keep its distance from you, letting you know itself that it wants nothing to do with you. Tough love, Pumpkin.

You approach the kitten slowly, who looks defensive at first. Eyes all wide and alert, on edge. You sit down gently, careful not to make any sudden movements, and hold out your hand for the kitten to sniff. You wonder what it is. Joel kept calling it a he. 

The kitten sniffs you cautiously, tickling your skin with its quick little breaths. It seems to approve of you and rubs its cheek along your finger, tail curling left and right. “Hi, kitty,” you smile, using one digit to scratch the kitten right between its ears. You pluck a dandelion and wiggle it in front of the animal, giggling as it bats at the flower. “Shit,” you swear when it scratches you. 

The little kitten climbs into your lap and purrs happily at you, letting you scratch its little body all over. You lift it for a moment to raise its tail and take a peek, and yep, Joel was right. “You are definitely a dude,” you laugh. 

Joel pushes the curtain of the kitchen window to the side to look at you and the kitten. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head when he sees you smiling, as beautiful as that is, watching your little friend chase a white butterfly. He cuts your sandwich on the diagonal per your standing request, then slides open the window and calls your name. “Lunchtime,” he says. 

You come walking, and Joel opens the door for you, stopping you before you can make it inside. “Ah, ah. Put the damn cat back outside. Nice fuckin’ try, kiddo.” 

It was worth a shot. You set the kitten down, mumbling something Joel can’t hear, and you’d better thank your lucky stars for that. The fuckin’ mouth on you, Jesus…

“Wash up. Soap an’ water.” 

After washing, you sit at the table with Joel, eating your sandwich. He made an extra for himself, but you’re still working on your first half. You swallow a bite of food, sip your water. “I didn’t see any fleas on him but I’m gonna give him a bath,” you tell Joel casually.   

“Uh huh, good luck with that.” Joel takes another bite of his sandwich. “An’ then what?”

“Then…I think I’m gonna keep him.” 

“Yeah? That so?”

“Yep.”

You eat the rest of your first sandwich, feeling Joel’s eyes on you in the quiet room, the tension hovering like fog. You know your choice of words was bold. Gonna. A choice you made on your own. 

“Pumpkin.” 

You pull at a loose string on your shorts. 

“Look at me,” Joel says, “‘Fore you get any ideas,” and you look at him. “No. You are not gettin’ a cat.”

“Why?” you whine, dragging out the syllable. 

“Because,” he explains, “Y’eat me outta house an’ home already. I don’t need another mouth to feed.” 

“But I’ll take care of him!”

Joel scoffs, then sucks food off of his thumb. “Yeah, you’ll take care of him?” 

“I take care of my flowers,” you shoot back. “And yours.” 

Joel gives you a look, lips pulled in a frown and his eyebrows raised. You’re testing him, and by god you’ve got him, sharp fucking girl. “Uh huh. When’s the last time you did your chores, huh? Dishes? Remember those?” 

You cross your arms and push your plate away, upset with the direction of this conversation. 

“And you’re tellin’ me you’re gonna keep up with a cat? Scoop his shit out of a litter box? I don’t think so, darlin’.”

You look at Joel, then back at your plate. And back to Joel again, who’s still staring you down. He’s not budging, and you don’t think you’ll be able to get him to, either. Finally, you sigh in defeat. You lean forward and rest your head in your hands, frowning. 

“Oh, enough with the poutin’. He’s got a mama who’s gonna come lookin’ for him anyway, right?”

“Maybe,” you shrug. You don’t think so.

“Look, honey,” Joel says, “You can go out there an’ play with him as much as you want, but he’s stayin’ outside. That’s my compromise.” 

Compromise. Joel’s been trying to work on that, little by little. The give and take of it all. He’s got you tied on a short leash and he knows that, so he’s been trying to give you more freedoms and privileges here and there. 

As soon as Joel says it, you’re out the door with your other half of the sandwich. You find the kitten right where you left it and you tear off little bits of chicken and bread, watching as the kitten happily eats. All those little noises it makes, its little ears wiggling. Joel follows behind you, then stands with his arms crossed as the scene plays in front of him. 

“What?” 

Joel raises his eyebrows. 

“It’s my sandwich, Daddy. And I’m not even hungry.” Lie. 

“You know damn well what, sweetheart. He can fend for himself.”

You ignore Joel, and feed the kitten a little more food. 

“Fine. You can fend for yourself. Don’t come whinin’ at me when you’re hungry later.” Joel spins around and heads for the kitchen to rinse off the plates, keeping a watchful eye on you as you play with your little friend. 

Joel watches you spend the entire day with the little guy, and how gorgeous you look lying in the grass in your shorts and pink shirt, teasing the kitten with sticks and flowers. You lie on your back and cover your eyes with your forearm, and the kitten curls up on your chest, the both of you basking in the sun for an afternoon nap. Joel loves these sounds of your sweet giggle, your real giggle. But you, sweet fucking girl, are going to break your own damn heart.

When Joel calls you in for supper hours later, he has to stop you from sneaking the kitten into the house under your shirt. He tells you you’re walking funny, and you tell him your back hurts. When Joel calls bullshit, you tell him that he walks funny when his back hurts too, Daddy. 

You don’t make it far before Joel has you putting the kitten back outside. You and Joel eat in silence, and he notices you staring out the window, your eyes following the kitten the whole time. He also notices the food you hide in your cloth napkin. 

“I don’t see his mama,” you mumble. 

“She’s out there, honey.” 

You don’t like that you can’t see the kitten when the sun goes down. Anxiety nags at you as Joel reads to you while rocking in his chair. You’ve hardly paid attention to the story. 

Joel yawns loudly, stretching his back as he does so, then puts his heavy hand on top of your head. “Ohh, I’m beat, baby. Let’s go to bed,” he says, gently scratching your scalp. You melt under his touch for a moment before he’s patting your ass, urging you up. You slide off of his lap first, then spin around and offer him your hands. Joel groans as you try to pull him up, deliberately making you do the lion’s share of the effort. It makes you both laugh. C 

You follow Joel toward the stairs, but stop as he continues up. “Daddy?”

“What-y?”

“Can I have like, five more minutes?”

“Whatcha need to do?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, lying, and Joel knows it, too. 

“Uh huh. No funny business, Pumpkin.”

You head back for the living room and open Joel’s blanket chest to retrieve an afghan for the kitten. You take Joel’s vinyls out of the crate they sit in and place them neatly on the floor, careful not to break anything. It’s not like Joel will care, right? He doesn’t even use his turntable. 

Although…Uncle Tommy might. He likes to play music when he sneaks over and plays with you. 

Outside, you set up a little bed for the kitten, and you leave food scraps out for him, too. You call for him, making kissy noises and pss pss pssing into the dark. You’re relieved when he comes running and snacks on the meal you’ve made for him, and you take care to make sure he likes the blanket you’ve picked. It takes him some time to get comfortable. “I can get you a different blanket, bud–”

“Pumpkin!” Joel shouts with his mouth full of toothpaste through the screen window above. 

“Coming, Daddy!”

But you don’t. Joel can picture the scene as he spits out his toothpaste and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, you tickling that flea-ridden cat. He goes downstairs in his pajamas and joins you outside, watching with his arms crossed as you care for your fuzzy little friend. 

“Hey.” Joel tilts his head and squints. “That my record crate?”

“...yeah.” 

“So where are my records?”

“The floor, I guess,” you answer quietly. Joel rolls his eyes, then snaps and points to the door. “Gonna throttle you, kid. Alright. You kiss your little buddy goodnight and get your ass upstairs. S’bedtime.” 

Joel watches you tenderly kiss the kitten, right on its forehead and between its ears that are a little too big for its head yet. He ushers you inside with a hand on your lower back, and he gets snapped at by you when he closes the door too loudly. When he kisses you on the forehead and whispers to you goodnight, he knows what’s running through that restless mind of yours. “Hey,” he murmurs. “He’s gonna be alright, okay?” 

You check on the kitten every morning and night, and you spend the majority of your days with him as long as he’s around. Joel watched you empty an ice tray into a bowl once, rolling his eyes as you filled it at the sink. “I’m just making sure he has water,” you said. 

“Uh huh. Does he really need ice water, Pumpkin?” 

“It’s his favorite, Daddy.” 

Because he likes to bat around the ice cubes. He paws at them and splashes around a little, then licks his paws. 

You gave him a name after about a week. Snoopy. It just fit the little guy. 

Joel says goodbye to you one morning, telling you that he’s stopping at the market to pick up some eggs real quick, but that he’ll let you stay outside while he’s gone. It’s only a few minutes anyway, and Joel knows you’re fixated on your little friend. You won’t be getting up to much trouble, so he gives you this inch. “Been goin’ through ‘em awful quick. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would ya, Pumpkin?”

“Mm-mm,” you lie, holding a handful of scrambled eggs behind your back as Joel kisses you on the cheek. “Can you get feathers, though? From the chickens? I want to make him some toys.” 

Joel rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but he returns to you with feathers anyway. You’re a very crafty girl, fashioning some sort of teaser toy out of said feathers and a stick. Joel notices the kitten’s been getting bigger. 

You and Snoopy have a whole routine. Every morning when you greet him, you sing his name. “Snooopyyyy,” you call, and Snoopy emerges from his crate or a patch of flowers. “Big stretch,” you’ll smile, watching as the kitten leans back on his paws, then forward, wiry little tail flinching while he yawns. Snoopy sings back to you as he greets you, and he’s got the sweetest, chirpiest little meow. 

You’ll spend the afternoons playing with him, and when he tires, he naps on you while you read or doodle or something. Sometimes you’ll bring a blanket outside and nap in the grass with him, enjoying the smell of his sunlight-warmed kitten fur. His eyes are turning green now. They were blue when you first met him. 

If Joel’s not home, you’ll sit by the window and play with him through the screen. You wish he’d stop locking the fucking doors. There hasn’t been an incident in a long time, but Joel says that trust has to be earned. But he also says you’re getting there, though…he’s been saying that for a while, hasn’t he. 

Joel makes a deal with you. He stops arguing about you sneaking the kitten your dinner and instead prepares Snoopy-sized portions on a small dish so long as you eat well and take care of your chores without Joel asking you to. It seems to be working well. 

But Joel still won’t budge on letting Snoopy stay. No cats, he says. 

You kiss Snoopy goodnight each night, wishing so badly you could go to sleep with him safe in your arms instead. 

You haven’t seen such an ugly sky in so long. The clouds are green and purple like shades of bruised skin, a front rolling in quickly. You felt iffy all day when it was just gray and teasing a storm, but the storm’s here, now. 

It looks bad. There’s lightning and thunder, though it’s not yet begun to rain. Wind blowing through the screen knocks over papers in Joel’s house. Snoopy’s not by the window with you, and you can’t quite see him, but you can hear him. The kitten cries in anxiety, all alone as he hides from the storm. God, you fucking hate this. You call out to him and promise him that everything’s okay, but it probably does little to comfort the creature. 

Everything’s worse after the first few drops of rain pour from the sky. It begins pouring, then stops for a second. You mop up the mess inside with a towel. There’s a ping…ping…ping, ping against the gutters, hail then slamming against the side of the house as thunder roars. They’re large pieces of hail, too, and you worry Snoopy’ll get hurt, or worse as the storm escalates. Jackson saves its alarms for infected only, so there’s no way for you to know what’s ahead. 

You try opening a door. Then another, and another. Joel’s locked them all at multiple points.

There’s a strange feeling that comes with punching out the window’s screen. You’ve done it before and faced the consequences, god. That awful day in the forest, being hunted down by Joel with Tommy’s dog. Joel terrorized the living fucking daylights out of you that day, scared you from ever pulling that shit again. But here you are, climbing out the window, just as you did before. You remember the mistakes you made that led you to Joel finding you. You wouldn’t make them again. 

Thunder claps and snaps you out of your train of thought. Snoopy cries and you run to him, he’s hidden under his blanket in his crate. Rain soaks you as you run to him and quickly gather him, ignoring his frightened scratching as you hide him under your clothes. What compels you back inside is Snoopy’s safety more than your own, truth be told. 

You drip water onto Joel’s floors as you slam the glass window shut, then quickly bring Snoopy up to your room. The kitten is drenched, the same as you. He’s shivering and scared and you are too, but you dry him off before you dry yourself. You create a safe, warm space for him under your bed, which he seems to appreciate. He stays hidden as the storm rages on. 

With Snoopy safe, you head back downstairs to assess the damage. The screen has blown halfway across Joel’s yard, so you open the window and sprint after it to fetch it. You are so deeply fucked if Joel sees what you did to his window - the screen is broken and coming apart, and you couldn’t begin to figure out how to fit it back into the window. Especially not in this storm. 

“I’ll always come and getcha if you’re in a jam,” Uncle Tommy had told you once, like he was your guardian angel or something. He whispered it, actually, and tapped your nose with his long, thick finger. Wearing that crooked smirk of his, his eyes sparkling with something darker than mischievous. 

“No questions asked?” 

“Don’t know about that,” Tommy replied. “But if ya need me, sweetheart, I’m there. I know what it’s like to be your age, to find yourself in all sorts’a dicey fuckin’ situations.” 

“Did you get in trouble a lot?” 

“Sure did, honey.” 

“What’d you do?” 

Tommy chuckled and swiped at his nose, then shook his head. “Ohhh, darlin’. All kinds of shit a sweet girl like you don’t need to know a goddamn thing about.” 

You think now’s about as good a time as ever to get Uncle Tommy and help yourself out of this jam you’re in. You race to his house through the storm, exhilarated as it’s the first time you’ve been out like this since…you don’t even know when. It feels fucking good. 

You pound on Tommy’s door, praying to god he’s home and lucky for you, he is. You barely stutter out an explanation before you’re grabbing his hand and leading him back to Joel’s, then showing him the screen you need him to fix. “Jesus, girl. Your daddy’s gonna beat ya black and blue, you know that?”

“I know. I need your help,” you tell him. “Please, Uncle Tommy.” 

Tommy picks up the screen and opens the door, then gestures for you to move inside. “You up to no good?” he asks, only to be met with no answer. “I ain’t helpin’ ‘less you tell me what crime exactly it is that you’re makin’ me a goddamn accomplice of.” 

“Fine. I’ll show you.” 

“Show me, huh.” Uncle Tommy follows you up the stairs and into your room, where he takes in everything. The books you read, the clothes you wear, the locked window. The baby monitor Joel turns on at night. 

You lift your bedskirt and scratch the floor, and out comes Snoopy. Cautiously, as he’s still frightened by the storm. You scoop him up in your hands and bring him to Tommy, who scratches the kitten between its ears. “This is Snoopy,” you introduce, “He’s been my friend for a while but Joel - Daddy won’t let me have a pet.” 

“Mm,” Tommy hums, now scratching beneath the kitten’s chin. He can fill in the blanks himself - you broke out to rescue this kitten from the big bad storm, and now you need him to cover your tracks. “You sit tight and I’ll see what I can do, sweetheart.” 

Tommy leaves you to go clean your mess. It’s an easy enough fix - staple the screen back into its frame, then fit the entire thing into the window. He could do it in his sleep. 

He calls you downstairs to inspect his handiwork, make sure everything’s to your liking, and it’s as good as new. “Well, whaddaya say, kiddo?” 

You push on the screen, smiling in both relief and mischief. It thrills you to get away with this, to have this little secret of your own. That alone is an accomplishment when Joel keeps you under the microscope the way he does, isn’t it? You don’t have much that’s just…yours. Joel takes it all from you. 

“Thank you,” you grin, wrapping your arms around Tommy’s strong middle. You squeeze him so tightly and he hugs you back, kissing the top of your head while stroking your back.

“S’what I’m here for, darlin’. Always got your back,” he murmurs softly, then clicks his tongue. “Your daddy’s a fuckin’ hard ass, ain’t he?” 

“He–” you stop yourself from continuing. Tommy laughs at that. 

“You can say it, hon. Not gonna snitch on ya.” 

“He’s a hard ass, yeah,” you laugh, and it feels good to get it off your chest. It’s hard to talk about Joel in that way when he tells you that he’s always right, and when he punishes you for questioning him. Daddy knows what’s best for ya, Pumpkin. Ungrateful ass spoiled fuckin’ brat. He gave you life and he can take it away, you know. Keep fucking testing, watch what happens. And quit with the fuckin’ waterworks before he gives you somethin’ to really cry about. 

Tommy laughs too, swaying you from side to side in his warm embrace. It goes quiet, the only sound in the room being the rain splashing against the windows. It’s all but died completely. 

“Guessin’ you’re wantin’ Uncle Tommy to keep quiet about this too, then, huh?” he asks quietly, pointing to the window. “Yeah?”

“Please,” you answer. 

Tommy takes a deep breath, groaning as his cock stirs in his denim. “S’just a big secret to keep is all,” he says. Tommy continues, “An’ I can keep quiet for ya, but I gotta know what’s in it for me, right? S’all I’m askin’.”

You pull away, brows pinched in concern. Tommy shrugs and grins in a very matter-of-fact way, putting his hands in his front pockets. “C’mon. Fair’s fair, ain’t it? I do a lil’ somethin’ for you, you do a lil’ somethin’ for me?”

“What - what am I supposed to do for you?”

Tommy chuckles darkly. “What do you think, girlie?” He reaches for your hand and presses your palm against his bulge, sighing softly at the pressure. Even like this, you can feel just how big he is. “Got such a pretty mouth, sweet pea,” Tommy says, reaching for your face. He runs his thumb along your bottom lip and gives it a little pull, smirking in his wolfish way. “Why don’tcha get on your knees f’me?”

You kneel so pretty, Tommy thinks as he unbuckles his belt. He pushes some hair out of your face with one hand, then frees his cock using the other, resting his hefty balls on top of the elastic waistband of his boxers. His cock is too big and heavy to slap against his stomach, and bobs with the weight of itself. He holds it between his thumb and forefingers, guiding the tip toward your mouth. “Gimme a kiss, honey,” he says, pushing himself toward you. 

His cock is so warm against your lips as you kiss him, and he smells so musky, slightly bitter. His pubic hair is less gray than Joel’s is, but getting there. It’s about as overgrown, though. And he’s markedly thicker than Joel is, though maybe not as long. He’s a fucking choking hazard, is what he is. 

You’re happy to take Uncle Tommy’s cock in your mouth, truthfully, even if the whole act caught you off guard. It’s just another way to pull one over on Joel, after all. You’d probably be in big trouble if he knew what you were up to. Good thing he’ll never find out, huh?

You swirl your tongue around Tommy’s thick head, running your tongue over his wet slit, tasting that little bit of prejack that’s beaded there. Tommy holds your face with one of his large hands, stroking softly at your skin as you peer up at him. Uncle Tommy looks like nothing good for you, and you can’t help but feel absolutely intrigued by that. He’s the knife you do tricks with, the matches you play with. 

You run your tongue along the underside of his shaft, eliciting a deep groan from him. “Don’t you tease me, sweet pea. Ain’t nice.”

You part your lips and take his head into your mouth, then bob yourself on his length, about halfway or less. Tommy watches you, waiting to see if you’ll work your way down, nose buried into his thick patch of hair. “Ahem,” he clears his throat, “Lil’ deeper now, honey. All the way down. I know your daddy raised ya better’n that, huh?”” 

You pull off of Tommy, a string of saliva that connects him to your lips breaking. “Daddy doesn’t make me take him all the way,” you tell Tommy.

Tommy shrugs, makes a face. “But you ain’t suckin’ your daddy’s cock right now, are ya, girlie?” He positions himself back at your mouth, then begins pushing in. “Uncle Tommy plays by different rules.” 

Tommy takes the reins here. Hand on the back of your head, forcing his way deeper down your throat. He’s not a brute about it, of course. He’s gentle, but firm, pushing his cock inch by inch into your warm, wet, welcoming mouth. He hushes you when you gag, choking on his girth. “Slow down an’ catch your breath,” he says. “Through your nose. M’not goin’ nowhere.” 

His words soothe you. There’s a bit of panic that comes with him being so deep down your throat, but Tommy’s generous enough to give you the time to get used to him. Once you stop squirming, stop making those silly, cockdumb noises he loves so much, Tommy pulls out. And he pushes back in, and pulls out again. He repeats this until he’s steadily fucking your mouth, hand tangled in your hair. It’s less of something you do for him and more so something he does to you, reminding you of exactly who’s standing and who’s kneeling, here. 

“Open wide,” he tells you. “Quickly, darlin’.” Tommy pulls out of your mouth and jerks his cock furiously, sticking his tongue out at you to indicate what he wants you to do. You follow suit, and Tommy paints you in his load, all over your tongue and the back of your throat. “And swallow. That’s it, honey. Good girl.” 

You stand up, knees aching slightly. Tommy wipes a bit of his cum off your lip, then pushes it into your mouth. With a twinkle in his eye, he motions like he’s zipping his lips sealed; locks the key and tosses it over his shoulder and winks. “Pleasure doin’ business with ya, sweetheart, as always.” 

And he’s off. 

A week later, and you cannot fucking believe you got away with it. This kitten…god, what a clever, beautiful creature he is. Snoopy knows when to hide. He stays quiet, never arouses Joel’s suspicions. You’ve got a litter box filled with sand in an inconspicuous spot and you clean it daily, always when Joel’s not around. 

You have the most special connection with him. He sleeps in the pocket of your hoodie and plays with anything he can get his paws on. He still doesn’t like the rain, but he’s so soothed by your touch. And each night after Joel reads to you and kisses you, Snoopy appears like clockwork. It’s the gentlest little jump, the slightest shift of weight on your mattress. He tucks himself right under your chin and stays there until early in the morning, then watches the birds every morning, hiding behind your curtain. He does the cutest little ek ek ek’s that cats always do, probably saying nothing nice to any one of those birds. Little punk. 

Joel asked once about him. You told him that his mama probably found him, which isn’t entirely a lie. Joel says it’s better that way. 

The old man fucking bought it.

Snoopy’s curled up on your lap and purring happily as you brush him, collecting little tufts of black fur you’ll set outside tomorrow morning. The birds will have nice, warm, insulated nests for their babies, you think, smiling to yourself. 

Your nose tickles. You wipe it with your hand, putting more of his fur there. “Fuck,” you groan, scrunching your nose and wiggling your mouth. It’s in your eyes, too. It makes you sneeze, loudly, startling Snoopy. The claws come out immediately and dig into your bare thighs, and drag there as he launches himself off of you and darts under the bed. “FUCK! Snoopy, what the h–”

Blood is beading up on your thighs. Little kitten claws cut so deep, don’t they? Snoopy hasn’t quite figured out how to temper them, either, when to retract them. Blood is beading up on your thighs, dripping towards where gravity pulls it. Fuck, fuck, fuck. How will you explain this one to Joel, huh? He’s gonna come in here tonight to fuck you and he’ll see your bloodied and scratched thighs, what’ll you tell him? 

“Holy shit, okay. Ow,” you whine, hopping off the bed and hobbling toward the bathroom. The warm red dripping down your thighs makes you feel a little dizzy. It’s running toward your knees, now. “Ow, ow, ow, oh my god.” 

“Pumpkin?” Joel calls from his room. “You hurt yourself, baby?” 

Shit. Joel’s home? “No - I’m fine, Daddy.” 

“What’s ow?”

Silence. Joel knows you should have an answer for him. “Pumpkin…”

“I’m fine! Don’t–” 

Too late. Joel’s already out of his room and staring you down in the hallway, taking you in. Your bloodied thighs, the deer-in-the-headlights look. He counts the scratches on your thighs - four that are visible, all in irregular patterns. “What did you do?”

You purse your lips, squeezing your eyes shut as the cuts throb, and Joel knows you’re lying. You’re doing all your usual tells, hemming and hawing while looking to the side. “What did you do?”

Snoopy emerges from your room at that exact moment, and Joel pieces it all together. Fuming, he marches past you and down the stairs. Your stomach drops when you hear a drawer in the kitchen open, and then Joel’s stomping up the steps, wooden spoon in hand. “Again,” he spits. “Lyin’ t’me, a-fuckin’-gain.” 

“Daddy, no. Please d–”

Joel ignores you and drags you by the arm into your bedroom, where he sits on your bed. He forces you over his knee and tugs your shorts and panties down your ass, ripping them a little in the process. That fragile, old fabric. 

He hits you with the instrument, hard. He does it again, ignoring your cries of pain. Joel hits you until he can see the outline of the wood on your ass, “Tell me, Pumpkin. How’d ya pull this one off, huh?” 

Hit. You scream, then answer him. “I don’t know!” 

“You better fuckin’ speak up, girl.” 

Nothing from you, and another smack. It’s hard to think up another lie as Joel beats you raw, but you manage to. “You left the door unlocked,” you sob. “Daddy, please. I’m so sorry.” 

“When was this?”

“Like - like a week ago!” you cry. 

“Didja go anywhere?” he asks, raising the spoon to hit you again. That’s Joel’s main concern - you’ve been getting in and out? How long has this been going on? Who are you seeing, and what do you tell them? Joel’s blind and sick with rage and you, Pumpkin, you did this to him. And you did this to yourself. 

“I didn’t! Daddy, I did - listen to me, please. I’m telling you the truth. Daddy–” 

“You better spit it the fuck out, then. Go.” 

“It was storming, you left the door unlocked. I didn’t know it until I tried it. And I was scared for him, so I got him and brought him inside. And that’s all that happened, Daddy, you have to believe me.” 

“Yeah? Why should I, kid?” he pants, red in the face. “Fuckin’ lied before, haven’t ya?”

“Yes, but–”

“But what?”

But nothing. You break down and sob, waiting for more hits to come. Joel lets you cry it out for a moment, then drops the spoon. When he stands up, you’re afraid his belt is next. 

Joel walks away. He returns moments later, a basket of medical supplies in his hands. “Flip over,” he barks, still pissed off as ever. You do so immediately, and Joel sits on the edge of the bed. He spreads your thighs and inspects your scratches, then dabs some isopropyl alcohol onto a few cotton balls. 

“Don’t–”

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, wiping your injuries with the cotton ball. It hurts worse than the spankings did and makes you scream, but it distracts you from the pain of your raw, swollen, throbbing ass. “S’posed to hurt. It’s a punishment,” he says, moving onto the next one, and the one after that.

Joel fans air on your thighs, then unscrews the cap off some antibiotic ointment. He dabs a little on his fingertip, then runs the ointment over the scratches. “Don’t look at ‘em,” he warns, though you’ve already seen them. “I need ya to be honest with me.” Joel inhales deeply, then reaches for a roll of gauze and some medical tape, both half-used. “Is this whole kitten ordeal,” he asks, gesturing to wherever the hell Snoopy ran off to, “The only stunt you pulled?”

“Y–”

“Do not lie t’me again, so help me god.” 

“It’s the truth,” you answer, convincing yourself that it’s not a lie, and that you didn’t go and see Uncle Tommy, or suck his cock and swallow his cum on his brother’s kitchen floor. It’s not hard to do when your head feels as swollen as it does, sinuses all congested, cheeks puffy and raw from your tears. Anything to get through, you know…this.

Joel feels like he could fucking puke, knowing you escaped. He feels stupid for leaving a door unlocked. He feels stupid for trusting you, too. “Why don’tcha listen to me? Hm? Why d’ya have to buck me every goddamn step of the way? I put a roof over your head and give ya food and clothes an’ all I ask is that you just fucking listen.”

“I do listen,” you argue, searching for the words. “I’m trying - I really do try to, at least.” 

“Do you?” 

“Yes!” You’re defensive. Dishonest. You’re just like your daddy, aren’t you? Oh, you know the truth. You know you crave the fight and the challenge. The feeling that comes from winning against Joel…but that never seems to happen, does it? 

“Am I…bad, do you think?” 

Joel tilts his head, frowning, intrigued. “In there?” he asks, tapping gently where your heart beats and you nod, sniffling. “Oh, not at all, sweet girl. You’re not bad,” he says. He dabs some antibiotic ointment on one of the deeper scratches on your thighs, then covers it all with some gauze. “Not by a longshot. I think you’re trouble, Pumpkin, but you’re the furthest goddamn thing from bad. I love that heart of yours.” 

And Joel means that. You’re soft, tender, sensitive. Brave when you need to be. Stubborn as all get out. Joel’s special girl, always getting herself into messes he’s gotta clean up. It’s all part of parenthood. 

“You’re a good kid,” he says, “But you cannot keep doin’ shit like this to me, baby. My fuckin’ heart can’t take it.” 

Joel says it softly, in a pained way, knowing his words’ll eat at you, knowing that they already are. And they do - guilt is such an awful, nagging feeling, and it might just be the perfect motivator to get you to fucking obey. And sure, you like to hurt Joel, make him ache like he makes you ache. But causing him anxiety, deep upset…knowing what memory tugs in the back of his mind when you remind him that you can disappear if you really want to, as much as he tries to stop you. The little girl he told you about. 

Joel inhales deeply, then changes the subject. “M’gonna keep an eye on this. Cat scratches ain’t nothin’ to mess around with,” he murmurs. He lays you down on the soft mattress and brings his face close to your thigh, then gently kisses over the bandages he wrapped you in. 

Daddy’s always gonna do that, you know. He’ll always kiss your hurt all better, yes, even when he’s mad at you, yes, even when he’s disappointed in you. What else are daddies for, if not that very thing? 

Joel kisses over each of the covered scratches, coincidentally kissing his way toward your center, causing you to soak your lily-white sheets beneath your ass. You whine when he pulls away from where you need his kisses the very most. You always need him after your fights, to remind yourself that he loves you, and things can feel good with him. “Please, Daddy.” 

“No can do, Pumpkin. ‘F we screw up your bandages m’gonna have to do the whole thing all over again.” 

“Even the alcohol?”

“Reckon so,” Joel answers, laughing to himself when you pout at that. “Mmhmm, I know, sweetheart. We gotta make good decisions, don’t we?” he whispers, running his knuckle delicately along your cheekbone. “Daddy’s here to help ya make good choices. You know that?” 

“I know that,” you reply softly. 

Joel caresses your jaw softly, gently. “C’mere,” he says, but he brings himself to you. He kisses your forehead, both of your cheeks, your chin, and your nose…your lips. It’s something you don’t do enough, is kiss Joel. It’s a gentle peck at first, then deepens into something more than that. Joel’s tongue mingles with yours as he cages your body with his own. 

His hands on your neck, trailing down your breasts, pausing to gently squeeze at them. His hand goes lower and lower, fingers dipping into your heat to gauge just how badly you need this. If it’s worth the risk or not. 

And Christ, you’re soaked to the fucking bone, kid. You moan into Joel’s mouth, rutting your hips into his palm. “Ohh, fuck. Goddamn, honey,” Joel says. “I think we can do it, Pumpkin, but Daddy’s gonna go real slow and careful.” 

“Okay,” you nod, biting down on your grin. Joel will tease if he sees it. 

“Which means,” he adds, “You can’t get mad an’ throw a fit like usual when things don’t go your way. Right? Gotta be patient w’me.” 

“I’ll be patient, Daddy.” 

“Uh huh.” 

And that’s all Joel says before pulling away from you. He brings you with him momentarily, just to lift your shirt off and toss it elsewhere. Off comes his clothes next, one at a time. Joel’s in no rush. 

He lowers himself between your thighs, spreading them wide. He continues those kisses from earlier, working his way toward your center, and each one makes you throb. He kisses your lips, your mound, your belly. Joel inhales deeply, your gorgeous, warm, sugar-sweet scent. He can feel the heat radiating from your pussy on your skin, feel you thrumming with a need, a hunger only Joel - Daddy - can satiate. 

If it were a different day, if you weren’t already blemished by violence, he’d probably squeeze you hard enough to bruise. You’re soft like a peach, after all. But as promised, Joel’s gentle with you. Joel’s gentle with you as he licks a long stripe from the bottom of your pussy right to the very top, drawing a figure eight around your clit. “Guess the shape, Punk’n.”

You giggle, “Circle.” 

“Nope!” 

Joel does it again, and again, and again. “I don’t know, Daddy,” you breathe, “Figure eights?”

Joel laughs. “Attagirl,” he praises. He dips his tongue lower, nosing your clit while dipping his tongue in and out of you, tasting you. You make all the same sweet little noises you always make, quiet moans and soft whimpering. You soak his chin and the bedsheets beneath you, fingers tangling around Joel’s gorgeous, silvery curls. 

Joel savors you, like you’re syrup on his tongue. He inserts two fingers into your heat, rubbing against that special place inside you, steadily guiding you toward your release. 

Like when you lie, you have tells. Shaking, trembling thighs, a quiet voice. Joel licks and licks and licks, and there it is - cumming hard on Joel’s fingers, pulsing around them, gushing into the palm of his hand. 

Joel licks the mess, then pulls himself forward. He fits his hips between your thighs, cock bouncing between your bodies, red and swollen, beating in time with his heart. “Ready, kiddo?”

“Can I put it in?” you ask.

Joel guides his tip toward your slit, “Mm-mm. Daddy’s doin’ it this time, baby. Maybe another time, ‘kay?” 

“Can I help, then?”

Joel rolls his eyes and smiles. “Oh, yeah? You can help?”

“Mhm.”

 He’s only a man, after all. Only a daddy. Who’s he to deny his pretty girl of such a thing? “Hold me right here,” he says, wrapping your hand around his shaft. You hold him as he fits himself inside you, then let go when he swats your hand away. He enters you quicker than he used to, testing you. Seeing how you handle him. “Lookit how good ya take it, baby,” he coos, looking down to see himself fully sheathed in your warmth. He pulls out, and he’s coated in ribbons of your creamy arousal, then pushes back in. He finds a pace, then saws his hips into you. “Yeah, nice an’ easy,” he whispers, making good on his promise to fuck you gently. And like a good girl, you take it, and you don’t complain. Not for more, not for less. You moan for Joel, making all of his favorite sounds, whimpering his name in that special way nobody else gets to hear. 

Joel’s hands wander your body, squeezing whatever handfuls of your flesh he can. “Daddy!” you squeak, wincing when he grabs your thigh. 

“Shit, baby. My bad. Lemme look–” Joel pauses to give your bandages a quick peek, then continues fucking himself into your tight cunt. “Easy, sweetheart. Easy.” 

Joel fucks you gently, steadily, and you feel at home. It used to feel scary - and Joel made it scary - but there is something about it now that comforts you. Something about his body wrapped around yours, his nakedness, his weight and his warmth. Joel, finding himself closer to his orgasm, licks his fingers and massages your clit to coax your own along. 

Pleasure ripples through you, washing over you in non-rhythm. Your pulsating walls have Joel coming just behind you, pressure building deep in his gut in the same way it does yours. Balls tightening, brow pinched together, Joel grits his teeth and growls as he cums, drowning out your pleasured noises with his own. “Oh, fuck Goddamn, fuck,” he grunts, milking the last of himself before he begins to soften. 

Joel pulls out of you, then bends down and grabs his t-shirt, uses it to clean the mess he made of you. “Go potty, sweet pea,” he pants, catching his breath. 

“Daddy.” 

“Not arguin’. Go.” 

He flops in your bed, watching as you walk naked to the bathroom, watching you relieve yourself, feeling his cock stir at that, despite having just orgasmed. 

You flush the toilet and wash your hands, then join Joel in bed where he pats the space next to him. You snuggle him, inhaling his warm, sweaty skin, feeling at peace until…until you remember what’s coming after this. 

“So, uh…”

“Hm, baby?”

“About the cat.” 

“The rodent you’ve been feedin’ my eggs to, yeah, what about him?” Joel scoffs. 

“Just wondering.” 

“Uh huh. Heard ya named him, right?”

“Snoopy.”

Joel nods. “M’not mad at you for takin’ care a’ him, ya know. I’m mad about the lyin’, the disobeyin’.”

“Yeah. I know,” you whisper. Before it all feels heavy again, Snoopy jumps into bed with you and Joel, breaking the tension. He bravely walks over Joel like he’s not even there, then curls up into your side, settling right in that elegant curve between your hip and rib cage. 

“So this is Felix, huh?”

“No, his name is Snoopy. I just told you.” 

“Ahh, Snoopy. My bad.” Joel rests one hand behind his head, then scratches the kitten with the other. “Thing’s fuckin’ ugly,” Joel mumbles, using just one finger to tickle the creator. “Pretty screwed up lookin’ dog f’ya ask me, Punk’n.”

“Daddy,” you scold. Snoopy closes his eyes and purrs, tilting his head into Joel’s hand, leaning into his touch before betraying you by walking over to Joel. He lays on Joel’s chest, happily melting into those firm, warm strokes Joel gives him before settling against his neck. You hope Snoopy stays this snuggly forever. 

“Please let me keep him, Daddy.” 

“I dunno, kiddo. I’ll have to think on it.” Joel lifts Snoopy, ignoring his whines, then places him in your hands. He groans and lifts himself up and out of bed, then turns off the overhead light, leaving your lamp on. “You’re lucky I love ya,” he says, then kisses your forehead. “I mean it, honey. I do.” 

“I love you too,” you whisper, and Joel kisses you again. It’s not quite bedtime but it’s getting there, and Joel’s ready to lie in a bed that actually fits him, maybe read a book. Give you time with Felix…Snoopy…whatever the fuck his name is before he’s gone for good. Because no, Pumpkin, you cannot keep him. Rules are rules, and that cat is going outside where he belongs. 

Joel lies in his bed, reading glasses on as he flips through a book you’ve been asking to read, checking for pornography and other things of that nature, when a certain someone interrupts. Snoopy’s tugging on his comforter, clawing his way up the mattress to meet Joel, taking back his spot on Joel’s chest. “What are you doin’ here,” Joel mumbles, once again moving the kitten away. This time, Snoopy doesn’t just vocally protest, no. He swipes at Joel’s finger, nicking him right by the knuckle, then settles on his torso again. “Shit. Fuckin’ asshole.” Joel sucks his finger as he glares at the kitten. 

Snoopy stares back at him, then lowers his head and rests his chin on his little paws. “Guess you’re kinda cute,” he murmurs. “Aren’t ya.” As if on cue, the kitten flips over, exposing its belly to Joel. He laughs. 

“Bet your girl’s missin’ ya, knucklehead. Go bug somebody who actually likes ya. Scram, Felix.” 

Snoopy must’ve learned his defiance from you. He closes his eyes and opts for a nap on Joel’s warm body instead. 

There was never a definitive yes. Every time you asked about Snoopy, Joel would give you some half-hearted answer, followed by some snarky comment. 

“Can we keep him?”

“Sure, kiddo.” 

“Really?”

“Uh huh, gonna keep him and cook him up with onions an’ garlic for dinner. Since he likes to be on my fuckin’ counters so much, hm?” Joel gently pushes Snoopy off the countertop. 

“He likes to be tall,” you argue from the floor, petting a Snoopy that’s doubled in size since you brought him in from the storm. 

“Oh, give me a fuckin’ break. Likes to be tall.”

“I mean it,” you tell Joel, “I read that cats like to be up high. Maybe he’d stay off your counters if you made him a cat condo. Nice and tall.” 

“A cat condo, hm? So it’s not enough I’m sharin’ my home with this asshole, I gotta make him his own special little house, too?” 

“Well, yeah. You could make a scratching post and everything for him. That way he’ll stop scratching at your rocking chair.” 

Joel stops, then narrows his eyes at you and your little buddy. “He’s doin’ what t’my rockin’ chair?”

More dark daddy!joel here

Ty for your patience and ty for reading. Nice words keep me motivated to write. Everybody take care.

[animeyanderelover]

Hi hope it's not to late to request for the prompt event please; would it be ok if I request yandere Jinu please with a half demon female darling maybe (K-pop demon Hunter )

"I'll love you more than they ever could! Patterns and all. Let me be your sanctuary!" (I was thinking a little bit on the steamy side not full NSFW; but if you think it works best with no steam no worries; you don't have to added any steamy moments ^^) please 🙏 🫶❤️

I was counting on at least someone requesting something for him. I wasn't wrong. Not sure if you did it intentionally or not but I also like how you included the word sanctuary which was also used in the song "Your Idol".

Tw: Yandere themes, possessive behavior, obsession, manipulation, more Nsfw-ish but not fully blown

First Sentence Prompt

You hated that tightness behind your ribs, hated how it made those purple marks on your chest and stomach pulse faintly. Feelings of any negative manner always did that. That's why you had suppressed most of them for your entire life. You couldn't afford to snap or break. Couldn't show others what you really were. You didn't even understand truly who or what you were. How could others possibly then?

Yet why...? Why had this one to be so persistent?

"Jinu, just leave me alone. I don't want nor need approval and love from someone like you. I am fine with the ways things are."

Brown eyes flashed golden, pale skin flickering with a familiar pattern you always spotted when you stood in front of your mirror, measuring how far your own marks already covered your skin.

"Liar."

It was one word. Yet it was enough to nearly dismantle you on the spot. Deep down you knew that he was right. That you were lying. To your grandparents. To your friends. To him. Worst of all though, to yourself. But what other choice had you when you had been alone with this secret the moment when those marks had appeared on your stomach?

"Don't talk like you know me. You don't know anything about me."

"Another lie."

You flinched the moment his fingers brushed over your bare arm. But it wasn't the touch itself. It was the gentleness behind it that burned so much worse.

"I know you better than anyone ever did. You hide from others because you're terrified they'll turn their back on you the moment they know the truth. They merely look at you but I am the only one who sees you. All of you. And I have never thought about looking away once."

Old habits and familiar fear made you tense the moment his gaze slowly traced down, over your chest and stomach where you carried the same patterns that he had all over his own skin. Your hand went up, resting right under your throat, clutching the collar of your half-buttoned shirt. Soon they would snake their way up here and then you would have to cover your neck up permanently. Either with turtlenecks or make-up.

"You told me that demons are meant to lead a life of misery. You were the one who said that demons aren't meant to be happy. I-" your voice gave in for a second, your fingers digging deeper into your skin as you closed your eyes shut so that no traces of him would fill your vision, "I don't want to live that kind of life. And if I have to live my whole life only as the half version of me, then so be it."

They were pulsing again. You could feel the otherness of it not only on your skin but in it. That strange and dark energy that contradicted the part of you that was human. It terrified you. You were neither though slowly you seemed to become more one part then the other. And you didn't know what to do. You were utterly alone.

Your eyes remained shut, teeth sinking into your lower lip as the ache of years clawed right under your skin, begging to be let out only for you to deny it like you had always done. The silence only amplified it all. It offered no distraction or kind words to distract yourself with nor did Jinu. Maybe he didn't know what to say. Maybe he had vanished. You didn't know what would be worse.

Yet you never had to find out.

Not when sharp claws suddenly tickled your cheek. When you flinched they paused as if worried that you had been hurt, hovering for a moment before the warmth of his entire palm cradled your face.

"Look at me."

So gentle. So soft. But not dishonest. Never dishonest. That was always the worst part of it all.

"(y/n), look at me."

You didn't want to but you still ended up doing it anyways. He had fully transformed. Yellow eyes with narrow pupils the shape of slits. Purple skin with even darker patterns decorating every part of his body. Fangs peeking out from behind his lips. A demon just like half of you was.

"My patterns are something I am ashamed of. They will always remind me of what I did. Of the day I chose to betray my own family. I still hear them. They will always haunt me."

He swallowed, the weight of that confession not lost on you either. Just for a moment he lost himself, perhaps because he relived the memories now that he had opened that secret he had buried for centuries. Then his eyes focused again though, meeting yours with an intensity that made you want to cry.

"I was selfish. I chose the easy path. I left my family and perhaps I became this before I even had my patterns. But you're not like me. You're not selfish. Gwi-Ma has no control over you. You are free. Freer than I will ever be."

His hand slid down, covering your own that was still resting right over the skin where the purple marks started and would only continue growing.

"Mine are patterns of shame, yes. But yours aren't. They are only because you think of them that way. And if you continue to feel like they are, they will only continue to grow. But they aren't. Not to me. They are still part of you even though you may want to deny that. And I love all of you. I shouldn't. You're too good for me. You fought all your life and you still do where I gave in to temptations. But I have always been selfish. Even now I am."

He easily moved your hand away from your chest. You didn't resist, instead allowing Jinu to do so. Claws intertwined with your fingers. The touch was unfamiliar, or rather the weight behind it. Yet you returned it quickly, clinging to whatever it was.

His other hand took its place but not to merely rest. But to reveal. To push aside the material and reveal the very patterns you had covered up your entire life. They were blossoming like roots of a plant from your stomach up to your chest, reaching for your throat and shoulders. Whenever you gazed at them in your won reflection, your eyes held quiet shame and sadness. When Jinu looked at them? It felt less like a curse and more like something to be treasured.

"Don't..."

"Don't what?"

Goosebumps arose when hot breath fawned the skin on your chest, the warmth traveling along the purple lines.

"Don't look at them like they are something sacred when they are the same pattern that you have too."

"They aren't. The ones I wear are ugly. The ones you do? They're beautiful."

He didn't break eye contact when his lips pressed the first kiss on them. You didn't stop him either. You watched quietly, holding your breath as he pressed reverent kisses against the patterns that had only ever known your scarce touch of shame. Perhaps you should have done. But the first person who now saw your patterns didn't recoil in fear or disgust like you had always imagined. Even if that person was a demon.

[marscardigan]

Heyyy, I love the way you write Ellie and I was wondering if you could do #neighborellie taking care of sick reader or something like that? I’m suffering from a really bad cold right now so I’ve kinda been thinking about this.

imagine neighbor!ellie taking care of you when you’re sick…

You knew something was wrong the second you opened your eyes.

Your whole body felt like it had been left out in the rain. Skin hot, but your fingertips were ice-cold. The room was spinning slowly, the light behind your eyelids buzzing too loud, your bones made of dull aches and bricks.

You barely had the strength to roll over, let alone function. Still, with a groan and the kind of energy people reserve for crawling out of quicksand, you reached for your phone on the nightstand.

8:03 AM.

You called work. Croaked out an apology and a string of semi-coherent symptoms. They barely let you finish. “There’s a virus going around,” your boss said. “You’re the third call today. Rest up.”

“Yeah,” you rasped, already slumping back into the mattress. “Sure.”

You hung up. Dropped the phone. Didn’t even think to plug it in. Didn’t bother to check your messages. And you didn’t realize you had eight missed calls from the girl who lived six doors down.

Your head was pounding too hard. Your chest felt way too tight. And somewhere between the fever and the pain and the dizziness curling around your ribs like wet cement, you passed out.

You woke up to the sound of a door opening. Faint. Distant. Like you were hearing it underwater.

“Hey—hey, babe?”

The bed dipped beside you.

You blinked, just barely, the light too bright and your face clammy. Your whole body curled tight into itself, trying to find warmth inside your skin. The room spun again. You whimpered.

Then you felt a hand, warm and shaky,pressing against your forehead. Another on your cheek. “Jesus, you’re burning up.”

You forced your eyes open.

She was right there. Ellie. Kneeling by your bed, hoodie half unzipped, her cheeks pink from running, eyes wide with fear. Her voice shook when she spoke again.

“Why the hell didn’t you pick up?” she whispered, trying not to sound angry—but failing. “I’ve been calling you since nine. I knocked like five times. I thought—” She stopped herself. Swallowed hard.

You tried to speak, but your throat felt like sandpaper and your voice came out broken. “Didn’t hear…”

Ellie’s frown deepened. Her hand brushed sweat-soaked hair from your forehead, her other hand still cradling your face like she was afraid you might disappear.

“You look like hell,” she said softly. “And not in the hot, cool way.” You tried to smile. Failed. Ellie exhaled shakily, pressing her forehead to yours. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Your lashes fluttered. “Sorry…”

“No, don’t—you don’t have to apologize,” she said quickly, gently guiding the blankets up over your shoulder. “Just—just tell me next time, okay? Text me. Tape a note to the door. Send a goddamn carrier pigeon. I don’t care.”

You let your eyes close again.

“Was gonna…” you mumbled. “Just… tired.”

She ran her thumb over your cheekbone. “I know. I know, babe.”

There was a long, heavy pause. The kind where the only sound was your shaky breath and the creak of the bed as Ellie sat beside you.

Then, quieter, “I thought something happened,” she whispered. “Like—actually happened. I was about to break in your window.”

That made you smile, even barely. “Wouldn’t be your first time.”

Ellie let out a choked laugh, eyes glassy. “You’re a menace even when you’re melting.”

You curled in deeper, into the sheets and the heat and the scent of her skin now lingering on your pillow. She stayed there, hand never leaving yours. Eventually pulling your body gently toward her, shifting you with such careful hands, like you might shatter.

You weren’t sure what time it was. Afternoon, maybe. Or morning again. Time didn’t make much sense when your head was full of fog and your stomach was trying to secede from your body.

But Ellie was still there. She was everywhere, actually.

When you opened your eyes, Ellie was sitting cross-legged on the edge of your bed with a cup of water and a flushed, worried face. When you stirred, Ellie was smoothing your hair off your forehead like you were porcelain. When you groaned and whispered “bathroom,” barely audible, Ellie was instantly up and helping you stand, like it had been her full-time job forever.

You shuffled slowly toward the bathroom, legs trembling, vision doing that weird tunnel-thing again. Ellie wrapped one arm around your waist, the other already flipping on the light and nudging the door open with her socked foot.

You dropped to your knees just in time. The wave hit hard. Your chest heaved, your throat burning. You hated it, every second of it.

And suddenly, soft fingers were sweeping your hair back. Holding it. Anchoring you.

Ellie knelt beside you like it was the easiest decision she’d ever made. One hand gently rubbing your back, the other keeping your damp hair tucked behind your ears.

You coughed. Groaned. Your forehead dropped on the edge of the toilet, too drained to care how you looked, how you sounded, or how you probably smelled like a rotten corpse.

“Ellie,” you rasped, eyes still closed. “Baby, I’m disgusting. Seriously, you don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” she said gently, voice closer now. Her palm slid to your cheek. “You’re, like, so hot right now.”

You let out a hoarse laugh. “You’re lying.”

Ellie kissed your temple. “I absolutely am. You’re lucky I’m so obsessed with you.”

Back in bed, she didn’t leave your side.

She propped you up against some pillows and coaxed you into sipping water slowly, her thumb brushing over your knuckles every time you started slipping away from her again.

“C’mon,” she whispered, pressing the glass to your lips. “Just a little more, baby. I’ll stop after three sips, swear.”

Your nose scrunched. You didn’t want water. You wanted to melt into the mattress.

But her voice was soft. Steady. Her other hand squeezed yours. “One sip…” she said. You drank. “Atta girl. Another…” You whined, weakly. “Please, dove. For me.”

You opened your eyes, met her dumb, pretty, pleading expression, and relented.

“Okay,” she smiled. “Last one.”

And then she gave you a reward kiss on the forehead, like you’d just survived a war. Which, honestly, felt pretty accurate given the circumstances.

She changed your pillowcase while you were in the bathroom. Put one of her hoodies on you, even though you protested you’d sweat through it. “Don’t care,” she repeated over and over and over again. She brought a cold wash cloth for your forehead and whispered, “This is what love looks like. Wet rags and fever dreams.”

At some point, you woke up with her tucked into the small space between your body and the edge of the bed, your hands tangled, and her nose buried against your shoulder.

She was snoring. Just a little. And when you whispered her name, she blinked awake instantly.

“Need something?”

“No. Just you.”

Even half-asleep, she smiled like she’d just been handed the moon.

“Good,” she mumbled, pulling the blanket higher over your body. “’Cause I’m not going anywhere.”

When you finally managed to eat two bites of toast, and Ellie clapped like you’d just crossed a finish line.

“Look at you! Strong! Brave! My sick little hero!”

“I hate you,” you muttered.

“You love me,” she grinned, kissing your temple. “And you look super kissable right now. If I die from germs, I die for a worthy cause.”

You snorted. Coughed. And groaned. Ellie caught it all with her palm on your back and a laugh in her throat.

That night, when you dozed off again, cheeks finally not as flushed, breathing soft and steady, Ellie stayed awake.

She watched your chest rise and fall. Pressed another kiss to your knuckles. Whispered, “Please feel better soon.”

And she meant it in that quiet, fierce, Ellie way, like she’d wrestle the virus out of your body herself if she could.

You didn’t even hear her come back into the room.

You were mid-fever nap, melted into the mattress, wrapped burrito-style. Your face was flushed, hair stuck to your temples, hoodie soaked through from the inside out. You hadn’t moved in maybe two hours.

Ellie stood at the edge of your bed with her hands on her hips, frowning. “Okay,” she muttered to herself. “Love of my life or not… this is a crime scene.”

You stirred, blinking one crusty eye open. “Wha—?”

She crouched beside you, brushing hair from your forehead. “Hi. You’re beautiful. But you look disgusting. I love you. We’re gonna clean your corpse body now.”

You groaned, weakly. “Nooo… don’t move me… I live here now.”

“Babe,” she said solemnly, “you’re wearing three-day-old socks and I think you’ve merged with the hoodie. Shower time. Let’s go.”

You tried to protest again, but she was already sliding her arms beneath you, lifting you up like a half-conscious baby koala.

“I’m the walking dead,” you whispered.

She grinned. “Hush, let me take care of you now.”

Inside the bathroom, the lights were dimmed. The steam from the tub curled around you like a warm cloud. Ellie had filled it halfway with just-hot-enough water, two drops of eucalyptus something-or-other she’d found under your sink, and a splash of bubble bath that may or may not have been marketed to children.

You were sitting in it now, knees up, cheeks flushed pink from heat instead of fever for once, head resting against the back tile. Barely alive. But not in the worst way.

Ellie sat on the floor beside the tub, sleeves rolled up, holding a cup of water and the gentlest expression you’d ever seen.

“You doing okay?” she asked softly.

You nodded. “It’s nice.”

“Told ya, babes.”

She dipped the cup in the tub and gently poured it over your head, shielding your eyes with one hand. Her fingers were slow, steady, working through the tangles in your hair with careful ease.

“You’re really doing this, huh,” you murmured.

“Of course I am.”

“You’re literally giving me a sponge bath like I’m 90.”

“I’m gonna be 90 one day and you better bathe my wrinkly lesbian ass too.”

You snorted. Coughed. Groaned. Ellie handed you water. “Sippy sip.”

You obeyed. She squirted some shampoo into her palm, lathered it up, then began massaging it gently into your scalp. You practically moaned. She smirked.

“Ohh my god,” you sighed. “That’s unfair.”

“This is payback for not answering my calls yesterday,” she teased. “You scared me half to death, so now I get to pamper you like a grumpy Victorian husband with a head cold.”

You smiled with your eyes closed. “You’re so weird.”

“Only for you.”

She kept working through your hair, fingers slow, scratching lightly at your scalp in that exact right way that made you melt further into the tub. You felt still half-dead, but soft. Clean. Safe.

Eventually she helped you rinse off, and wrapped you in a warm towel like a human burrito again. She even made you sit while she braided your damp hair (terribly), then led you back to bed like you were royalty being escorted to a throne made of pillows and tea.

“You look 400% more alive,” she declared proudly, tucking you in.

“You should start a spa.” You reached for her hand under the blanket.

And when she leaned in, kissed your damp forehead and whispered “I got you,” you really believed her.

You woke up warm.

For the first time in two days, your bones weren’t aching. The spinning had stopped, your throat didn’t feel like sand, and your hoodie — Ellie’s hoodie — wasn’t soaked in sweat.

You blinked at the soft light coming in through your window. It had to be past nine. Maybe ten. Your first thought was I’m alive. Your second thought, however, was where the fuck was Ellie?

The spot beside you was empty. There was only the rumpled blanket, the faint scent of her shampoo, and no sign of your sleepover nurse.

You rolled out of bed slowly, limbs sore but finally under your control. Padding into the hallway with socks half off and hair probably still terrifying, you made your way toward the sound of— Yelling? From the kitchen.

You heard it before you saw it:

“NO—Ellie, not like that! Not that much!”“I KNOW, I KNOWWW—Joel, shut up, I GOT IT.”

You turned the corner. And there she was.

Your girlfriend, full of chaotic love and misplaced confidence, standing in your kitchen in a crooked apron, holding a pot in one hand and her phone in the other, FaceTiming Joel, who looked like he was on the verge of cardiac arrest.

There were chopped vegetables everywhere. Steam. At least two wooden spoons. A single sock on the counter for some reason. And the smell? It was oddly good but at the same time kind of atrocious.

Joel’s voice crackled through the speaker. “Jesus Christ, you can’t just dump the entire thing of oregano in—!”

“I thought it was parsley!!” Ellie barked, already frantically stirring. “Who the hell labels things this small?!”

“That’s literally your own spice jar—”

“JOEL. I cannot mess it up. This is, like, love soup.”

Joel looked dead into the camera. “It’s too early for this.”

You stood in the doorway, stunned. Exhausted. In love.

“Ellie?” you croaked.

She whipped around so fast the ladle flung a little soup onto the floor.

“Oh my god—hey! You’re awake!” She dropped the phone (Joel cursed), ran over, and kissed your forehead. “How do you feel?! Do you feel alive?! Do you feel… brothy?!”

You blinked. “What?”

“Sit. Sit down. I’m making you soup. I mean, technically Joel is yelling it at me, and I’m emotionally crumbling under the pressure, but also? I’m making it.”

Joel’s voice yelled from the floor: “Pick me up, jackass.”

Ellie retrieved the phone and propped it against a can of beans.

“Anyway,” she continued breathlessly, “I wanted to surprise you but then I panicked because I didn’t know how to do soup so I called Joel and he’s being really mean—”

“I’m trying to save your relationship,” Joel deadpanned. “And her apartment. Good morning, kiddo.”

You greeted him as you sat at the counter, watching the disaster unfold with awe. And a ridiculous amount of affection.

Ellie was back at the stove, adding way too much garlic and muttering curses under her breath. “This better cure all remaining symptoms. I’m putting my entire soul in this pot. That’s right—emotional seasoning, baby.”

You laughed. “Ellie, seriously. You didn’t have to—”

“Yes I did,” she cut in, suddenly softer. She glanced at you over her shoulder. “You scared me, ma’am. I couldn’t do anything for, like, thirty hours except sit next to you and hope. So now you’re getting soup. That’s the deal.”

You felt your throat go tight. “I love you.”

Ellie blinked. “Say it again. While I’m holding a ladle. Makes it more powerful.”

You smiled. “I love you, soup girl.”

She fist-pumped. “Soup girl scores!!”

Joel groaned from the phone. “I’m hanging up. I’ve done my part. Tell her not to add anything else. And for the love of God, taste it first.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ellie said, ending the call and immediately tossing in a pinch of something new.

“Ellie.”

The soup turned out surprisingly edible. Good, even.

But the best part? Ellie, still in your too-big apron, spoon-feeding you like you were some royal flu-ridden baby, whispering things like “This one has extra love in it” and “Don’t die. I’m too emotionally attached.”

You obviously didn’t die. You just fell more in love.

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[jeonette]

better for you — yoongi

In which you and Yoongi were inseparable—until he cut you off without a word. Now, the time for your annual lake house trip with the friend group arrives, and you’re forced to face the boy who used to know you better than anyone.

genre: : close friends to enemies to lovers

content : a classic 90s au! lots of cliché, high school friend group style, he’s lowkey a brat for ghosting her but he makes up for it anyways— safe to read for minors.

“You’re quiet today,” Jimin says, nudging your leg with his foot.

You look up from your phone. “Am I?”

“Suspiciously,” Hobi adds from the other end of the couch, mouth half full of chips. “Like you’re thinking about ghosting the lake trip this year.”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not ghosting anything.”

Jimin leans forward, eyes narrowed. “Then why haven’t you said yes?”

“I didn’t say no either.”

“Exactly,” Hobi grins. “That’s what ghosters say.”

You sigh, tossing your phone onto the cushion beside you. The ceiling fan hums above you, lazy and slow — like summer itself is stretching out, waiting for something to happen.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “It’s just… different now.”

Jimin gives you a look — the soft kind that says he knows exactly what “different” means.

“Yoongi’s going,” he says, not unkindly.

“I figured.”

And there it is. The name that still makes your stomach pull, for reasons you’d rather not untangle.

It wasn’t one moment that broke things between you and Yoongi — no fight, no cruel words. Just time. Puberty. The way he changed when everyone started growing up, when you stopped playing video games on his bedroom floor and started caring about things he didn’t know how to talk about.

He got meaner, or maybe just quieter. Teasing turned into coldness. Conversations turned into awkward silences. Eventually, it felt like you were the only one trying.

So you stopped trying.

“Six months,” you murmur, more to yourself than them.

Jimin glances at you. “What?”

“That’s how long it’s been. Since we really talked.”

“Still counts,” Hobi says. “That’s like… a decade in friendship time.”

You look at them.

“You think it’ll be weird?” you ask, voice low.

“No,” Jimin says gently. “But even if it is — it’s still ours. One last trip. One last summer.”

“You’re coming,” Hobi says confidently. “We already packed an extra floatie for you.”

“Without asking?”

“We live on the edge.”

You smile despite yourself, leaning your head back against the couch.

Maybe it would be weird. But it would also be… them. The lake. The cabin. Laughter echoing off the dock, sticky marshmallows, late-night dares, tangled limbs on the floor when everyone falls asleep too close.

Maybe Yoongi would be there. Maybe it would hurt a little.

But maybe something good could come out of that.

-

yoongi's pov

The call comes just as Yoongi’s about to replay a beat he’s been stuck on for two hours. He glares at the screen — Hobi — and considers ignoring it.

Then sighs and answers with a lazy, “What.”

“Hey, sunshine,” Hobi says, voice way too chipper. “Are you still alive or have you melted into a greasy puddle in your room?”

Yoongi leans back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. “What do you want.”

“Wow. That’s the enthusiasm I crave.”

“I’m working.”

“You’re sulking.”

“Same thing.”

There’s a pause on the line, and Yoongi knows it’s coming — something annoying, something nosy, something… Hobi.

“You’re coming to the lake trip, right?”

Yoongi exhales through his nose. “Yeah. You already asked me.”

“Just making sure. Because, uh…” Another pause. “She’s coming.”

The silence that follows is short — but heavy. The kind that hits like a punch you saw coming and still didn’t block.

Yoongi doesn’t ask who she is. He doesn’t have to.

His throat feels tight. Stupid, really, because he knew she’d probably come. It’s their tradition. It's always been the six of them. But some pathetic part of him — the part that still remembers what her laugh used to sound like when it was just for him — had hoped she wouldn’t.

Not because he didn’t want to see her.

But because he didn’t know if he could take it.

“She say that?” he asks eventually, voice flat.

“Jimin and I were with her earlier,” Hobi says, quieter now. “She was hesitant, but she’s in.”

Yoongi spins a pencil between his fingers. It falls. He doesn’t pick it up.

“You okay?” Hobi asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

Another beat. Yoongi stares at the ceiling like it might have answers.

“I was a dick to her,” he says. “I know that.”

“She knows it too.”

Yoongi flinches.

“But,” Hobi continues gently, “you weren’t a bad person. Just a stupid one. There’s still a difference.”

Yoongi doesn’t reply.

“Don’t waste this, hyung. Seriously. If you keep acting like nothing happened, you’re gonna lose your shot.”

“I already did.”

“Then un-lose it.”

There’s a rustle on Hobi’s end — probably him pacing like he always does when he gets into his motivational therapist mode.

“She didn’t write you off completely,” Hobi says. “If she had, she wouldn’t have agreed to come.”

Yoongi closes his eyes.

He wants to believe that.

He wants to believe that maybe — maybe — six years of friendship doesn’t disappear just because he couldn’t figure out how to talk about his feelings without ruining everything.

“She still doesn’t know,” he says quietly.

“Then maybe it’s time she did.”

-

The breeze dances through the open window, lifting your hair just enough to make it annoying. You shove it behind your ear and glance at Mina, who’s got one hand on the wheel and the other outstretched in the wind like she’s flying.

Fuck. Is it too late to tell Mina you're car sick so that she'll drive you home? You genuinely start to question whether you should.

“You nervous?” she asks, eyes on the road but voice casual.

You blink. “About what?”

Mina shoots you a look. “Don’t even try it.”

You stare ahead, watching the trees blur past, their shadows flashing across the dashboard.

“It’s been a while,” you admit.

“You mean since he started being a dumbass?”

You laugh. “Since we were close.”

Mina hums, not saying anything for a moment. The music playing is some dreamy indie track she always puts on for drives like this — the kind that makes everything feel like a scene from a movie.

“You miss him?” she asks eventually.

The answer bubbles up so fast it catches you off guard.

“…Yeah. I do.”

The quiet hangs there for a second.

“Maybe this weekend’s a chance,” Mina says softly. “For something. Closure, or… something else.”

You don’t reply, but your fingers tighten around the seatbelt.

The lake sign appears just up ahead. You roll the window up halfway, suddenly aware of the way your heart’s picking up.

Yoongi leans his head against the window, watching the trees roll by in streaks of green and gold. Jungkook’s humming along to whatever’s playing on the radio, tapping the steering wheel like he’s onstage. Hobi’s in the passenger seat, sunglasses on, one leg up on the dash like he owns the world.

“We’re ten minutes out,” Jungkook says, glancing at the rearview mirror. “Excited, hyung?”

Yoongi grunts.

Jimin twists around from the back seat. “He’s been silently freaking out since we passed the gas station. That little temple on the hill? That’s where his soul left his body.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“You shut up,” Jimin says, grinning. “Before I say something real.”

“Say it,” Yoongi challenges — but his voice doesn’t have bite. It’s tired. Nervous.

Jimin studies him for a moment. Then, softer: “She’s gonna be happy to see you, you know. Even if she doesn’t show it right away.”

Yoongi swallows. Looks away.

Mina’s car pulls in first.

The house is the same — weather-worn, white paint peeling at the edges, the dock stretching out into the glittering lake. A stack of old canoes lean against the fence, and the air smells like pine and sunscreen.

You step out, stretching your arms above your head. Mina’s already filming the view on her phone.

Then you hear the second engine rumble up the driveway behind you.

You freeze, turning halfway.

Their car doors open one by one.

Jimin. Hobi. Jungkook.

And then — Yoongi.

He steps out like he doesn’t notice you yet. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy from the wind, earbuds still tangled in one hand. He looks taller. Sharper. Same mouth. Same eyes.

And then he sees you.

There’s a beat.

He doesn’t smile. You don’t either.

Not yet.

But you look at each other like something is unraveling and knotting itself back together all at once.

Mina elbows you. “Don’t just stand there like you saw a ghost.”

You take a breath. Step forward.

“Hey,” you say.

Yoongi blinks. Swallows. Then: “Hey.”

His voice is hoarse. Like it’s been waiting months for this exact word.

Behind him, the others are unloading bags and shouting about who gets the best bed. Jungkook’s already sprinting toward the lake with his shoes still on.

The tension is far too obvious. Both of you say nothing more, you watch him follow the guys upstairs.

You let out a sigh. Way too loud.

Mentally face-palming yourself.

Mina's already staring at you with a cheeky smile on her face.

You sigh once again. "I'm car sick." You let out.

"What?"

-

Just like every year, the first night at the lake house will always begin with a scary movie. It’s tradition.

By the time you and Mina come downstairs, the smell of microwave popcorn fills the air and Hobi’s voice echoes from the living room.

“I’m telling you,” he says dramatically, “it’s not a proper lake trip until someone screams and drops a bowl of snacks because of a jump scare.”

“You mean like last year?” Jungkook calls from the kitchen. “When you elbowed Jimin in the face during Scream?”

“I was being attacked!” Hobi yells.

“By Drew Barrymore’s haircut,” Jimin deadpans, entering the room with a bag of sour candy and a blanket draped over his shoulders like a cape.

Mina drops onto the couch like she owns the place, tugging you down beside her.

“We’re watching The Blair Witch Project,” she informs you.

You freeze mid-sit. “I hate horror movies.”

“You hate clowns,” Hobi corrects. “This is witches. Different trauma.”

“Still trauma.”

“I’m proud of you already,” Jimin says, plopping down on your other side. “You can hide behind me when it gets creepy.”

“You’re the one who screams first.”

“And you’ll feel safe knowing where the danger is.”

Mina cackles.

The room is dim except for the glow from the TV and a crooked floor lamp in the corner. Someone’s found a blanket pile from the storage closet. Everyone’s slowly sinking into the furniture — bodies stretched out over each other, blankets, snacks, legs tangled across couch cushions.

It smells like butter, mint gum, and citronella from the candle someone left burning on the table.

You’re barely settled when the door creaks again.

Footsteps. Slower. Heavier.

You don’t have to look.

Yoongi walks in like he wasn’t sure if he should.

His hair is still damp from his post-drive shower, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, one hand tugging at the collar of his hoodie like it doesn’t sit right. His eyes scan the room — brief, unreadable — until they land on you.

And then Jimin.

Who immediately springs to his feet.

“Oh — actually, I, uh, forgot I left… something… on the porch.”

Mina groans. “You left your dignity out there?”

Jimin doesn’t even pretend. He flashes you a wink as he saunters off toward the back door.

“Jimin,” you hiss.

He just smirks, tosses you a thumbs-up, and disappears.

You turn forward again, heart climbing slightly — and find Yoongi standing there, awkward and still, staring at the now-open space beside you on the two-seater couch.

You don’t say anything.

Neither does he.

He moves.

And sits.

Carefully. Like you might flinch. You don’t. But you can feel the shape of him — all elbows and nervous breath — close beside you.

The room moves on without noticing.

He shifts slightly, eyes flicking to the screen as the static-filled intro of the movie begins.

After a moment, his voice cuts through the sound — low and careful.

“You still hate horror movies?”

You glance at him, surprised. “You remember that?”

“You made me pause The Ring thirteen times freshman year because you kept covering your eyes with a pillow.”

“I stand by that decision. That movie ruined TVs for me.”

He huffs out a soft laugh. You catch the corner of it — the curve of his lip, the shadow of a dimple that used to show up every time he teased you about something.

“I didn’t think you’d still come this year,” he says after a pause.

Your gaze drops to the hem of the blanket twisted in your lap. “I almost didn’t.”

Silence.

You hear it — the sharp cry of someone in the movie, the sudden swell of eerie music. But all you feel is the space between your shoulders and his.

“…Why’d you change your mind?” he asks.

You glance at him. He’s not looking at you, but his jaw’s tight. His hands are clasped loosely between his knees, fingers twitching with quiet energy.

“I didn’t want to regret it,” you say.

A beat.

His voice is barely above a whisper. “Me either.”

You don’t look at him — not yet — but your stomach flips.

On screen, someone is crying in a forest. Mina throws popcorn at Jungkook for making fun of it. Jimin reappears dramatically from the kitchen and flops onto the floor with Hobi. The room buzzes with energy again.

But here, in this little corner of the couch, there’s a different kind of tension. Slow and aching. Familiar.

A part of you wants to lean away.

But another part — the part that remembers Yoongi’s old laugh, the way he used to hand you gummy worms during movies, the way he used to look at you like you were the only person in the room — wants to stay right here.

You peek over at him.

He’s already looking at you again.

Not too long. Not too hard. But just enough to make your pulse thrum.

“…Wanna trade spots?” he says suddenly. “You can sit on the end, in case you wanna escape.”

You blink. “That’s… weirdly thoughtful.”

“I’m trying,” he mutters, scratching the back of his neck.

You smile — small. Surprised.

“I’ll survive,” you say. “As long as no one jumps out of a tree or something.”

Yoongi leans back slightly, voice barely a murmur.

“I won’t let them.”

You turn your head.

He’s looking forward again.

But he’s close enough that you can feel his pinky brush yours.

And he doesn’t pull away this time.

-

“That was so dumb,” Mina declares, standing up and nearly stepping on Jimin’s arm.

“You screamed,” Jungkook says, not even looking up from the Twizzlers he’s peeling apart.

“I gasped.”

“Like four times,” Hobi adds. “You almost spilled the popcorn.”

“You flinched when the camera hit the floor!” Mina accuses.

“That was an artistic choice,” Jungkook defends. “Symbolic. Raw.”

Yoongi snorts beside you, under his breath.

You turn to him with a tiny grin. “Art school critiques now?”

He shrugs, glancing sideways. “It was better than you covering your eyes the whole time.”

You narrow your eyes. “I saw more than enough, thank you.”

“Sure,” he murmurs. “Very brave.”

The smile lingers on your lips longer than you expect. And he notices. You know he does.

Jimin stands up and stretches with a dramatic groan. “Alright, children. Time to clean up the battlefield.”

There’s collective groaning. Hobi rolls off the armchair like a pancake hitting the floor. Mina starts gathering empty cups. Jungkook’s still eating candy.

You and Yoongi both stand at the same time — and awkwardly pause.

“I’ll get the bowls,” he says.

“I’ve got the blankets,” you reply, moving around him, the space between you charged, but unspoken.

-

You need fresh air.

The screen door creaks behind you as you step onto the porch. Yoongi’s a step behind, hands full of cans and snack wrappers.

Out here, it’s quieter. The porch light buzzes faintly overhead. The lake is a flat mirror under the moon.

You glance at him. He’s leaning against the railing, the orange light catching the sharp line of his jaw.

“I forgot how quiet it gets out here,” you murmur.

Yoongi hums in agreement. “We used to sit out here for hours.”

You nod. “Talking about nothing. Making fun of Jungkook’s haircut.”

He lets out a short laugh. “To be fair, he did look like a mushroom.”

Silence falls between you again. Not heavy. Just… waiting.

“I was surprised you came tonight,” he says suddenly.

You shift your weight. “You already said that.”

“I know,” he says. Then, more carefully: “I just… thought maybe you wouldn’t want to be around me.”

You glance at him. “Why? Because you stopped talking to me for six months without explaining anything?”

His jaw tenses. “Yeah. That.”

The wind rustles the trees. You don’t answer right away.

Eventually, you say, “I’m still mad, you know.”

“I know.”

“But I don’t hate you.”

Yoongi’s head turns slightly. He doesn’t look at you — just gazes out toward the dock, his voice quieter than the wind.

“I’m trying to be better at this.”

You don’t say anything.

But you don’t walk away either.

That feels like something.

-

Mina’s brushing her teeth loudly in the bathroom. You’re leaning against the wall with your arms crossed, waiting for her to finish.

Yoongi passes by with a towel slung over his shoulder.

You glance at him. “You get the room with the creaky floor?”

He nods. “Creakiest.”

“You deserve it.”

He smirks. “What for?”

“For disappearing. Being annoying. Growing out of your nice phase.”

He stops in the hallway, backlit by the warm glow of his room.

“You think I grew out of it?”

You blink. “Didn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer for a second. Then:

“I think I just got worse at showing it.”

Before you can say anything, Jimin walks by in boxers and socks, tossing a towel at Yoongi’s head.

“Less eye contact, more deodorant, lovebirds,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “Night, Jimin.”

Yoongi turns back toward his room.

Just before disappearing inside, he glances at you again.

“You still talk in your sleep?” he says, teasing but soft.

You arch a brow. “Only when someone snores next door.”

He gives you a lazy, genuine grin. “I’ll try to be quiet, then.”

You watch him close the door behind him.

And feel something tug.

-

Jimin flops dramatically onto the spare bed in Yoongi’s room, hugging a throw pillow like it insulted him personally.

“I can’t believe I let you trick me into watching Blair Witch again,” he groans. “I’ll be hearing those twig snapping sounds in my sleep.”

“Good,” Jungkook mutters, kicking off his socks near the doorway. “Maybe next time you won’t bail on your spot next to Y/N like a little matchmaking gremlin.”

Hobi snorts, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “Nah, he did that on purpose. Don’t act innocent.”

Yoongi, who’s been pretending to look for something in his backpack, sighs loudly.

“Are we doing this?”

“Doing what?” Jimin asks innocently, bouncing once on the mattress.

“The thing where you all pretend I’m emotionally stunted and try to fix my life in one night.”

Jungkook shrugs. “I mean… if the emotionally stunted shoe fits.”

Yoongi straightens, glaring. “You guys always talk this much?”

“Only when it’s fun,” Hobi says, sitting on the edge of the desk. “And this? Is fun.”

Yoongi runs a hand through his hair. It’s damp again from sweat or nerves — he’s not sure which.

“Seriously,” he mutters. “Can we not talk about her?”

“Her?” Jimin echoes. “Who’s her?”

Jungkook gasps. “Wait — do you mean… Y/N?”

Yoongi grabs a pillow and hurls it across the room. It hits Hobi in the chest. He doesn’t flinch.

“Okay, okay,” Hobi says, lifting his hands. “But like. Real talk? You need to stop acting like she’s just… some girl you grew up next to. Everyone sees through it. Even she probably sees through it.”

Yoongi sinks down onto the edge of his bed. Elbows on knees. Shoulders tight.

“I don’t treat her like that,” he mutters.

“Bro,” Jungkook says gently. “You treat her like you’re trying not to feel something.”

The room goes quiet for a second.

Yoongi doesn’t look up.

“I don’t know how else to treat her,” he finally says, voice low. “I didn’t mean to screw it up. I just… I didn’t know how to say any of it when we were younger. And then I got weird, and everything got awkward, and…”

He trails off.

Jimin shifts upright now, serious for once. “And you still haven’t told her.”

Yoongi’s voice drops to almost a whisper.

“I’ve been in love with her for years.”

There it is. Finally spoken aloud. And it sounds just like it feels — too big, too heavy, too impossible.

“I thought maybe it would go away,” Yoongi continues. “Like, maybe I’d grow out of it, or stop thinking about her every time something good or bad happens, or… whatever. But it didn’t. And now we’re here, and she’s still everything.”

He swallows hard. Doesn’t dare look at any of them.

“But she doesn’t feel the same. Not anymore. We’re not even close like we used to be.”

There’s a beat of silence.

And then Jungkook snorts.

Yoongi finally looks up. “What?”

Jungkook raises his eyebrows. “Dude. You really think she doesn’t like you?”

“Bro,” Hobi says, “she could’ve sat next to literally anyone tonight, and she still sat next to you.”

“That was Jimin’s fault—”

“—And she didn’t move.” Jimin grins. “And she laughed at your jokes, even when they were mid.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Everything means something,” Hobi says. “You think we don’t know you? You’re not exactly subtle.”

Yoongi glares. “I literally don’t talk to her.”

“Exactly,” Jungkook points. “You like her so much you don’t talk to her like a human being.”

“She makes you short-circuit,” Jimin adds. “Which is hilarious. But also kind of sad.”

“I don’t want to ruin it,” Yoongi mutters. “If I say something and I’m wrong…”

“You already are ruining it,” Hobi says, voice softer now. “By pretending you don’t care when it’s so obvious you do.”

Yoongi leans back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling like it might offer him a way out.

“I’m not good at this,” he admits.

“No one is,” Jimin says. “But you’re good at her. You always were. Even when you were annoying.”

“She made you better,” Jungkook says quietly. “You said that once. That you wanted to be someone she could be proud of.”

Yoongi closes his eyes.

“Then stop making her think she was wrong about you,” Hobi says.

Silence.

Then Yoongi exhales. Deep. Shaky. Like he’s been holding it in for too long.

“I don’t know if I can fix it.”

“You can,” Jimin says. “Just don’t wait too long.”

“You’ve got this trip,” Jungkook adds. “That’s a start.”

Yoongi nods once.

It’s not everything.

But maybe it’s enough.

-

It's finally morning. And surprisingly, you're starting to feel less car sick.

The smell of burnt toast mingles with the sharp tang of instant coffee. Plates clatter softly as everyone moves around the kitchen like well-oiled chaos.

Jimin is fiddling with the toaster, eyes squinting at the little blinking lights. “I swear this thing’s broken. How do you burn toast this badly?”

Yoongi leans against the doorframe, arms folded, watching the others with a quiet, easy smile. His hair’s still damp, and his sleeves are rolled up like yesterday never ended.

You sit at the table, spooning cereal with an exaggerated care, stealing glances at Yoongi whenever he’s not looking.

Hobi strolls in, stretching. “Looks like a heatwave’s rolling in.”

“Perfect day to cool off in the lake,” Jungkook adds, cracking an egg over the frying pan.

Jimin shoots Yoongi a look. “So, Yoongi, you gonna try not to mess things up today?”

Yoongi shrugs. “I’m just here for the cereal.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop a small smile. Jimin’s not subtle, but that’s why you like him.

Mina leans in conspiratorially. “You two were basically glued together last night. Took you long enough.”

You catch Yoongi’s eye, and he smirks—a little bashful, a little proud.

The cassette player switches to a new track, something upbeat and nostalgic. The kind of song that makes you want to dance around the kitchen, even if everyone’s still half asleep.

Jungkook finishes flipping an omelet and looks around. “Alright, anyone up for a swim? It’s gonna be hotter than hell today.”

Mina hops off the counter. “Finally, some fresh air.”

Jimin claps his hands. “Lake trip tradition. Swim, scream, repeat.”

You glance at Yoongi. He catches your gaze and nods.

“Count me in,” you say.

Yoongi grins, just a flicker of that old confidence returning.

-

Jimin had already commandeered the biggest sun-bleached plank as his throne, plopping down with the kind of exaggerated sigh that suggested he hadn’t yet fully given himself permission to relax.

“This is the life,” he announced, stretching his arms wide. “No math tests, no lectures, no Yoongi brooding in the corner.”

You smirked, shooting a glance at Yoongi, who was trailing a few steps behind, hoodie half-unzipped, hands buried deep in his pockets like he was trying to disappear into the summer haze.

Hobi nudged him lightly. “Hey man, no brooding allowed today. You’re part of the fun squad.”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but didn’t reply.

You moved toward the water’s edge with Mina, the cool lake teasing your toes as you tentatively dipped them in.

“Come on,” Mina urged, splashing water at you with a mischievous grin. “The water’s perfect. You can’t just sit there being all cautious.”

You bit your lip, scanning the group. Jungkook was already tossing an inflatable ring between his hands, eyes bright.

“Only if Yoongi jumps in first,” you called out, more a challenge than a request.

Heads turned, and you caught Yoongi’s gaze. He blinked, surprised, then raised an eyebrow as if to say, Really?

“Fine,” he muttered, stepping off the dock without any grand flourish. His feet hit the water with a quiet splash, sending droplets glinting in the sun.

He surfaced quickly, water slicking back his dark hair, and for a moment, you could almost forget how awkward everything still felt between you.

“Your turn,” he called, voice low but teasing.

You swallowed your nerves and stepped in after him. The cold water wrapped around your legs, sending a sharp, invigorating shock through you.

Jimin yelled from his spot, “Hey! No drowning, Y/N! We’re not calling the coast guard today!”

You rolled your eyes, launching a splash toward him.

Yoongi moved closer beside you, and as you stepped on a slippery rock, he reached out instinctively, his hand brushing your waist to steady you. The contact was electric, but just as quickly, he pulled away, looking anywhere but at you.

You swallowed a smile, heart thudding, while he cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Careful,” he said, voice low. “Wouldn’t want you falling.”

“I can manage,” you said, though your voice wavered just a little.

The group broke into laughter as Jungkook challenged Jimin to swim out to the buoy. Jimin accepted with mock bravado, flailing spectacularly as he struggled to keep up.

Mina leaned in close to you, whispering, “You two are like a rom-com waiting to happen.”

You snorted, just as Yoongi shot you a sideways glance—half amusement, half something softer.

The afternoon wore on with playful splashes, light teasing, and stolen glances. You noticed Yoongi’s protective instincts in little ways—the way he subtly stayed near when the current tugged at you, how he helped pull you out when you stumbled on a submerged rock.

Once, when you reached for a floating ball, your hands brushed, and you both froze for a second too long, a shy grin tugging at your lips.

“You’re getting better at this,” you teased quietly.

Yoongi smirked, though his eyes stayed on the water. “I’m trying not to screw it up.”

“Progress,” you said, and for a moment, the past awkwardness felt like it might just melt away.

From the dock, Jimin’s voice rang out, “Hey, you two! Stop stealing all the screen time—save some drama for the rest of us!”

Hobi laughed. “Seriously, keep it PG, lovebirds.”

You exchanged a glance with Yoongi, who shook his head with a small, reluctant smile.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “Maybe this summer won’t be such a disaster after all.”

The sun began to dip lower, casting golden light across the water. The group gathered towels and drifted back toward the cabin, the tension between you and Yoongi softening, like the first warm rays of dawn after a long, cold night.

Well, you're definitely not car sick now.

-

There’s only three showers in the lakehouse, and of course, Mina, Jungkook, and Hobi call dibs first, rushing inside with playful shouts and damp towels slapping the floorboards.

Jimin stretches, yawns, and disappears with Yoongi into their shared room.

You don’t follow. Not yet.

Still damp from the lake and too warm from everything—the water, the teasing, the closeness—you quietly grab your pink towel and slip out the back door, barefoot on the old wooden porch.

The stars are ridiculous tonight.

Spilled milk and diamonds, scattered like a secret just for you. You walk a little farther down the dock until you’re near the edge of the lake, where it’s quiet enough to hear the soft splash of water licking against the rocks.

You sit.

And breathe.

Wrapped in pink, hair still dripping, skin warm, heart confused. You hug your knees to your chest, the cool night brushing gently against your back.

Footsteps.

You don’t have to look to know who it is.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything at first. He walks quietly, barefoot too, and stops a few steps behind you like he’s unsure he should be there.

You glance over your shoulder.

“You following me now?”

He exhales a breath of a smile. “No. I just—couldn’t sleep.”

You pat the space beside you without thinking.

He hesitates for a second.

Then he sits.

And you both stare at the water, the moon, the endless black sky.

It’s quiet for a long moment.

Then, softly:

“I missed this,” Yoongi says.

You glance at him. His hair is still damp too, curling slightly at the edges. He’s in a loose t-shirt and shorts, like he threw them on in a rush. His hands are clasped in front of him, elbows resting on his knees.

“I missed... just sitting next to you.”

Your throat tightens. You look back at the stars.

“You didn’t act like you missed anything,” you say. “You acted like I didn’t exist anymore.”

He flinches. Just a little. But it’s enough.

“I know,” he says quietly. “I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of saying the wrong thing. Of saying too much.”

You turn toward him, finally. “Yoongi, you stopped talking to me. That was saying too much.”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out. I just… everything changed so fast. You got prettier. Smarter. Everyone loved you. And I—”

He laughs once, dry and self-deprecating.

“I didn’t know how to be near you without ruining everything.”

Your chest aches.

“Why didn’t you just say that?”

“Because I was a coward,” he says. “Because every time I looked at you, I wanted to say too much. And you were always so... good. So kind. I thought if I stayed close, I’d ruin that for you.”

You shake your head, blinking fast.

“You idiot.”

He looks up at you.

Your voice breaks, just a little.

“You’re such an idiot.”

He exhales a shaky laugh. “I know.”

You scoot a little closer, heart pounding.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” you say. “You just... left me guessing.”

He nods slowly, lips parted like he wants to say more.

And then he does.

“I’ve been in love with you since we were kids,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I tried to wait it out. Grow out of it. Get over it. But I couldn’t. I don’t think I ever will.”

The breeze tugs your towel gently.

You stare at him, the words sinking in.

“I’ve wanted to tell you,” he continues, “a thousand times. But I always thought... you’d never feel the same.”

“I do,” you whisper.

He stills.

Your voice is small, but clear. “I do, Yoongi.”

There’s a breath between you.

A moment that stretches and stretches and then finally—

He leans in slowly, watching your eyes the whole time, giving you every chance to pull away.

You don’t.

Your lips meet softly, like they’re remembering something that never quite began.

It’s slow. Warm. A little awkward. A little perfect.

And when you pull apart, his forehead rests gently against yours, both of you breathless.

“God,” he murmurs, smiling against your skin. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh—just once, soft and dizzy—and then—

“What. the. fuck. is. this?!”

Jimin’s voice cuts through the stillness like a car crash in a library.

You and Yoongi freeze.

Jimin stands at the hallway window, towel around his neck, eyes wide as dinner plates.

“I KNEW IT!” he screams. “GUYS! I TOLD YOU! I KNEW IT!”

Yoongi lets out a low groan and gets up slowly, flexing his neck like a tired boxer.

“Don’t,” you whisper, grabbing his wrist, giggling.

But it’s too late.

“Too late, he's a dead man.”

Yoongi breaks into a run across the porch, aiming to chase after him.

“Oh shit.” Jimin practically leaps out from the spot he was in.

Their voices echo into the trees, drowned out by your laughter.

And under the stars, wrapped in your towel, knees still tucked to your chest, you smile.

Because finally, you know.

And so does he.

-

You stir awake before the others, blinking slowly against the morning light streaming through your window. It’s quiet, still—the kind of peace that only exists when the world hasn’t quite opened its eyes yet.

You roll over, hair tousled, limbs sore from swimming and laughing and—everything else.

Everything that changed last night.

You smile.

A knock, soft and careful, sounds at your door.

You pause. Then rise, wrapping your blanket around your shoulders, still warm from sleep, and pad across the room barefoot.

When you open the door, Yoongi is already there—hoodie pulled halfway on, hair messy, face flushed like he ran a hand through it too many times trying to work up the nerve.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless.

You blink at him. “Hey.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “Wanna go out to the dock? It’s stupid early, but I couldn’t sleep.”

You smile gently. “Let me grab a sweater.”

A few minutes later, the two of you sit side by side at the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the glass-still water. Mist curls off the lake in slow spirals, the world glowing gold and blue around you.

You feel him watching you before he says anything.

“You look beautiful like this,” he murmurs, voice quiet like the morning.

You glance at him, caught off guard.

“Like what?”

He shrugs, but his eyes never leave your face.

“Sleepy. Soft. Happy.”

You look away, trying to hide the way your smile grows.

Yoongi nudges your knee with his. “Hey.”

“Hm?”

“You always do that.”

“Do what?”

“Try to hide when you’re flustered.”

You scoff, but he leans in anyway, brushing your hair gently off your shoulder. His fingers linger, featherlight.

And then his hand settles at your back, warm through the fabric of your sweater, like he needs to be touching you now just to breathe properly.

“I meant it,” he says. “What I said last night.”

You glance up at him.

“I’ve loved you for years,” he repeats. “But I never let myself show it. I didn’t know how. And now I—” He breaks into a small, breathy laugh, rubbing at his brow. “Now I can’t seem to stop.”

You try to reply, but the words are stuck somewhere in your chest.

Yoongi moves closer, gently tilting your chin toward him with his fingers. His thumb brushes your cheek, and his gaze softens completely.

“I’m gonna make up for it. All of it,” he murmurs. “I swear.”

And then—another kiss.

Slower than last night.

Deeper.

Full of every unsaid thing.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. He stays right there, forehead pressed to yours, smiling like you just saved him.

“You really can’t keep your hands off me now, huh?” you tease, breathless.

He grins, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

“Not even a little.”

-

The smell of burnt toast and frying eggs drifts through the cabin as Mina pads into the kitchen, hair wild and eyes still sleepy.

“Morning, everyone,” she mumbles, pouring coffee for herself.

Jimin strolls in moments later, rubbing sleep out of his eyes but already wearing that mischievous grin.

“You guys look different,” he says, glancing knowingly at Yoongi, who’s helping himself to the syrup.

Yoongi freezes mid-pour, a slow smile creeping across his face.

“What?” you ask, already suspicious.

Jungkook appears in the doorway, holding a plate of pancakes like a peace offering.

“Someone’s been getting all cozy,” he teases, setting the plate down in front of you.

Hobi laughs from the counter, flipping a pancake expertly.

“Finally! Took you two long enough.”

You exchange a glance with Yoongi, who shrugs but can’t hide his smile.

Mina sidles up next to you, elbowing you gently. “We all saw you two sneaking out last night.”

Your cheeks flush.

Jimin raises his coffee mug. “To Yoongi and Y/N: may your slow burn never burn out.”

Everyone cheers, clinking mugs and plates.

Yoongi leans close, voice low. “You ready for round two today?”

You grin. “Only if you promise to keep your hands to yourself until then.”

He laughs, but there’s a sparkle in his eyes.

“Deal. For now.”

-

The fire popped and hissed, sending sparks spiraling up into the night sky as laughter echoed through the crisp air. Everyone had gathered close, faces glowing in the warm firelight, voices carrying the familiar rhythm of shared stories and easy camaraderie.

Jimin was in full storyteller mode, animatedly recounting a particularly wild night from their senior year.

“Remember that time when all of us got caught sneaking out?” he said, shaking his head with mock disbelief. “What were we thinking?”

Hobi chuckled, tossing a small stick into the flames. “Thinking we were invincible, apparently.”

Mina shook her head, smiling softly. “I think that night’s what really bonded us. Getting in trouble together somehow made us... stronger.”

Jungkook nodded. “It was our rebellion, our last stand before everything changed.”

The group grew quiet for a moment, the weight of those words settling in the space between them.

You nestled closer to Yoongi, who draped an arm gently around your shoulders. His touch was featherlight but unmistakable, grounding.

“I can’t believe this is our last summer before college,” you whispered.

He tightened his hold just a little, voice low and steady. “We’ll make it count.”

Your hands found each other’s in the firelight, fingers weaving together naturally.

Jimin, ever the observant one, smirked. “Looks like someone’s already making it count.”

You flushed, stealing a glance at Yoongi, whose cheeky grin lit up even in the fire’s glow.

As the night stretched on, stories flowed—old high school antics, secret crushes, moments they wished they could relive.

Between bursts of laughter, Yoongi leaned close and whispered, “I promise I’ll change for you. Not just because I have to, but because I want to.”

You squeezed his hand, heart full. “I know.”

The fire’s warmth mingled with the quiet beat of your joined hands and the unspoken promises held between you two.

As the embers dimmed, Yoongi smirked playfully. “So, what’s my chore for tomorrow?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Keeping your hands to yourself before breakfast.”

He laughed softly. “You’re impossible.”

You smiled back. “Only for you.”

The night wound down with soft banter and shared smiles, the kind that linger long after the fire has burned out—an echo of youth, love, and the promise of whatever comes next.

-

Two years later :

The city skyline stretched endlessly beneath the velvet sky, twinkling like stars scattered across glass. But Yoongi’s world had shrunk to just one presence—your silhouette framed by the warm glow of the streetlamp.

It was late—far past the hour when most couples had long since drifted to sleep—but you and Yoongi were wide awake, wrapped around each other on the rooftop terrace of your small apartment, the soft hum of the city below a gentle soundtrack to the night.

Two years ago, you had sat by a crackling bonfire at a lakeside cabin, wrapped in a pink towel, tangled in tentative feelings that had slowly bloomed into something unbreakable.

Now, here you were, breathless from laughter and stolen kisses, the years etched only in the depth of your connection.

Yoongi’s fingers traced lazy patterns on your bare shoulder, his touch light yet electrifying.

“You know,” he said, voice thick with emotion, “I still get butterflies when I look at you.”

You leaned your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “Are you trying to make me melt?”

He laughed softly, a sound you had memorized and treasured. “Maybe.”

Your eyes fluttered closed as his hand slid up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your lips gently.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice trembling with sincerity.

You smiled, your fingers tangling in his soft hair. “You’ve never been subtle.”

“Subtlety died the moment I realized you were mine,” he teased, pulling you into a kiss that was tender and fierce all at once.

Time stretched thin as the world fell away. Your lips moved together with a rhythm all your own—soft sighs, small gasps, and the sweet pressure of love made physical.

When you finally broke apart, breathless, Yoongi rested his forehead against yours.

“I love you,” he murmured like it was the only truth that mattered.

You smiled, heart soaring. “I love you too. More than words.”

For a while, you just sat there, wrapped in each other’s arms, the cool night air brushing over your skin.

Then, Yoongi shifted, playful glint returning to his eyes.

“You remember how awkward I was back then?”

You laughed, the memory vivid. “Like a teenage puppy chasing its tail.”

He grinned, mock offended. “Hey! I was a disaster.”

“Still are,” you teased, poking his ribs.

He squirmed, laughing, then pulled you closer. “But I’m your disaster.”

The two of you sank into comfortable silence, hearts full and spirits light.

As the stars wheeled overhead, you traced patterns on his chest, feeling the steady beat of a love that had grown through every laugh, every tear, every stolen moment.

Yoongi kissed your temple softly.

“Promise me,” he said, “no matter what happens, we keep this. Keep us.”

You squeezed his hand firmly. “Always. Through everything.”

Just then, Yoongi’s phone buzzed quietly against the wood beneath you. He glanced at the screen and smiled, a familiar warmth in his eyes.

“Guess who,” he said, answering.

"Jimin, what's up?" Yoongi puts the phone on speaker, tilting it to you a little.

You smile, "Hi, chim."

"There's my favourite couple! —how about we drag you two out for another lake trip? The gang’s missing you guys. I mean, Mina’s already started packing, so no backing out now.”

You laughed softly, nudging Yoongi.

He grinned, fingers intertwining with yours. “Sounds like trouble.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” you said with a smile.

Jimin’s voice came through again, joking, “Get ready to relive your teenage disasters—same place, same chaos.”

Yoongi chuckled. “Guess we’ll have to keep the tradition alive.”

You leaned into him, whispering, “And maybe keep your hands to yourself a little more this time.”

He laughed quietly. “No promises.”

The night wrapped around you both like a cozy blanket, and for a moment, the world was exactly right.

a/n : Alright…. I enjoy making Jimin the matchmaker a little too much— is it getting obvious? lol. But anywayyyyy…. FIRSTT Yoongi storyyy! This was requested by @rpwprpwprpwprw <3 I do really really hope that it lived up to what you were imagining. You gave me such a great set up and vibe to worth with. Thank you for choosing me to help bring this story to life <3 To say I’m grateful is an understatement 🤍 I hope you had a wonderful time reading xx

— and thank you to @/yooqseok & @/starmon ( my lovely friends ) for proof reading 💕

[jennamoran]

@horatiovonbecker writes:

@jennamoran Incidentally, I feel like you might have some interesting thoughts on how to pick and/or recognize a thematic statement, though maybe it should be its own post.

RPG campaigns are a form of serial fiction, really, and while serial fiction can definitely benefit from picking your themes and metaphors and statements and core setting elements and such in advance, ultimately a lot of what really shines is developed in the process of creation. A bunch of stuff gets thrown at the wall in a hurry. (In an RPG campaign that wall is the players' picture of the real and fictional worlds and what matters.) Some of what gets thrown at that wall sticks. It stands out. It gets more attention. More callbacks. More thinking. It has a greater influence on the rest of what happens. This repeats. Eventually you have a picture of what the story is "about" that isn't necessarily what the author (here, the players and GM) "intended."

If you're writing a non-serialized work of fiction, you might get to this point and start revising front-to-back so that everything fits those themes. You might even do this multiple times. But in a serial work of fiction, all you can really do is recognize a few of the most important things before the end---some from the beginning, some learned along the way---and resolve those in a satisfying fashion. (Or, of course, and you can do this in RPGs too, go on indefinite hiatus, end abruptly while doing your best, or force everything to end in the way originally planned even though it's unsatisfying.)

I think of an RPG as a medium. There's no clean line between medium and message, of course, no clean difference between a game that prescribes a thematic message players can only rewrite by breaking the game, a game that has a few loose messages and leaves the rest to the players, and a game that thinks that it's universal and says nothing at all. But I tend to think of an RPG that I'm writing as a medium for players to use to create stories. Even if I'm trying to say something myself, I'm not trying to say it through the vehicle of your game. Nor am I expecting you to come up with something intentionally---I just figure that if you shake the players and pour out their brains onto the uneven canvas of the game, you'll wind up with a piece of art that's worth seeing.

To be clear, I think that RPGs that do try to say something through the medium of your campaign are pretty neat; I was even a bit jealous sometimes of people who do that kind of thing until I made one like that earlier this year and discovered that the main reason I don't do that is that I don't want to.

... but anyway, if you ever see me casually pushing all the artistic design work for a game onto the players' shoulders, that's what's going on; it's not that I expect professional post-editing perfection from players, it's not that I have nothing to say myself, it's that I am personally really interested in the process of players saying a bunch of stuff that is often not that important in itself but which provides a rich supply of stuff that they can draw upon in the next moment, next scene, and next session to go "yeah, okay, let's build on that a bit" and add contextual weight to their next action, until by the end they've said something they didn't know they wanted to say but did from the start.

cf @shencomix 's classic:

This doesn't happen because someone wrote a book on how to write webcomics that includes a fixed rule telling you that at the end you have to fight God---

unless someone did, I guess?---

But because ultimately nobody writes webcomics except as a cry of rage and horror against the order of the cosmos, so little threads of that theme show up in the first ten comics, and then get amplified again and again before the end. That's the phenomenon I'm trying to capture in most of my games, and in turn the reason why people who look to my RPGs for a clear description of how to write a webcomic only wind up confused.

[prxteus]

~ Ulster, Ireland. 1609 ~

He’d been strung up in the village square, right before the church. Hung for heresy, as the English insisted. You hadn’t been in attendance, there was no way you could have been, not for his last wish or anyone else’s. To have that be the final way in which you laid eyes upon him, selfishly you knew the nightmares would be too great of a burden- as much as his death itself.

Your father had gone to the spectacle, a solemn pinch to his brow when he returned home to tell you that they were yet to cut him down. “Let ‘em come for this place” he’d sneered “over my dead body”.

Not a day later you found yourself standing in the square, unable to argue when sent to the village for an important letter. You did your best to avoid the church, to avert your eyes as you darted across the dirt road. But it didn’t matter, because he was gone, not even a sign he’d been there at all. You assumed his brothers had cut him down in the dead of night, carried him far away over the moors to bury him where his grave would be unmarked and undisturbed. You hoped that was the case. That his life wouldn’t be limited to the opinions of those who had come to these lands unwelcome, spouting religious spite and cruelty from beyond the Eastern sea, uprooting folk from their homes and lives.

He’d been the first of many slaughters that your village became witness to, but not all were in the name of the church.

Days pass, the mist lingers, shrouding the hills in a blanket of silence. A solemn air about the dead space between the farms and the village, hollow woodlands that whistle and whisper. Something in you tells you to whisper back, to answer the shrill screams you hear call out in the dead of night from outside your window.

The townsfolk would call you mad, hang you in the square all the same, shouting of witchcraft and devil worship - perhaps that was a better fate than starvation and exile from your one and only homeland.

Living becomes little more than breathing. Chores around the homestead; dusting and weeding and tending to the chickens, cooking what little there is to cook. Monotonous work that breeds resentment in you, a hatred for what life has become, barely more than surviving.

Then, one night, everything pulls apart at the seams.

It’s in the pitch black of midnight, that’s when you hear it. The screaming, this time it feels more visceral, it sounds real. Before you believed you were imagining it, had thought your nightmares had bled into your waking hours, just barely. Slipped between soft snores and the crust in the corners of your eyes. It frightens you, sends a chill over your skin. The fire had died hours ago, little more than embers humming a dull glow in the fireplace. Light is low, visibility even more so, yet you pull a blanket around your shoulders and will your memory to serve you well. Hoping to creep through to your father’s room, wondering if he can hear it too - maybe you are just mad.

When you reach the door to his room, it’s hard for you to notice the emptiness of his bed, but through the gap in the drapes the moonlight provides just enough for you to see that he isn’t sleeping, so you slip away further through the hallway, blissfully unaware of your fathers lifeless body on the other side of his bed beneath the window ledge, lying just out of sight in the shadows.

The silence reaches you then, as if the world comes to a halt, not a drop of rain hitting the windows or the dogs fussing in the kitchen. There’s nothing. No creak to the floorboards or beating of your own heart in your ears, even your breathing feels stilted, like you dare not take a breath and make a noise. You move slowly, taking each step downstairs carefully in the darkness, the wood is cold beneath your feet.

Suddenly, there’s movement, the faint noise of footsteps or shuffling. It makes your chest squeeze, your father would sleep through thunderstorms - what could have forced him out of bed at this hour if not for the screaming?

Your pace subconsciously quickens, violently aware of how your anxiety begins to grow, a cold sweat beading at your hairline despite the low temperature outside, its seeping through the cracks in the window panes. The pads of your feet hit the stone floor and the noise echoes, the slap of skin against cold floor, your pace is uneven yet rushed. Something rattles in the kitchen, then a whine, then you’re stopped dead in your tracks.

Framed by the moon as it pierces through the kitchen window, a figure is hunched over the sink, dark and tall and unmoving. There’s a coldness, like whatever it is isn’t really there. A spectre. A ghost. You’d pinch yourself or press your thumbs into your eyes to ensure you were awake if you weren’t frozen in place, eyes glued to the creatures back - or what looks to be its back.

It doesn’t move, not right away, and neither do you. Maybe it doesn’t know you’re there, you could slip away through the front door and run toward the village, hoping someone might open their door to you. Your eyes dart around the darkness and you spot four iridescent eyes staring back at you from a far corner, the dogs are pressed back against the wall, looking as terrified as you are. You step back, hoping to slip away, but in that moment the creature turns on a six pence. The same iridescent eyes as the dogs, but there’s a shift to them, almost reddish, you don’t know whether to scream or run. Either or would do, but as you continue to stare at this creature while simultaneously turning your body toward the front door- it leaps.

Before you can even blink it’s on you, your spine pressed into the wall and your body crushed beneath the creatures weight. It’s breath fans your face, a stench of copper invades your nose and you wince. It’s overpowering, it smells like the shed at the back of the property, the one where your father slaughters the chickens and hangs them for the blood to drain out. It’s sour, coppery and strong as the creature pants against your cheek. But through the stench of blood there’s something familiar, something that forces your eyes wide, finally looking the creature in the face to confirm your noses suspicion.

It’s him. It’s too dark to make out the finer details of him you so vividly know, but it’s him alright. The smell of ferns and rosemary, that hint of dust and wheat from the bakery he spent too many hours in, you’re not sure how it’s at all possible.

You say his name but he rebukes, you feel him physically recoil against you, his chin shifts against your cheek as he shakes his head. “Doesn’t feel right bein’ called that” his voice is hoarse, like he’s swallowed gravel, it doesn’t sound like him.

There’s so much running through your mind. How impossible all of this is. He was dead. Hung for all to see. In the name of his questioning faith, because he dared not believe what he was conditioned to - he was dead all the same. So how was it that he was standing here right before you? Breathing. Speaking. Smelling of death and ruin and the grave.

He startles when you touch him, warping the fraying shirt stretched over his chest between your fingers until the fabric screeches. Through the heartache and denial and questioning of your own beliefs, he was standing here now. This wasn’t a dream.

You feel his breathing shift, the swell of his chest grows, pressing more weight into you as you almost break through the wall. His nose presses against your cheek and you feel the smearing of sweat from his face against your own, especially around his mouth and lips. The tip of his nose traces down your face and to your chin, he pauses, inhaling deeply, but he doesn’t speak. You don’t let go of him, anchoring yourself to him incase he slips away once more, incase this is in fact the most vivid dream you’ve ever had in your life.

“Say something” you whisper, needing to hear him, needing to relish in the reality of him standing here with you.

He presses deeper into you, if it’s possible, crushing your chest, you can’t find it in you to tell him to stop. You don’t want him to go.

“You smell so good” it’s slurred, almost rumbles from his chest. Your brows furrow, but before you can retort there’s an immense pressure at your throat.

It’s unbearable. A fiery hot pressure that burns from the inside out. Like venom in your blood. Burning and burning and burning until there’s nothing but fire. You scream, a bloodcurdling sound that makes your own ears hurt, everything hurts. Your nails pry at him for relief but there is none, if anything he bares down harder the more you fight, like an instinct. Something akin to a predator.

These teeth aren’t his own. That of a creature like you’d thought before, a predator, a demon. A curse for none belief. They tear through the flesh of your throat like butchers knives to venison steaks, a practiced killer, a skilled hunter.

Heat blooms throughout your body despite the fact his tongue doesn’t let a single drop of blood fall anywhere but to his mouth, an insatiable hunger in him you have seen only once before. He’d made a dishonest woman of you and yet this feels worlds above that, as filthy and improper as you could possible imagine feeling. Yet, it swells inside of you, your own hunger, soon pressing yourself into the pressure of his mouth as his hands take root at your hips to keep you still - to stop your squirming away.

You close your eyes, revelling in the pain for a moment, for when you open your eyes again - you can seen clearly through the darkness. As if the sun has risen in the space of a second, now the darkness doesn’t interrupt your eyes, you can see clearly that the man who stole your heart is no longer just a man. He’s much more. As much beast as the dog’s still cowering across the room, as much a ghost as he was thought to be - as much a demon as the bible would state.

[emmiesoverthemoon]

AISLE BE DAMNED

five: do you?

wc: 11.6k ss count: 0 warning: contains smut (you all cheer in unison) < previous | navigation | next >

thursday, 10:03 am. two days before the wedding.

the venue is stretching itself awake.

after weeks of clouds and the stubborn chill of early mornings, the first real warmth of spring has finally settled into the grass. the sky is pale blue and blinking. birds flit low over the clearing. the breeze carries with it the scent of soft earth and something blooming nearby— honeysuckle, maybe. or cherry blossoms still clinging to the trees above the path.

you’re here early.

not because you had to be, but because something about today feels tender. anticipatory. and you wanted to be here when it was still quiet— just you and the open space, the faint glimmer of sun warming the wooden trellises and the long aisle laid with mossy stones.

you kneel near the pergola, fiddling with one of the aisle markers. silk ribbon, cream-white, trailing like a ribbon from some fairytale neckline. the corners of your mouth lift softly when you fix the twist in it.

your coat keeps slipping off your shoulder. you do not fix it. there’s birdsong somewhere nearby. a bee. a breeze.

and then—

footsteps.

your pulse jumps before you look.

you already know.

you turn.

minho’s walking up the garden path, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loose in one hand, bouquet of fabric samples in the other.

his eyes find yours immediately.

neither of you says anything for a second too long.

then—

“the aisle looks good,” he says. low. careful.

you shrug, smiling softly. “it will look better with people in it.”

he stops beside you. doesn’t crouch. just looks down, then up again, like he’s trying to memorise the way you look in this light.

the silence between you has changed.

once sharp. then heavy. now— light, trembling, gold-edged.

he clears his throat. “florist wants to triple-check the final boutonniere colours. your cousin mentioned wanting them to match the bouquets.”

you blink. then glance down at the marker in your hand.

your bouquet.

right.

your eyes flick back to him.

his lips twitch. “was that your idea?”

“nah,” you say, breezily. “if it were would you have a problem with that?”

“not if it gets me a matching corsage.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you want a corsage?”

“only if it comes with a matching date.”

your breath catches.

he notices. of course he does.

but neither of you leans in. neither of you pushes.

you both keep working. separately. side by side.

an hour later, you're rearranging chairs for the final walkthrough. your fingers graze his when you both reach for the same corner. you don’t comment on it. you don’t even glance at him. but your hand stays there a second too long.

when you brush your hair out of your eyes, he watches the motion like it effected him personally.

when he stands behind you at the ceremony arch, his palm hovers just short of your back.

he says, “you look like you belong here.”

you reply, “this is the nicest you’ve ever been to me.”

he shrugs. “might be losing my touch.”

you want to say no, you're just getting brave.

but instead you turn, heart heavy with softness, and smile like that will be enough.

and for now, it is.

friday, 6:54pm. one day before the wedding.

a dinner the night before the big day is held at your cousin’s favourite italian place— tucked into a side street near the venue, all golden light and hanging ferns, menus written in chalk on black slate boards. there are only twelve of you around the long table, the wedding party plus you and minho, invited by default, seated exactly where everyone knew you would end up.

side by side. elbow to elbow. knees brushing accidentally. then not so accidentally.

there’s music low in the background, clinking glasses, a shared bottle of wine being passed around. you’re halfway through your second glass and a bowl of fresh pasta when your cousin leans across the table, eyes narrowed with mischief.

“so,” she says, to no one and everyone. “am i allowed to ask if my two favourite planners have reconciled yet?”

you almost choke on your sip.

minho pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth.

you groan. “please don’t start that again.”

“what!” she grins, delightfully smug. “i’m just saying— something happened the other day. and now you’re finishing each other’s sentences again and i haven’t seen minho scowl once, which is rare. i think i’m allowed to ask.”

“no, you’re not,” minho mutters, cheeks a little too pink for someone pretending to be unaffected.

you glance down at your plate, but your smile betrays you.

“come on,” one of the bridesmaids, jay, pipes up. “we’ve all seen it. you two have been practically glowing this week. there was definitely a moment by the arch. i saw it. i have witnesses.”

“not glowing,” you mumble, trying to play it off. “maybe just— well-lit.”

“well-lit my ass,” another bridesmaid, attie, says. “you blushed so hard when minho handed you that ribbon it was like watching a live wedding proposal.”

minho groans softly. “i hate all of you.”

“no you don’t,” your cousin sing-songs. “not when she’s around.”

you shoot her a look that says i will un-cater this wedding if you continue. she only grins wider.

minho leans toward you just slightly. says under his breath, “i think we might need a new table.”

“a new wedding party.”

“a new planet.”

you bite your lip to keep from laughing. your thigh is pressed to his under the table now, and neither of you move.

someone calls for a toast, and all attention shifts.

except his. minho’s gaze stays on you as everyone else raises their glasses. his eyes soft. dark. unreadable.

you don’t look back.

not right away.

but when you do, the smile you give him is barely there.

and he still catches it.

friday, 8:34pm

the laughter trails behind you as the restaurant door swings shut. warm light spills onto the cobbled street, golden and flickering, but the night air is cool and crisp— spring just beginning to warm the bones of the city again. you wrap your coat a little tighter, step out onto the sidewalk, and feel minho fall into place beside you like a second heartbeat.

neither of you says anything for the first few steps.

it’s not awkward. just… full. stretched thin with everything that has not been said.

you walk slowly, not toward anything in particular. just away from the noise. away from the eyes. the pavement is uneven underfoot, and the breeze carries a faint hint of jasmine from some garden you cannot see.

minho has his hands in his pockets. the tip of his nose is pink from the cold. he looks like someone trying not to look at you. you are doing the same.

finally— he clears his throat.

"you okay?"

you nod. “mhm. you?”

“yeah. just full. and mildly traumatised.”

you glance at him. “from the pasta or from the relentless teasing?”

“bit of both.”

you smile. it feels different now— quieter. not so performative.

his voice drops a little, eyes still ahead. “you were glowing today. if anyone asks again.”

your breath catches.

you do not ask if he means it. you have no need, you already know he does.

“you too,” you say, because it is the truth. because you can still see the soft tuck of his shirt collar and the way his cuff had brushed your wrist during the table setup earlier.

a pause.

then, you ask gently: “you nervous for tomorrow?”

he exhales. slow. “not so much for the wedding. i have confidence it’ll go well— we planned it after all. it’s just… everything after.”

you laugh lightly, then hum. “yeah.”

a longer pause.

“but it’s going to be beautiful,” he adds.

“i know, it freakin’ better be.” you laugh, and so does he.

and then you stop walking.

the end of the street is near. your cars are parked in opposite directions. there is nowhere else to go tonight. not really.

he rocks forward on his feet a little. then back. shifts his weight like he might reach for something but doesn’t know how to.

you beat him to it.

“i’ll see you tomorrow?”

his gaze finds yours. it’s steady. a little glassy. a little warm.

“wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he says.

you nod. take a step back. then another.

he does the same.

and you both turn away at the same time, like you rehearsed it.

neither of you looks back.

but your hands still tingle when you reach for your keys.

saturday, 8:22am. the morning of the wedding.

the sunlight drips in soft and warm, slow as honey through gauzy curtains. your dress hangs by the window, bathed in gold sunlight. on the table lies a scattered mess of makeup brushes, hair pins, a folded list with a large majority of the final touches ticked off. it smells faintly of floral perfume and the sweetness of spring— peony, peach, and the distant whisper of dew still clinging to the garden paths.

your cousin sits cross-legged on the bed, half-curled in a silk robe, holding a bottle of nail polish like it’s a weapon of emotional destruction.

“how are we feeling?” she asks, voice light but not unserious.

you press a mascara wand against your lashes and try not to blink. “i feel like my spine has been replaced with jello. i’m convinced i’ve missed something, but i know i’ve prepared everything.”

“mm. good. romantic.”

you laugh, quietly. “you nervous?”

“terrified. ecstatic. my body is held up by 90% adrenaline and 10% mimosa.”

you pause. then glance over your shoulder. “you look calm.”

“i’m lying.” she grins. “i’ve spent the last twelve hours sweating through various expensive materials. but this?”—she gestures to the room, the air, you—“this makes it feel real. i’m glad you’re here.”

you smile. it’s soft. aching around the edges.

a beat. then—

“how are you?” she asks, gently now. “like really?”

you hesitate. “tired. relieved. excited. a little confused.”

her brows rise. “confused?”

you pause again. then, low: “we talked. we… fixed things. mostly. i think.”

her eyes sharpen like a cat clocking prey. “you think?”

“we’re good. he’s… he’s good. i don’t know where we lie now.”

“so you’re still not saying anything about how completely in love with each other you are, huh.”

you scoff. “that is categorically false.”

“sure.”

“shut up.”

but you're smiling now. cheeks warm.

“do i need to lock you in a closet with him to build sexual tension?” she asks, sweetly. “old-school seven minutes in heaven style?”

“please do not.” you are completely flushed and trying to laugh off your embarrassment.

“noted. but just so you know… your bouquet’s done. and it matches a certain man's boutonnière. completely by coincidence.”

you shoot her a look.

she shrugs. “what a mystery.”

saturday, 8:23am

minho is standing in front of the mirror, shirt half-buttoned, hair a little too neatly done from the stylist’s overly eager hands. he’s quiet.

the groom leans in the doorway with his tie in one hand.

“you good?” he asks.

minho nods.

“you sure? you’re doing the thing where your jaw looks like it’s fighting your entire bloodstream.”

he exhales. slow. “i’m good. just thinking.”

“about the fact that you’ve been in love with your co-planner for the past few weeks?”

minho glares.

“what?” the groom raises his hands. “we all see it. it’s practically broadcast globally through satellite.”

“we’re not datin—”

“yet.”

minho doesn’t respond. just adjusts his collar. stares into the mirror like maybe his reflection will confess something for him.

“you know,” the groom says after a beat, “she’s really happy when she’s around you.”

minho’s hands still.

“just in case you needed to hear it again. i think it’s about time you made a move.”

he doesn’t say anything.

but when he turns back to the mirror, the ghost of a smile appears— barely there, like breath against glass. maybe it was about damn time.

saturday, 10:45am

you do not see minho until the crowd parts.

you have been drifting from corner to corner like a restless ghost, hands smoothing ribbons that do not need smoothing, tucking stray petals back into bouquets, adjusting the altar cloth so many times you have lost count. your clipboard is tucked into your elbow like a second pulse, the familiar weight of it grounding you when your mind threatens to float away.

the venue is glowing. mid-morning light slides through the canopy of early-spring green above, scattering honey-gold dapples across the white runner, the rows of cream chairs, the trellises dressed in wildflower garlands. a soft breeze stirs the petals along the aisle, carrying the gentle hum of distant laughter and clinking glass from somewhere behind the hedges.

you are checking a final arrangement when you pause, fingers hovering midair. something in your chest stirs—an unnameable prickle, a ripple of heat.

you straighten slowly.

and then—

he’s there.

just… there.

standing near the edge of the clearing, where the sunlight breaks in shards through the leaves. his suit is charcoal, perfectly cut, the lapels smooth and sharp against his shoulders. but it’s the small boutonnière that catches your breath—blush roses, pale sage, tied with the exact silk ribbon you remember fumbling with at dawn, your hands trembling from too much coffee and too many thoughts of him.

your fingers had brushed that bow like it mattered. like it meant something. like it might touch him even if your hands could not.

your heart forgets how to move.

he hasn’t seen you yet. his eyes sweep the space methodically, one hand tucked into his coat pocket, the other lifting to shield his gaze from the bright spill of morning. his hair is styled but still a little soft at the edges, like he might have run his fingers through it one too many times. he looks composed. deliberate. painfully handsome.

and then—

he does see you.

and everything stills.

his eyes pause. then drag over you in a slow, unguarded sweep—catching on your hair, the way your dress fits along your shoulders, the bouquet trembling faintly in your grasp.

there’s a shift in him so quiet it might be mistaken for a sigh: the slight parting of his lips, the gentle collapse of his shoulders like he’s bracing against an invisible wind.

your stomach flips so hard you feel a little lightheaded.

his gaze lands on your wrist, where the same blush blooms catch the sun.

you glance down too, as if drawn by an invisible string.

when you lift your eyes again, his mouth has softened into something dangerous. something private. a quiet, crooked thing that tugs at the corners like he’s smiling from a place so deep it does not know how to come out all the way.

you take a step forward.

he does too.

not rushed. not performative. just pulled. gentle as a tide.

when you meet halfway, the hush around you feels thick enough to drink. he stops directly in front of you, standing close enough that you catch the faint warmth radiating from his skin, the clean echo of his cologne softened by the sun.

he looks at you.

and looks.

and looks.

it feels like he is reading you, line by line, carefully, reverently, as though each detail is a verse he wants to memorise.

his voice, when it comes, is low. almost shy.

“your flowers.”

you lower your gaze to them, as if seeing them for the first time. “what about them?”

he tilts his head, hair catching the light like the delicate edge of a blade. “they match mine.”

you lift an eyebrow, lips parting in feigned surprise. “how mysterious.”

he snorts—an actual, tiny laugh—and you watch the tension ease at the corners of his mouth. “wild,” he murmurs, shaking his head as if marvelling at an impossible coincidence.

“almost like someone planned it,” you tease, voice soft but steady.

he clicks his tongue, gaze dragging deliberately over your face, lingering at your lips, then your eyes. “no. impossible.”

you laugh, quiet and airy, the kind that only happens when your lungs feel too small for your ribcage.

“you look…” he starts, then pauses to swallow. his eyes flick down your silhouette again, quickly, before darting back to your face. “you look beautiful.”

the world tilts.

you should tease him again. deflect it. twist it into something manageable. but you can’t. not this time.

your mouth curves, slowly, as if pulled by a force outside yourself. “you don’t scrub up so terribly yourself.”

his head dips forward, chin almost to his chest, and he lets out a quiet, incredulous laugh like you’ve punched the breath from him.

he lifts his eyes again. and for a moment, neither of you says a word.

it is loud, this silence. roaring with everything unspoken— every late night working side by side, every brush of fingers that almost became a touch, every look that burned too long.

then someone calls out from the edge of the clearing, a distant voice reminding you both of the world beyond this charged little orbit.

he shifts first, straightening, his hands adjusting his jacket sleeves—something to anchor himself back into reality.

you step back, just enough to breathe again.

“see you in there,” he says, voice husky at the edges.

you nod. “see you.”

he hesitates, gaze darting one last time to your wrist, then your mouth.

and then he moves past you, toward the crowd gathering near the aisle entrance.

you watch him go.

your fingers flex on the bouquet like you are holding something too precious to name.

saturday, 11:15am

the guests are seated, prepared for the ceremony to begin.

the air holds that expectant hush that comes right before a swell of music, a collective inhalation that feels almost sacred. a few birds flit across the canopy above, their wings stirring the soft gold light that filters through the early spring leaves. petals lie scattered along the aisle like small blessings, trembling faintly with each passing breeze.

you stand just behind the trellis, hidden enough to watch without being watched. your clipboard rests against your hip, the pen looped through the top like a safety pin for your nerves.

the music shifts—low and lilting, strings that feel like the inside of a held breath—and every sound in the clearing stills.

your cousin stands at the end of the aisle out of sight, her breath shallow, bouquet cradled in her fingers as if she is afraid it might float away. the veil tucked in her hair flutters softly, catching the light like gossamer thread.

you step closer, hand sliding around hers. your thumb presses once against her knuckles, a quiet promise.

she turns slightly, eyes bright and glassy. her mouth trembles, but her smile is unwavering.

you lean in. “you’re ready,” you murmur.

she nods. one quick, shaky exhale.

and then—

she steps forward.

the music lifts to greet her, and all at once the aisle becomes a river of turned heads, widened eyes, sharp intakes of breath. every guest leans closer, pulled forward by the gravity of this first step.

you slip sideways into the front corner, clipboard now clutched against your stomach. your eyes sweep automatically—chairs, floral arches, altar drapery—all in perfect alignment. but your gaze refuses to stay there.

because across the sea of faces—near the front, standing at the groom’s side—is minho.

he is supposed to be looking at the bride.

but he isn’t.

his eyes are already on you.

fixed. unblinking.

the corners of his lips twitch like he’s trying to school his expression, but his eyes betray him completely. wide, dark, soft in a way you have only glimpsed in stolen moments.

you shift your weight to your back foot, forcing your attention to the aisle. you try to focus on the gentle progress of your cousin’s steps, on the delicate tremor of her veil, on the collective hush that holds the clearing like a fragile glass orb.

but it's hard.

so hard.

because you can still feel the warmth of his gaze on your wrist from earlier. because you can still hear the soft hush of his laugh when he called you beautiful. because you can see the ribbon of your bouquet matching the bloom pinned to his chest— proof of something shared, something secret, something yours.

the officiant’s voice rises gently, inviting the couple closer. vows unfold like the first touch of dawn— tender, trembling, careful.

your cousin’s voice cracks halfway through her vow. the groom’s hand lifts to brush away a tear that never quite fell. someone in the second row sniffles loudly. the officiant laughs softly, waiting, then continues.

you steal a glance around the clearing. heads bowed, hands pressed to mouths, tissues dabbing at eyes. and still—when you glance back, when you dare—minho is looking only at you.

your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming between your ribs. despite this, you do not look away.

not this time.

when they exchange rings, you swallow hard. your cousin’s shoulders shake with laughter through her tears. the groom presses his forehead to hers, whispering something that draws a stuttered, teary giggle from her lips.

the officiant smiles, voice bright now: “you may kiss the bride.”

and they do.

the clearing explodes in sound— cheers, applause, a jubilant swirl of clapping hands and camera shutters and flowers being waved in the air.

your heart beats so hard you feel it in your fingertips.

somewhere beneath the celebration, beneath the golden haze of that first shared kiss, your heart stutters for something—someone—else entirely.

after the ceremony, after the hugs and the first frantic wave of congratulations, after the newlyweds are whisked away for photos—he finds you.

your back is turned, scanning the programs left on chairs, counting flower bundles.

then—

a hand, firm and warm, slides to the small of your back.

you freeze.

minho's voice—low, roughened by something that sounds suspiciously like nerves—spills just beside your ear.

“you were incredible.”

your breath shivers out of you in a single, quiet exhale.

you turn your head just enough to catch his eyes, close now, so close.

and for the first time today, there is no teasing. no deflection. no mask.

only the raw, quiet truth that trembles between you like an unstruck match.

you open your mouth—maybe to say thank you, maybe to say something else entirely—but he’s already stepping back, his hand sliding away slowly, reluctantly.

and somehow—

somehow, those three words feel heavier, truer, more electric than anything else you have heard all day.

saturday, 5:32pm

the golden hour settles like honey over the clearing. lanterns flicker to life one by one, each bulb blooming warm against the deepening blue of early evening. light pools across the tabletops in gentle circles, slipping over crystal glasses and scattering off silver cutlery in soft sparks. every surface seems to glow; every guest is gilded in that soft, forgiving twilight.

you move through it all like a quiet current—calm, steady, endlessly watchful. you check on the caterers, run a gentle hand over a linen runner that has shifted, bend to rescue a stray petal caught in a breeze. your clipboard feels lighter now, more an ornament than armor.

someone calls your name. you turn— your cousin stands there, veil long gone, hair pinned up in soft, romantic curls that tumble around her shoulders. her eyes are bright, cheeks flushed pink, her fingers laced tightly with her new husband’s.

they reach you in seconds, and she pulls you in before you can even think to protest. her arms wrap around you, warm and trembling.

“thank you,” she breathes against your ear. “thank you for making this the best day of my entire life.”

you laugh, but the sound fractures on its way out, already threadbare with emotion. “you’re going to make me cry,” you murmur, voice thick.

“good,” she says, pulling back to wipe at your cheek. “you deserve it. you deserve everything.”

you open your mouth—maybe to deflect, maybe to tease—but the words die before they can form. her eyes hold yours, and for a moment, the entire day presses in around you, heavy and bright and impossibly soft.

then—

a presence at your back.

you do not have to turn. your skin recognizes him before your mind does—warmth radiating close enough that your shoulder hums with it.

“you okay?” minho’s voice drifts low, almost inaudible under the chatter and clink of glasses.

you swallow, nod once. you cannot quite turn to meet his eyes, not when your heart feels like it might spill out through your ribs.

he stays for a moment longer—close enough that you feel the edge of his breath on your neck—before a guest waves him over. he steps away, but his gaze catches yours as he moves, tethering you there.

when you finally let out the breath you didn't know you were holding, the evening seems to tilt slightly—like the whole clearing has been caught between two heartbeats.

dinner winds down. plates are scraped clean, glasses refilled and traded like little secrets. clusters of guests drift between tables, laughter lifting in bright ribbons that twist up into the trees.

you spot minho across the dance floor—jacket gone, sleeves rolled, a lock of hair falling across his forehead. he looks different like this: softer, a little more unraveled, the edges of his careful composure loosened just enough to show the warmth beneath.

your gaze lingers too long. he catches it. his lips twitch, a soft, knowing curve that sends warmth flooding up your neck.

then the speeches begin.

you step quietly to the side, hands clasped at your waist, breath shallow. your cousin steps up first. her voice shakes at the beginning, thin as a trembling bowstring, but then steadies, blooming bright and clear.

she thanks her family, her new husband, the friends who have shaped her life. she glances at you, her voice catching as she says your name, telling everyone how you built this day from nothing—how your hands held every detail, how your heart held them all steady.

your cheeks burn. you look down, throat tight, a shy bloom of warmth expanding beneath your ribs.

then, it's minho turn. he moves slowly, fingers curling around the mic. he pauses, thumb brushing his lip like he’s buying himself a few more seconds.

you can tell he has no notes. nothing rehearsed.

he opens with a laugh, a small joke about emergency caffeine deliveries and endless last-minute revisions. the crowd laughs with him, easy and warm.

but then—

his voice drops, softens, grows unguarded.

“there’s a lot i could say about this couple,” he starts, gaze sweeping the guests once, then landing—steadily, unwavering—on you. “but i think the thing that stands out most is that real love lives in the smallest details. in the tiny moments no one else notices. in the care that holds everything up when the rest of us might let it fall.”

your pulse stutters. you do not move.

“and,” he continues, voice low enough that it seems to find only you, “it’s in the people who make that possible. the ones who hold the entire world together, even when they’re carrying more than they should have to.”

his eyes stay on yours.

your chest pulls tight.

someone in the audience laughs softly, dabbing at their eyes. the groom claps him on the back when he finishes, the crowd lifting glasses, the sound of cheers and glass chimes like a gentle rain.

but you can't quite hear it.

because he is stepping down, moving toward you, his gaze locked to yours like an unspoken vow.

when he stops in front of you, your breath hiccups. you manage a small, watery smile. he answers with a grin of his own—crooked, trembling at the corners, something impossibly soft hiding there.

he opens his mouth like he might say something—another joke, maybe, or a quiet question—but then someone catches his wrist, tugging him to the dance floor.

he goes, but not before his fingers ghost across yours, the slightest brush that feels like a promise tucked into your skin.

you stand frozen for a moment, heart clattering.

then your cousin finds you, bright and breathless, her fingers closing around your wrist, dragging you into the swirling ring of bridesmaids dancing.

you do not resist.

the music surges, joyous and sunlit, and the entire floor becomes a sea of laughter and blurred movement and warm, soft collisions.

every few beats, minho appears beside you—his hand catching yours mid-spin, his shoulder brushing yours as he passes, his breath grazing your cheek in quick, stolen seconds.

neither of you speaks.

neither of you needs to.

because the entire room already knows.

and, somewhere deep down, you know too.

"alright," the mc calls out, voice playful and bright, "now time for the esteemed bouquet toss! who’s feeling lucky tonight?"

the music shifts, quick and sparkly — the kind of cheeky, teasing melody that makes everyone lean forward, grinning.

your cousin steps into the middle of the floor, bouquet raised high in one hand, the other waving as she soaks in the cheers. she turns in a slow circle, laughing so hard her shoulders shake.

you hover at the edge, trying to disappear into the table linen, clutching your clipboard like a lifeline.

"get in there!" she shouts suddenly, pointing straight at you. her eyes are sharp, gleaming with mischief.

you shake your head fast, your laughter spilling out too loudly. "no, no, no—"

before you can finish, someone from behind — a cousin or maybe one of the bridesmaids — gives you a gentle shove. you stumble forward, nearly tripping, your hand shooting out to steady yourself on the nearest chair.

"you aren't working right now," your cousin crows, already victorious. "you're single. and as much of a snack as you are, you're standing too close to the food table. get. in. here."

you try to retreat, but another friend catches your wrist, dragging you into the centre of the circle. a loud, collective "ooooooh" rises from the guests.

your cheeks burn so fiercely you think they might glow in the dark. you glance back over your shoulder instinctively — and there he is.

minho.

leaning casually against a cocktail table, one arm draped lazily over the back of a chair, his other hand wrapped around a half-empty glass. jacket gone. sleeves rolled to his elbows. the line of his collar slightly open, just enough to reveal the delicate dip of his throat.

he’s watching you.

watching you like you’re the only one left in the clearing, like the noise has faded into some distant hum he can’t even hear.

his mouth curls at the corner, slow and deliberate, a private upside-down smile that does something dangerous to your insides. his eyes catch the light and go dark, molten, almost predatory in their softness.

your heart somersaults, crashing up into your throat.

you turn back quickly, nearly fumbling into the group of giggling women. someone tugs you deeper into the circle, hands all around you, laughter rising in waves.

your cousin lifts her arm, bouquet poised above her head. the crowd starts to chant. she pretends to throw once, twice — the bouquet dips dramatically to the left, then the right. squeals erupt every time she feints, arms flailing everywhere, fingers splayed in anticipation.

you shift backward, trying to vanish into the mass of elbows and perfume and hair. you repeat in your head that you do not care, that it’s just tradition, that there is no way—

but then the flowers go up.

they spin in a slow, perfect arc—white petals catching the lantern light, green stems flashing in a bright, defiant streak—and somehow, impossibly, they come straight for you.

your hands fly up on instinct. the bouquet hits your palms with a soft, shocking weight.

there’s a beat of pure silence.

then the entire group explodes.

someone behind you screeches. another friend clamps her hands on your shoulders, shaking you back and forth in triumph. petals scatter everywhere, tiny fragments clinging to your hair and arms.

you’re so stunned you almost drop the bouquet entirely.

you look up, breathless.

minho is still there.

his head tilts, eyes widening first in open surprise— then something else blooms across his face. he laughs, loud and startled, head falling forward for a second as he claps once, palm echoing sharp in the air. when he straightens, that smile is still there: soft, crooked, deeply fond.

you feel your entire body catch fire.

your cousin is doubled over now, pointing at you with both hands, tears streaking her cheeks. "i told you!" she screams. "fate! fate, bitch! i told you!"

you try to form a response—something snarky, something to save your dignity—but all that escapes is a high, helpless squeak.

the group starts chanting something you can’t even make out. someone loops an arm around your waist and parades you in a messy circle, your bouquet held high like a victory banner.

and through every dizzy spin, every blur of faces and lights and shrieks— he is there.

minho.

eyes locked to yours. unmoving. his expression carved open and raw, like he’s about to walk across the floor and pull you out of there with no explanation at all.

your pulse roars in your ears. you press the flowers tight to your chest, petals tickling your chin.

you don't know what to do with this sudden, thrilling ache coursing through you, what to do with the molten echo of his eyes on your skin, what to do with the sharp, impossible want tightening every breath.

but he does not move. not yet.

instead, he stands there, every line of him wound taut, every glance screaming what his hands have not yet claimed.

and you clutch the bouquet like a secret you have no idea how to keep.

saturday, 11:03pm

as the final chords of the last upbeat song melt into a softer, almost cinematic instrumental, the guests seem to float inward as if pulled by an invisible tide. the newlyweds step into the centre of the floor, hands already locked, foreheads nearly touching.

the music hushes to a gentle pulse, like a heartbeat. champagne glasses catch the golden string lights overhead, flickering with reflections of all the laughter and tears from the night.

your cousin tugs the mic from the stand, her other hand twisting in her new husband’s jacket sleeve. her eyes are red-rimmed, makeup smudged into something soft and human, hair slipping from its careful style in delicate little wisps that frame her face. she looks like a painting.

she breathes in once, then tries to start. "i just—" her voice catches, mouth tipping into a half-laugh, half-sob. she presses her lips together, trying again. "i just wanted to say… thank you."

her eyes scan the room. you feel them pause on your face for a moment, warm and bright and full of a thousand unspoken things.

"to every single person here tonight," she goes on, her voice finally steadying. "thank you for helping us make today… the best day of our lives."

the room erupts. people cheer and whistle, someone starts to chant her name before dissolving into giggles.

she glances at her husband, who watches her like he might never look away again. he presses his forehead to her temple for a moment, grounding her.

"we really couldn’t have done any of this without you all," she continues, sniffling through her grin. "our family, our friends… and especially," she turns, eyes locking on you now, "my incredible cousin. the person who basically held this entire event together with nothing but sheer willpower, an unholy number of to-do lists, and an ungodly amount of espresso shots."

laughter bursts from the crowd. someone yells, "she deserves a raise!" and you bury your face in your hands, shaking your head, your shoulders shaking with a helpless laugh.

your cousin isn’t done. "and," she pivots again, this time finding minho in the crowd, "to our favorite perfectionist menace. who, despite his permanently judgmental face—" a ripple of laughter breaks out, minho’s head drops forward for a second, hiding a grin behind his raised glass. "somehow made everything look like a dream."

he looks up then, mouth crooked, cheeks pink, eyes soft in a way that makes your heart seize. he lifts his glass higher, like a quiet salute.

"seriously," she says, voice suddenly tender and almost trembling, "we could not have asked for better people. for better friends."

she turns back to her husband, fingers pressing lightly to his chest, almost as if checking he’s real. he leans in and presses a gentle kiss to her forehead before taking the mic from her hand, steadying her fingers in his as he does.

"we’re so lucky," he says, voice deep, low, warmth curling through every word. "so blessed. thank you for dancing with us. for laughing with us. for staying until the very last song. we hope you all felt the love tonight—because we felt every bit of it back."

someone near the back yells, "to the bride and groom!" and a wave of cheers echoes, overlapping claps and whistles and the chime of glasses lifted high.

your cousin looks at you again, eyes shining with gratitude and mischief. she blows you a kiss across the room. you laugh, tears hot on your lower lashes, and blow one back, your chest tightening in the sweetest possible way.

and somewhere—somewhere behind all that noise, in that tiny pocket of space where your world feels smaller and sharper—you feel minho watching you. again. unwavering. heavy. a quiet warmth that sits on your skin like sunlight after rain.

you glance at him just once, bouquet still clutched to your chest, fingers tightening around the stems. his mouth moves slightly, like he’s almost about to say something, but doesn’t.

your face feels too hot. you duck your head, heart drumming so loud you’re sure the entire tent can hear it.

the final slow song starts up. a few guests begin drifting out, some stay to sway under the twinkling lights—bare feet, heels discarded, heads tipped back with giddy laughter.

you watch your cousin and her husband fold into each other, their hands clasped between them, foreheads pressed together. their silhouettes sway softly in the glow, and you think—yes. this is what all of it was for. every late night. every meltdown. every stray petal fixed at the last second.

this feeling.

this impossible, bright, heart-thrumming warmth.

saturday, 11:46pm

the final songs bleed into soft echoes, low and lilting like a heartbeat winding down. guests begin to gather coats and shoes, laughter weaving between last hugs and final selfies. the entire venue feels like it is exhaling—a long, shimmering sigh after hours of heat and movement and music.

you move through it one last time, fixing a stray hairpin in your cousin’s undone bun, straightening her dress where the satin bunches at the waist. she laughs, teary-eyed, as you scold her for smudged lipstick, and she pulls you into a tight, breath-stealing hug.

her husband tugs you in next, arms wrapping around your shoulders in a quick, fierce squeeze. “text when you get home, okay?” he mumbles against your hair. you nod, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

“go be married,” you tease, shooing them back into the little circle of guests lingering at the edge of the dance floor.

you finally step away, bouquet tucked under your arm—petals slightly battered from all the tossing and catching, still fragrant and soft despite it. you trace your thumb along one crushed bloom, heart thudding under your skin.

the path to the lot glows under the fairy lights, strung high and weaving between tree trunks like spilled starlight. each step feels oddly slow, each breath catching on the hush that has fallen in the garden’s wake.

and then—

minho.

waiting near the car, jacket draped over his forearm, bowtie dangling undone around his neck. his shirt sleeves are rolled, exposing his forearms—all smooth lines and delicate veins that flex when he shifts his weight. his hair is mussed, a bit of curl at the ends, no doubt from eager hands dragging him into photos and too many group hugs.

he watches you approach.

your steps slow, until you stop a few feet away.

your eyes meet.

and for a moment, it’s like the entire night—the music, the chatter, the leftover clinks of glasses—fades into something muffled and distant.

“so,” you say finally, your voice softer than you meant, almost a question, almost a breath. “driver minho on duty again?”

he smirks—the slow kind, like honey slipping down the edge of a spoon—eyes dipping to the bouquet, then back to your face. “someone’s got to make sure you and your contraband flowers get home safely.”

your laugh spills out, unsteady and a little too bright. “contraband? i only stole one bouquet, thank you very much.”

he raises an eyebrow, a dangerous arch that makes something low in your belly twist. “uh-huh.”

silence stretches.

not awkward. not really. just taut. electric.

he tilts his head slightly, flicks a glance toward the passenger side. “come on,” he says, voice low now, coaxing. “before they rope us into hauling crates back to the storage shed.”

you huff a laugh and cross to the car, fingers curling tighter around the bouquet.

the ride begins in hush— the engine’s gentle hum, the sound of gravel crunching beneath the tires as he pulls away. your dress rustles softly when you shift, bouquet balanced across your lap, petals catching the faint streetlight glow.

you risk a glance sideways. he’s drumming his fingers on the wheel absently, jaw flexing every so often. his other hand rests loose on his thigh— fingers tapping, slow, measured, as if keeping time with something neither of you can hear.

your own pulse thrums too loud, words coiling behind your teeth, stalling at the back of your throat.

you swallow. try again.

“this doesn’t mean we become strangers again, right?” you murmur. the words come out small, fragile as a moth’s wing. “after tonight?”

his hand stills. his head snaps slightly, eyes flicking to you like you’ve just torn open the sky.

“no,” he says immediately. urgent. “god, no. not if you don’t want to.” he swallows hard. “i’d—” he stops, breathes. “i’d seriously hope not.”

your laugh bursts out, thin and trembling. relief and something sharper tangle in your ribs. “good,” you whisper, eyes falling to your lap. “okay. i just… needed to make sure.”

he shifts again, glancing over with something raw and bright in his gaze. “it’d kill me,” he says, voice low, almost a confession, “to go back to that. pretending.”

your fingers tremble around a stray petal, twisting it until it nearly tears. your mind—soft, pink, tipsy from the leftover champagne and the warmth of him so close—sparks in wild loops.

you look at him again. his profile in the passing lights: high cheekbones, lashes dark and low, his throat shifting when he swallows.

heat rushes up your neck, want and champagne fuelling your next words.

“so…” your voice is smaller, but braver, your chin tilting slightly. “wanna come inside, then?”

his knuckles go white on the wheel. he exhales— a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost a groan.

he looks at you, really looks, eyes dark and searching.

“are you sure?” he asks, voice scraping low, careful.

you nod. once. firm. “yeah. i’m sure.”

he doesn’t say another word. but his shoulders ease, like he’s just been unshackled from something heavy.

the rest of the drive unfurls in a hush—the steady pulse of streetlights flicking over his face, your breaths shallow, a quiet, shared tremor weaving between your joined silences.

when he pulls up outside your place, you don’t wait. your hand flies to the handle, you slip out, bouquet still clutched like a shield, like a secret.

you pause in the driveway, heart hammering, and glance back to him over your shoulder.

he’s already out of the car.

and he follows.

your front door clicks shut behind you with a softness that somehow echoes louder than a slam.

you hesitate, hand still on the handle, forehead tilting forward just enough to brush the cool wood. you take a breath—deep, shaking — before you turn.

you set the bouquet gently on the entryway table, fingers lingering on the petals, pressing them lightly like they might anchor you here in this fragile, electric hush.

minho steps inside a moment later, his shoulders tensed, hands in his pockets. he pauses at the threshold, gaze skating over your figure, catching at your hair, your shoulder, your dress. his bowtie hangs loose around his neck, the undone ends curled like question marks. his hair falls into his eyes — soft, slightly damp from the late air — and he doesn’t bother to push it away.

you swallow, the silence stretching.

“shoes off,” you murmur at last, your voice like a half-formed thought.

you toe yours off first, sliding them against the wall. you hear him mirror you—a soft scuff, the dull thud of leather hitting the floor.

for a long moment, you both just stand there.

the hallway light spills warm, turning the edges of his face to gold, making every small shift of his expression feel almost cinematic. his throat bobs. he shifts his weight, shoulders twitching minutely, as though he’s holding back a dozen movements at once.

you clear your throat, a fragile sound. “um… wine?”

his eyes lift to meet yours, sharp and glassy. they flicker—to your lips, back to your eyes, down to your hands.

“yeah,” he says, voice low. “yeah, that’d be good.”

you turn before you can melt under that gaze. your hands hover at your sides, then rise to smooth your skirt, then drop again. you start toward the kitchen, feel him follow, his steps careful, as if he’s afraid to wake something.

you reach for the bottle you had hidden for a “special occasion,” fingers trembling slightly as you curl them around the neck. you almost drop the corkscrew, laugh quietly to yourself—a nervous, shaky sound that echoes too loud in the stillness.

behind you, he stops at the edge of the counter, leaning just slightly forward. his hand braces on the edge, knuckles white for a moment.

you work the cork free, breath shallow, heart thumping like it might break through your ribs. you keep your eyes on the bottle, hyper-aware of his warmth so close, of his silent, focused attention.

“you okay?” he asks, voice a little hoarse.

you glance over your shoulder, startled.

“yeah,” you say. it comes out softer than intended. “just… a lot.”

he nods, once. his fingers relax on the counter.

you pour two glasses, the wine sloshing slightly from your unsteady hands. you pass him one, and when his fingers brush yours—warm, calloused—your entire body jolts, like a live wire touched to skin.

he holds the glass between both hands, almost reverently, his thumb rubbing slow circles into the curve of it. his gaze flickers over you, lingering on your hair, your lips, the line of your collarbone.

you lean against the counter, wine glass clasped tight, trying to anchor your breath. he stands opposite, still near the edge, his chest rising and falling too quickly.

you both sip, the movements oddly synchronized.

“thank you,” you blurt suddenly, the words scraping out. “for today. for… everything.”

he lowers his glass, sets it down carefully with a soft clink. his fingers stay curled around the base.

“you don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs.

your eyes sting. you shake your head, setting your own glass down beside his. your hand lingers, thumb brushing the stem, knuckles nearly bumping his.

“i do,” you insist, voice trembling. “you… you made all of this possible. i couldn’t have done it without you.”

he swallows, his adam’s apple bobbing.

“you could have,” he says, softer now. “you always could have. but… i’m glad you didn’t have to.”

your eyes flick up to his, searching, catching on the sharp brightness there. he takes a step forward—small, cautious—then another.

you push off the counter, the movement automatic, meeting him in the middle of the narrow kitchen. your hand hovers at your side, almost rising to touch him, but you stop yourself at the last second.

“minho,” you breathe.

his name lands between you like a drop in still water, rippling out.

he stands so close now you can see the faint shimmer of leftover rain at his temples, the quick flick of his pulse under his jaw.

he opens his mouth. shuts it again. you see the moment he decides to let go.

“i don’t want to go back,” he whispers, voice breaking a little at the edges. “to… whatever we were before. i don’t want to pretend i don’t—” he stops, head dropping slightly. his breath shivers against your cheek. “i don’t want to pretend anymore. i don't want to be strangers. i don't even want to be friends.”

your lips part, a soft gasp caught in your throat. you feel your fingers twitch at your sides, a thousand words pressing forward all at once.

“me neither,” you say, the words tumbling out, unsteady. “i don’t… i don’t want to keep holding it in. i love you.”

he looks at you—really looks, eyes raw, wide, terrified and shining all at once.

“i love you too,” he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. “you scare me,” he admits, breath shuddering out. “because you make me want everything.”

your mouth falls open. your fingers move, finally, rising to skim the edge of his jaw, trembling as they press into the skin.

“then take it,” you whisper. “take everything.”

and when he surges forward, it feels like the universe finally exhales. he closes the space in half a heartbeat, hands coming up to cup your face so gently it almost hurts. his thumbs brush over your cheeks again and again, as if to check if you’re really here, as if he cannot believe you are solid beneath his hands.

your breath hitches. he studies you—your lips, your lashes, the frantic flicker of your eyes—like you are a question he has been dying to answer for years.

and then his mouth finds yours.

the first press is soft, trembling at the edges, his lips moving slowly, carefully, as if savouring the shape of you. but that gentleness cracks almost instantly. the second kiss is hungrier, needier—he swallows your gasp, and you taste the wine, the salt of his sweat, the desperation that has been simmering between you since the day you met.

your fingers fist into the fabric of his shirt, knuckles white, tugging him closer, closer still, until your back bumps the edge of the counter. his body crowds into yours fully now, his chest pressing firm and hot against you. he groans low into your mouth, a sound so deep and rough it vibrates through your bones.

he breaks away just enough to pant, forehead pressed against yours, his breath shivering across your lips.

“i want this to be special,” he pants, voice cracked and shaking. “we… we don’t have to rush—”

you grip his shirt tighter, your laugh ragged, almost disbelieving. “minho,” you gasp, voice already wrecked, “if you don’t take me to bed right now, i might actually lose it.”

a laugh tears from his throat, sharp and stunned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he shakes. but the laugh is broken halfway through, overtaken by a groan when your fingers slip up to his nape, scratching lightly.

he lifts his head again, eyes blown wide and dark, mouth already swollen from kissing you. “fuck,” he breathes, and then he kisses you again—deeper this time, as if each second without you might kill him.

you feel the shift the moment he gives in fully: the careful edges vanish, replaced by something raw, molten, unstoppable. he hoists you up with surprising ease, and you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, your hands diving into his hair, tugging at the strands until he growls against your lips.

you both stumble down the hallway, bumping into walls, doors, laughing in wild bursts between desperate kisses. your teeth clack against his, and you feel the vibration of his laughter against your chest. his mouth roams—jaw, cheek, ear—each kiss messier, wetter, more frantic than the last.

he finally reaches your bedroom and lays you down with a gentleness that nearly undoes you. he hovers there for a heartbeat, just looking down at you, his chest heaving, hair falling into his eyes. he looks at you like he’s seeing the sun rise for the first time—reverent, disbelieving, hungry.

your hands slide up his chest, fumbling at the bowtie still dangling, fingers trembling as you tug.

“off,” you murmur, breathless, tugging again, your eyes locked to his.

his laugh is short, nearly a moan, but he obeys instantly, shucking off his jacket and tearing the bowtie from his collar, letting it fall to the floor in a soft whisper of fabric.

you sit up, shoving at his shirt buttons with clumsy fingers, your breaths coming sharp and fast. he watches you, jaw slack, eyes half-lidded and dark with want. when the last button gives, you shove the shirt off his shoulders, your palms skimming over the warm planes of his arms, his chest. he shivers under your touch, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

you lean forward, pressing your mouth to his chest—just below his collarbone at first, then lower, open-mouthed kisses that leave damp trails. he curses, his hands flying to your hair, knotting there, tugging you closer, his hips shifting forward against yours unconsciously.

“fuck,” he rasps, his voice rough, like gravel under your hands. “you’re… you’re gonna kill me.”

you grin against his skin, teeth grazing lightly over his sternum. “good,” you murmur, your voice wicked and soft at once. “maybe then you’ll finally shut up.”

he chokes out a laugh that turns into a stuttering groan when your nails scrape down his sides. he pulls you up suddenly, crashing your mouth into his again, and you fall back onto the bed with a gasp, legs instinctively parting as he moves between them.

he kisses you like a man starved, like he might never get the chance again. your lips are slick and swollen, your moans echoing between each sharp inhale.

when he breaks away just enough to drag his hands up your thighs, under your dress, he pauses, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath shaky.

“dress. off,” he pants, voice splintering. “please— i need to see you.”

you arch up eagerly, fingers scrambling to pull the fabric over your head, tossing it aside without thought. you hear the faint whisper of it hitting the floor, but all you can see is him—his pupils blown wide, his lips parted, his entire body trembling slightly as his eyes roam over you, devouring.

“fuck,” he breathes, reverent and wrecked at once. “look at you.”

you flush, heat licking up your chest, but before you can shy away, his hands slide up your sides, fingers hooking around your bra straps, and he leans down to kiss you—slow at first, almost reverent, as if to say thank you, as if to worship.

but that careful sweetness doesn’t last. your hips lift against him, needy, and he curses into your mouth, his teeth nipping at your lower lip.

from there, it all dissolves—into heat, into sound, into the frantic, unstoppable rush of everything you have both been holding back.

your hips buck up again, helpless under his touch, and he growls low in his throat. his mouth drags down, over your jaw, your neck, your collarbones—leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses that have your fingers clawing at the sheets.

“minho,” you gasp, your voice already hoarse, the syllables shattering in your mouth like glass.

he hums against your skin, tongue flicking out to taste the salt there, teeth grazing just enough to make you shudder. he moves lower still, the heat of his breath skimming over the tops of your breasts.

his hands are everywhere at once—cupping your ribs, brushing the undersides of your thighs, ghosting up the length of your sides. each touch sparks a new wave of heat, of want, of something so sharp it almost hurts.

he hooks a finger into the edge of your bra, glances up at you with eyes dark and pleading.

“may i?” he rasps, voice so wrecked it barely sounds like him.

you nod frantically, arching up, and he wastes no time. he unclasps it with deft fingers, sliding the straps down your arms so slowly it makes you sigh.

when he finally bares you fully, he sits back for a heartbeat, his gaze devouring you. he drags his eyes over every inch—your flushed chest, the hard peaks of your nipples, the tremor in your stomach—and he exhales a curse so soft it’s almost reverent.

“fuck… you’re unreal,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself.

before you can reply, he leans in, mouth closing over your nipple.

your head tips back with a sharp cry, your hands flying to his hair, twisting in the strands. he licks, sucks, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips jerk under him.

“please,” you moan, your voice dissolving into the air. “minho— please—”

he groans into your skin, switches to your other breast, lavishing the same worshipping attention until you’re a trembling, gasping mess beneath him.

finally, he drags his mouth down, tracing a line of heat down your ribs, your stomach. he pauses at your waistband, glancing up again, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide.

“want these off,” he pants, fingers already hooking into your panties. “need to taste you.”

you nod, unable to form words, your fingers gripping the sheets so hard your knuckles ache.

he slides them down slowly, pressing kisses to every new inch of exposed skin—your hipbones, the sensitive dip just above your thigh, the inside of your knee when he lifts your leg over his shoulder. each touch is like a tiny shock, your body arching helplessly toward him.

when he finally settles between your thighs, he pauses, just breathing against you. you can feel his breath—warm, humid, impossibly close—and it makes your hips twitch, a broken whine tearing from your throat.

“so pretty,” he murmurs, almost dazed, his thumb tracing lightly over your slick folds. “so fucking pretty for me.”

you sob his name, your hands flying down to clutch at his hair, desperate to ground yourself.

and then his mouth is on you.

at first, he teases—slow, languid strokes of his tongue that make you sob, your thighs quivering around his head. he groans at the taste of you, the vibration sinking into your core, making your back arch off the bed.

your fingers tighten in his hair, your hips bucking up.

“minho— please— more—”

he growls, a sound so deep it rattles through your bones, and then he gives in completely.

he eats you like a man possessed—messy, fervent, relentless. his tongue delves deep, his lips sealing around your clit and sucking so hard your vision whites out.

you writhe under him, helpless, your moans high and wild, echoing off the walls.

when you feel the edge rush up to meet you, your thighs clamp around his head, your hands tugging so hard at his hair he groans into you again.

“please,” you sob, nearly incoherent. “gonna— i’m gonna—”

he pulls back just enough to rasp, “come on baby, cum for me,” before diving back in, doubling his pace.

you shatter.

the pleasure explodes through you in a blinding rush, your entire body convulsing, a scream tearing from your throat as you ride the waves, hips bucking wildly against his mouth.

he holds you through it, hands gripping your thighs tight, tongue and lips unrelenting until you’re twitching, gasping, sobbing his name over and over.

when he finally pulls back, his mouth and chin glisten, his eyes nearly black as he looks up at you.

you reach for him immediately, tugging him up by the hair until his mouth crashes into yours again. you taste yourself on him, hot and heady, and it makes you whine into the kiss.

you fumble for his belt, both of you shaking, laughing breathlessly between kisses as you struggle to get him undressed.

when you finally shove his pants down, his cock springs free, flushed and heavy, and you both pause for a moment, just breathing.

he shudders when your hand wraps around him, his hips jerking forward, a strangled moan breaking from his lips. when you move to return the favour, his hand grips your hip to stop you.

“fuck— please— need you,” he pants, forehead dropping to yours. “need to be inside you—”

you nod frantically, your legs falling open wider, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“okay. yes— please— want you so bad— all of you,” you gasp.

he lines up, the head of his cock nudging at your entrance, and for a heartbeat, everything stills.

he looks at you, eyes wild and soft all at once, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

“you sure?” he whispers, voice shaking.

“yes,” you breathe, your voice breaking. “minho, please.”

and then he pushes in, slow and deep, and the world shatters.

you both moan—low and broken—as he sheaths himself fully, his hips pressed flush against yours. he stays there for a moment, trembling, forehead pressed to yours, both of you gasping for breath.

“fuck— so tight— so good—” he groans, his voice wrecked.

you arch up into him, hips rolling desperately, feeling both overstimulated and understimulated simultaneously. “move,” you sob. “please— need you to move—”

he obeys.

he pulls back almost all the way, then thrusts in again hard, and your cry echoes through the room.

from there, it’s all feverish motion—his hips snapping into you at a relentless pace, your nails raking down his back, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him impossibly closer.

he buries his face in your neck, teeth scraping at your pulse, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

“mine,” he gasps, each thrust punctuated, his voice strangled with emotion and need. “you’re mine— all mine—���

“yours,” you respond, nails dragging hard enough to leave marks. “yours— fuck—”

your climax builds again, tight and bright, your entire body tightening around him.

“minho— i’m— i’m gonna—”

he lifts his head just enough to watch your face, hips hammering into you, eyes wide and wild.

“cum for me again baby,” he rasps. “wanna feel you— please—”

you break.

your second orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, your entire body locking up, a scream ripping from your throat. you clamp down around him so hard he chokes on a curse, his rhythm stuttering.

with a final deep thrust, he spills into you, moaning your name like a prayer, his whole body shuddering as he pulses deep inside.

he collapses over you, both of you slick with sweat, shaking, the only sound your ragged, mingled breathing.

after a few seconds, he shifts just enough to press soft, trembling kisses along your jaw, your cheeks, your forehead— each one a silent apology, a vow, a promise.

you card your fingers through his hair, your eyes wet, your chest still heaving.

he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes wide and soft, a trembling smile curving his lips.

“you okay?” he rasps, voice nearly gone.

you nod, tears slipping free now, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. “never been better,” you whisper, your voice breaking.

he smiles—real and open and utterly wrecked—and leans in to kiss you again, this one slow and tender and impossibly sweet.

you cling to him, to the weight of him, to the warmth, to the knowledge that you are both exactly where you were always meant to be.

at some point in the hush, your fingers begin tracing idle shapes on his chest—little spirals, half-formed letters, mindless meanders that speak louder than any words. he watches you do it, his head propped up just enough to catch every flutter of your eyelashes when you glance up at him.

he hums, a deep, content sound, low in his throat. “you writing a novel on me?”

you snort into his skin. “maybe. someone has to document all your crimes.”

“crimes?” he scoffs, tugging you closer by the waist. “what crimes? being devastatingly handsome? making you finish so hard you nearly pass out?”

your gasp gets stuck in your throat, half outrage, half something far more dangerous. your hand flies up to smack his shoulder, but he catches your wrist easily, laughing.

“did not. you’re insufferable,” you grumble, trying and failing to suppress your own grin.

“and yet,” he drawls, pressing a kiss to your captured fingers, “here you are. willingly imprisoned.”

“i should have run when i had the chance,” you mutter.

“too late now,” he sings, smug, flipping your hand to press another kiss into your palm. “you’re stuck with me forever. binding contract and all.”

“contract?” you arch a brow, playing along. “did i miss the fine print?”

“page two, clause four,” he says immediately, with that infuriatingly smooth confidence. “once you let lee minho rail you into oblivion, you’re required to let him stay over. and also bring him coffee in bed. daily.”

you throw your head back, laughing so hard your ribs ache. “you are the worst. actually the worst.”

“hmm,” he pretends to consider it, dragging your wrist up to rest against his jaw. “most would say ‘best.’ in fact, top reviews across the board, mind you.”

“delusional,” you declare, leaning down to peck the tip of his nose.

he catches you before you can pull away, stealing a longer kiss that’s all soft lips and slow breaths. when he finally releases you, you’re both smiling, foreheads pressed together.

“tell me again,” he whispers, eyes searching yours.

your heart stumbles over itself, heat crawling up your neck. “tell you what?” you murmur, even though you already know.

his thumb brushes your jaw, as if coaxing it out of you. “what you said before.”

"hmm... i don't think i know what you're talking about..." you tease.

minho groans, tucking his head into your neck. "just say it. please?"

you swallow, throat thick. your free hand slides up to cup his cheek, thumb tracing at his chin.

“okay, but only because it's true. i love you,” you say again. steady this time. clear and bright as starlight.

his breath hitches. “say it again.”

you giggle softly, nose brushing his. “you're so needy.”

“yep. only for you to see. i'm dangerously needy," he agrees without shame.

you roll your eyes but lean in closer, your lips ghosting over his as you speak. “i love you.”

he surges up, kissing you so hard you nearly fall backward. his hands tangle into your hair, pulling you down until your chests are flush again. he kisses you like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear those words, like he might dissolve if he stops.

when he finally pulls back, his eyes are glassy, lashes damp. “i love you too,” he murmurs, his voice raw and hoarse. “so much it’s fucking terrifying.”

you snort, even as your chest feels like it might burst. “good. means we’re both doomed.”

he laughs, quiet and warm, and tugs you down to rest against him again. his fingers stroke up and down your spine, lazy and unhurried.

after a beat, he shifts slightly, brows pinching. “wait. so… about that daily coffee. i was only half-joking.”

you groan, nuzzling your face deeper into his chest. “god, you’re so demanding.”

“please,” he scoffs. “you love it.”

“hate it,” you mumble, muffled into his skin.

“liar,” he accuses, tapping your side. “admit it.”

you only shake your head, smirking against him.

he laughs, and the sound is so beautiful, so open, that it hooks right behind your ribs and tugs.

eventually, the silence stretches again— not awkward, but settled. content. you listen to the rhythm of his heart under your ear, feel the steady rise and fall of his chest.

he exhales, and his chin tips down to rest against the top of your head. “you know… i really meant it.”

“meant what?” you ask, sleep already creeping at the edges of your thoughts.

“when i said you scare me,” he admits. “because you make me want… everything. the whole stupid, messy, forever thing.”

you tilt your head, peeking up at him. his face is so close, and even half-shadowed by moonlight, you can see every line softened by the truth in his words.

“then have it,” you whisper, threading your fingers through his hair again. “have everything.”

he stares at you, eyes wide, lips parting— like he might cry, or laugh, or both.

then he kisses you again. slow. gentle. a promise sealed in salt and moonlight.

when he pulls back, he breathes your name like a benediction.

you hum, tucking yourself into his side fully. “now shut up and sleep before you get sappy enough to propose with a twist tie or something.”

he snorts so hard it jolts you both. “tempting,” he teases, squeezing your hip. “might do it tomorrow. our wedding would be so well planned.”

“god help me,” you mutter, but your giggle betrays you.

he pulls the blanket higher around you, his breath soft against your forehead. “goodnight, trouble.”

“goodnight, menace,” you echo, already drifting.

in the quiet that follows, his fingers keep moving— up and down your arm, over your shoulder, across your back. a quiet mantra. you’re here. i’m here. we’re here.

outside, the moon shifts higher. the curtains sway, the air smells faintly of rain and lavender.

and inside, your heart finally, finally stops running.

tomorrow will come. it will bring new mornings and shared coffees and petty bickering about the proper way to fold towels.

but for tonight— tonight is just you and him. hearts tangled. breaths shared. laughter still echoing somewhere under your skin.

a love that feels, at last, like coming home and setting down your bags forever.

and neither of you ever plans to leave.

< previous | navigation | next >

and that marks the end of ‘aisle be damned’!

i wanna take a moment to thank everyone who stuck around for this series! i had such a good time writing this, it’s easily one of my favourite works thus far. i hope you enjoyed just as much as i did, and will come back to reread whenever you feel like it! thank you for taking the time to read it all 🩷

more skz here

requests open! now that i’m done with this i can actually get my requests out LOL. so if you have one send one my way i’ll get to it eventually, don’t be shy 😎

aisle be damned taglist (lmk if you’d like to be moved to the permanent taglist): @skzbyemmy @starlostjisung @hanjisrockstar @bahngarang @dostoevskydidion @mal-lunar-28 @kissesmellow21 @bestboileeknow @professionalcaratdeobi @madebybec @nightshadeblooming @roseanne-yoon @kuroosluthoe @skyearby @wormi @havennz @allaboutsan @chanyeoli0131 @btch8008s @lomllino @xitsjeonglix @leeknowsimpstay

permanent taglist (click here to join): @burlesquerade @makeitworse @petersasteria @gdinthehouseee @aizshallnotbefound @floofeh-purpi @ldydeath @wcnderlnds @ttturnitup @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @ricecake9999 @leni111 @scream-queen-25 @spiritualgirly444 @fairyprincesslvr21 @loonybunny1 @uuchii @sherxoo @m-325 @slut4junho @galgal-egg @queenofdumbfuckery @lezleeferuson-120 @loveloveloveloverrrr @cherr-y-eji @jinniesgirl @cozypaint

[noiranamnesis]

Oh, thank you darling.

Such simple words. Polite. Effortless. And yet...they landed as if a blade upon Marinette's skin, drawn slow and without warning. Darling. There was nothing misplaced in the way Evelyn said it. It slipped out naturally, as if she’d said it a thousand times to lovers, colleagues, and strangers who never forgot her. It was the sort of term an elegant woman used without thinking. It was something Marinette had never once thought to call anyone.

Her smile held, though it grew a little brighter, a little more rehearsed, at Evelyn's compliment. “Thank you. It was a request. I wasn’t sure if they would say yes, but...they did.” A lyrical lilt pressed against her words, softening their edges. Her voice was pleasant, careful. She glanced toward the windows, catching the way sunlight stained the floor in faded stripes. “I like…sunlight,” she added, then regretted saying it. It sounded so juvenile. In truth, the windows had been Nadja’s idea. Marinette hadn’t even known she could ask for something like that, but now, she was grateful. The light offered her space to breathe. How long does it take to find food? she thought. Nadja always disappears when I need her most. She can sense it, I swear. A sentiment which only deepened when Evelyn patted the cushion beside her.

“Ah… oui, of course,” Marinette murmured, moving closer. only to pause mid-step, blinking at Evelyn’s words. The biggest star? “Oh, non… maybe…” She frowned faintly, trying to remember the phrasing. “Maybe B-list?” It came out uncertain, a question in itself. A smile tugged apologetically at the corners of her mouth as she lowered herself into the open space, placing her hands neatly in her lap. Beside her, Evelyn had already begun unpacking: a folder, a notebook, a pen held loosely between slender fingers. Marinette watched, strangely captivated by the cool, certain gestures. There was something beautifully intimidating about how focused Evelyn was. Like Tylio, she thought, before she could stop herself.

When the conversation shifted toward the film: scenes, comfort, expectations, limits- Marinette felt her tension begin to ease. She nodded once, then again- too quickly perhaps- at Evelyn’s explanations, but froze slightly when she heard Miss Marinette. Her spine elongated on instinct, an engrained habit from afternoons spent ballroom classes, from auditions, from interviews. Evelyn’s tone, though, remained kind. There was no sharpness to it. No judgement. Yet there was something else- concern, maybe? A soft kind of authority which made Marinette feel seen in a way she wasn’t used to. She hadn’t expected kindness. Or rather- not like this. “I understand,” she said, gently. “Merci. That’s…very kind of you.” Yet even as the thanks left her lips, she felt the instinct to shrink. To retreat. She wasn’t used to this kind of generosity. In her career, and perhaps even before, she had learned to perform in discomfort if it served the greater vision. To swallow doubt. To trust the director, the script, the scene partner...those in roles of authority. It was simply what professionals did. They remained quiet, smiled, and made it beautiful- even if it hurt.

“Olivier and I… we have done scenes like this before,” she began. “So, I’m not… afraid.” She paused, choosing her next words with care. “We already spoke together, a little. But we waited to hear what you and the director want. The details.” She hesitated, then quickly added, “I’m comfortable doing what the script asks.” And she was. Because she had already agreed to the script. Had nodded through the pitch, the revisions, the read-throughs...So to hesitate now. To say no, even politely, would ripple outward, make her difficult. And she’d worked too hard, for too long, to be labeled as such. “Have the details been decided?”

By the time Evelyn had passed him by, Tylio was still trying to figure out how he missed her name on the call sheet. And whether it was a good thing that she was even here or not. Maybe it was. Maybe she would be more willing to listen to him and change up some of the scenes because they knew each other. Then again...she was pretty stubborn about work. Maybe this was a problem. He was sort of dreading the conversation already, because even though Evelyn was good at being professional towards people she didn't know, Tylio already knew she would ask him why he was so invested in this. And that meant he was going to have to explain that he was dating Marinette, something Evelyn would probably have an opinion about that he didn't ask for. This whole thing was already giving him a headache but he decided to just leave it be for now. Evelyn could be understanding at times. There was no need to think the worst. And he had to try something, because those scenes were getting closer every day and he really couldn't stand the increased smugness on Olivier's face. He turned around finally, a weird feeling settling over him as he watched Evelyn introduce herself to Marinette—ah merde. He should probably inform her. But now they were already walking off together, presumably to discuss the very scenes he wanted changed. A slight frown creased down his forehead and for a moment, he resented Evelyn's work efficiency. He would have preferred that she simply introduce herself to everyone else first, at least he would have had time to talk to Mari. But it probably didn't matter that much. He would just talk to her after. He didn't even know Evelyn was going to be here, after all. He decided to wait, returning to work in the meantime, alongside Jeremy, who seemed oddly chipper.

Meanwhile, an equally high spirited Evelyn joined Marinette in her trailer. "Oh, thank you darling", she replied as soon as Marinette told her to make herself comfortable, flashing her a polite smile as she took a seat on the small sofa. "This is such a nice space!" She glanced around for a moment, though the smile on her face was so polite it was honestly impossible to tell whether she was being sincere or not. She was—she thought the trailer was tastefully decorated, even if she would have gone in an even more minimalistic direction herself. "I notice the windows are bigger than on the other trailers, is that on purpose? It's a great choice, I love natural light." Her gaze settled on Marinette, still standing there with the water bottle in her hands, and she lightly patted the free space beside her.

"Let's sit together. Can we do that? Me and the biggest star in Hollywood right now." Another modest smile, as she waited for Marinette to join her. In the meantime, she opened up her bag and took out a folder containing the movie script, as well as a notebook and a pen. "You're right, your intimate scenes with mr. Voisin are a few days away. That's why I'd really like to go through them and discuss expectations with you. And of course, if you have any limits or anything that makes you uncomfortable, even during this conversation, I encourage you to let me know. It's why I'm here. I will be having the same conversation with Olivier, and preferably another one later, with the two of you together, just so we're all on the same page." She paused for a moment, her face turning a little bit more serious, but still with a hint of warmth and even some concern in her eyes. Because even though she had seen how Marinette could absolutely shine on the big screen, she also knew that for a lot of actresses, especially younger ones, it was very common to feel pressured. "Miss Marinette, I cannot stress enough that there's really no rush to this. I know there's a schedule and everything, I want you to forget about that. Really, I'm not supposed to say that but I do because there's no rushing this. It's about you feeling comfortable, if that means it takes longer, then it takes longer. Alright?"

[archivesctrccio]

we hear the wilderness and it hears us.

𝑰𝑰 — 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹.

warnings.. The story has two points of view: in the wilderness, and after the rescue on a 2-year time skip. the story after the time skip is told as if it were an investigation report. heavy themes, cannibalism, ooc, cult, major character death, mention of drugs, mention of sex, angst.

masterlist..

words.. 1.8k

jinx's notes.. okay!! I decided to try to follow the series' timeline a bit, so the list in the masterlist isn't correct, but I'll leave the chapter numbers next to the names <3

“God loves you, but not enough to save you.” — Sun Bleach Flies, Ethel Cain

1996.

You and Laura Lee sat outside the cabin, just far enough from the others that the silence felt like a shared pact. The air was sharp and cold with pine and smoke, the early winter sun filtering through the trees like a half-forgotten prayer. Between you, a rusted basin filled with icy stream water and soaked laundry.

The sounds of cloth being scrubbed, dripping water, and distant laughter from inside the cabin were the only things that marked the passing time. You were kneeling in the dirt, sleeves pushed up, slowly scrubbing what you were pretty sure was Shauna’s plaid shirt. The red dye bled a little into the water like diluted blood.

— How did you start exploring this religion of yours? — Laura Lee’s voice broke the silence gently, like someone asking about a dream they weren’t sure they were allowed to have.

You paused, fingers numb. A smile tugged at your lips, tired but sincere, and you looked over at her. Her hands didn’t stop working, but she turned just enough to meet your eyes.

— Tarot isn’t really a religion, — you said softly. — At least not in the way you mean. It’s… an esoteric practice, more symbolic than dogmatic. But yeah, I guess it’s spiritual for me. I believe in guidance, signs, energy, things that most people don’t notice until they have to.

She nodded, slowly. You could see the flicker of curiosity behind her eyes, tempered by the quiet weight of her own beliefs. Laura Lee was devout in a way that was both childlike and ancient: hopeful, disciplined, afraid.

— I believe there are gods, — you added, rinsing the shirt. — Plural. Watching. Maybe even protecting us, though it doesn’t always feel like it.

Laura Lee didn’t respond right away. Her fingers tightened around the fabric she was washing—a yellow hoodie that belonged to you. You didn’t say anything, but you noticed.

There was a moment then. A quiet shift. Like the forest itself had gone still.

You both turned back to your work.

TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW WITH CHARLOTTE “LOTTIE” MATTHEWS – CONDUCTED BY MISTY QUIGLEY

01/2000

Misty: Now that we've given a brief introduction… do you remember what Laura Lee's relationship with ▇▇▇▇ was like?

Lottie: (pauses; her gaze fixes on something behind me, like she's watching memory itself.) They weren’t exactly close, not in the traditional sense. There was always tension between them, like... a spiritual static. Laura had her Jesus. ▇▇▇▇ had her cards and dreams and gods I didn’t recognize. But they respected each other. Or tried to. Both of them were so devout in their own ways. Quiet. Observant. Maybe a little naive, too.

Misty: Do you really think ▇▇▇▇ was naive?

Lottie: (smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.) Yeah. For some things, she was brilliant. She could read people better than anyone. But when it came to hope, or love, or trust… she wanted to believe the best so badly. It made her vulnerable.

Misty: She stayed close to you after Laura Lee… you know. Did you two ever talk about her?

Lottie: No. We couldn’t. What happened to Laura Lee was— (she stops, inhales deeply.) It was a tragedy. And it could’ve been avoided. But out there, in that place, grief doesn’t work the way it does here. You don’t cry it out. You bury it deep, and pretend it never happened. We never said her name. Not after.

1996.

— I’m going to try to fly that plane we found, — Laura Lee announces as you hang the damp clothes on the sagging, improvised line between two trees.

You freeze, clothespin in hand.

— What? Laura, this is dangerous! — You spin around, heart dropping. The air suddenly feels colder, tighter.

She shrugs, too casual. — My grandpa used to fly a Cessna and he could barely write his name. Can’t be that hard.

You gape at her. The look you give must say everything because she sighs and kicks a pine cone.

— Okay, fine, it’s probably hard, — she admits. — But I’ve been reading the manual we found in the glove box. There’s fuel, the engine still turns. If there’s a chance to find help, I have to try. God will guide me.

You stare at her for a long moment, a hundred emotions surging under your skin. Admiration. Terror. Resentment. Faith and doubt tangled together like brambles.

TRANSCRIPT OF INTERVIEW WITH CHARLOTTE “LOTTIE” MATTHEWS – CONDUCTED BY MISTY QUIGLEY

01/2000

Misty: Laura Lee was the first person ▇▇▇▇ read tarot for, right?

Lottie: Yes... she was. I don’t remember exactly what card she drew— but I remember the way ▇▇▇▇ changed after. She got quiet. Almost reverent.

1996.

The sky was turning that eerie shade of pre-dusk, when the light was soft but everything felt exposed. You shuffled the deck slowly, fingers trembling even though you tried to appear calm. Laura sat across from you on the cold ground, knees hugged to her chest, face open and patient.

You still couldn’t believe she said yes to the reading.

— I know you don’t believe in this, — you said, trying to keep your voice light. — And that’s okay. The cards don’t demand anything from you. Only… faith. Even a little.

She gave a small smile and nodded. — I have faith. Just… maybe not in your gods.

— That's alright. Faith is faith.

You began drawing. The first card was the Two of Cups. Then the Six of Swords. Then the Star.

You paused, breath caught in your throat. The Star shimmered in the firelight like an omen too soft to trust.

— Oh… The Star, —you said, more gently than before. — It’s a good sign. It’s about renewal. Peace after hardship. Healing. It says things will get better. That you’ll find harmony.

Laura Lee let out a small laugh, half disbelieving, half relieved. — See? Maybe your gods and mine are finally agreeing on something.

You smiled, but something in your stomach twisted. The cards had always been honest with you, but they weren’t always literal. Or kind. The Star meant hope… but it often came after destruction.

You didn’t say that.

Instead, you tucked the card back into the deck, hands suddenly cold.

— Just be careful, okay? — you said. — Don’t mistake signs for guarantees.

She looked at you, serious now.

— I don’t, — she said. — But I believe we’re not here alone. That’s enough for me.

You nodded, heart heavy. And then, after a moment of silence, she added softly — If I don’t come back… will you draw for me again anyway?

You looked at her, stunned. — Why?

She smiled. Quiet and brave. — Because maybe someone will still need a sign.

1996.

A few days later, before the sun had even dared to rise, you were pulled from your shallow sleep by the sharp clang of metal against wood.

— Hello! Hi! Excuse me! —Laura Lee’s voice rang out across the cabin as she stood in front of the old table, banging a rusted ladle like a war drum. Her hair was still damp from washing, eyes wild with purpose.

The others groaned awake, blinking and groggy. She waited until the room was fully focused on her, then set the ladle down with reverence, like it had served its duty.

— Thank you, — she said, taking a breath that seemed to come from the center of her chest. — After... after the expedition ended the way it did, I’ve decided I’m taking the dead guy’s plane. I’m flying south. I’m going to find help. I’m going to get us out of here.

Silence followed.

— You’re going to fly? — Lottie asked first, eyebrows raised, somewhere between awe and fear.

— You— you don’t know how, — Natalie added, voice trembling just beneath her usual sharpness.

— I’ve been reading the manual. Every night, — Laura said, her voice steady. — I checked the gas tank. It’s full. And my grandpa used to fly. He even let me steer a few times. I know I can do this.

She didn’t ask for permission. She was already wearing the decision like armor.

You all helped. What else could you do? You cleared the path toward the overgrown lake shore, hacking away at branches and vines with sticks, broken axes, your own hands. Every leaf you stripped away felt like a prayer, every broken tree limb a sacrifice.

When the day came, Laura Lee stood in front of you all, radiant with courage. She hugged each of you tightly, but when she reached you, she held on longer.

You wrapped your arms around her like you could anchor her to earth.

— God will protect you, — you whispered. You weren’t sure if you meant hers or yours, but it didn’t matter. Something was listening. Something had to be.

She smiled. — I know.

Then she climbed into the rickety plane, sunlight glinting off the cracked windshield like a blessing. You watched, hearts clenched in your throats, as the engine sputtered—then roared to life. It was like watching a miracle stitched together with duct tape and faith.

When the wheels left the earth, you all screamed and ran after the plane, laughter bubbling out of your chests. Laura Lee was really flying.

— She’s doing it! — someone shouted.

— She’s really doing it..

Jackie squinted up at the sky. — Is that smoke?

Everything stopped.

A black stream curled from the tail of the plane, slow at first—then more violent, more real.

The joy cracked open into panic, horror stretching across your faces as the sky tore open.

Then—

BOOM.

The sound was too big for the world. Fire bloomed in the sky like a cruel star being born. You watched pieces of the plane scatter like bones, crashing into the water, flames licking the horizon.

You didn’t even think. Your body moved on its own.

You and Lottie stumbled toward the lake, running like the ground itself was falling away beneath you. She collapsed into the shallows, sobbing. You dropped beside her, arms wrapping around her shaking body. You weren’t sure whose tears soaked whose shirt.

You watched as metal floated and burned, watched the last bit of smoke curl up toward heaven, like a soul being taken far too soon.

Your bad feeling hadn’t been wrong. The Star card hadn't lied. It had promised peace—but only after the storm.

That night, you didn’t sleep.

You placed your tarot cards in a perfect circle, hands trembling as you laid them in the dirt. You didn’t ask them anything. You just listened.

And for the first time, they whispered back.

From then on, you were changed. You started seeing signs where others saw shadows. You watched the wind like it carried messages. The wilderness stopped being a prison and became something else—something ancient. Something watching.

And just like Laura Lee had said, you knew it now with every fiber of your soul:

You are not alone out here.

taglist: @moesthoughts, @javizheart @antlertruths, @citizendetective69, @starryobserverconflux, @mistynatsfavourite

[iqxatlantic]

hey iqxatlantic!! i hope you’re doin’ okay and that your requests are still open 🥺 i’ve been thinking about this one idea for a while now, and i finally got the courage to send it in. hope it’s not too much or too heavy!!

sooo picture this: the reader has some scars or old bruises—not the kind from clumsiness, but from something deeper, painful… stuff she’s kept hidden. but then one of the bllk boys accidentally sees them. maybe they catch a glimpse while she’s changing or her sleeve rides up, and they just know. and it turns into this quiet, emotional moment where they don’t push—they just comfort her, softly, gently 🥹

if it’s not too much, could you include chigiri or kunigami (maybe barou too 👀)? but honestly, totally up to you—whoever you think would hit the hardest in the feels 💔

also just wanna say i’ve really missed seeing your work on my dash—your writing always hits me right in the heart 🫶 pls don’t forget to take care of yourself too okay?? sending hugs n love 💗💗

HII LOVE!!! yes my requests are still open <33 also, hello? my heart?? girl are you ok 😿

" Feels like we had matching wounds ! "

ft. chigiri hyoma . barou shoei . rensuke kunigami (pre wc!) . rin itoshi . ooc! characters lol . gn! reader . implied afab! reader . established relationships . comfort ? . fluff ? . a bit silly . unreliable narrator . not proofread .

cw: implications of self-harm..?

Chigiri Hyoma was quick to catch up — hence his alias "red panther." it applies off fields and on fields. chigiri never wanted to make you uncomfortable by bringing it up, so he waited for the correct moment.

and that moment was when you rolled your sleeves up to carry something. he catches a glimpse of your scars. healing bruises. he had his suspicions, but that itself was all he needed.

"[name]?" chigiri softly asks. he doesn't want to push you — he wants you to slowly open up. "how have you been recently?" he smiles as he takes whatever weight you were holding, placing it down.

you blinked, slightly dumbfounded. "great? what about you?" you'd reply nervously as you pulled your sleeves back down. you were anxious that he would worry too much or push you to answer him.

"fine," he replies, sitting you down. stroking your hair, he cautiously asks, "you're not doing it again are you?" you were silent. a lump in your throat formed. "i'm not. i didn't want to. i just can't find other ways." you wanted to speak. you really did. you just couldn't get it out.

chigiri's free hand rested on yours, his other hand still stroking your hair. "shhh, shh. it's okay. it's not your fault," he carefully whispers. "don't hide, you're okay. you're okay," he repeats again, calming your trembling form.

chigiri knew this feeling all too well. just he felt it literally with his ACL (yikes...) he knew how it feels to have so many barriers. "you're trying your best," he murmured in your ear. maybe he was saying it to heal that broken part of him. but maybe, just maybe, that broken part of him would heal if you were healing with him.

Barou Shoei , he himself has two younger sisters which he loves dearly. he's no stranger to peoples' pain. he was seated on your bed while you were changing. at first, he was focused on how soft/hard your mattress was.

but while you were being a little careless, barou caught sight of your shoulders. where there were slightly more pigmented lines. he was confused at first. but then it hit him. oh.

barou stayed silent, unsure of what to do. he hated his egotistical mindset that swallowed him whole. his pride stopping him from yelling at you for hurting yourself. i mean, what boyfriend/partner would he be if he yelled at his girlfriend for being tortured by her own mind or other causes?

he simply waited for you to finish changing, swiftly pulling you onto the bed next to him. arm slung over your shoulders, in response you shifted a bit uncomfortably — used to the pain that would be inflicted when touched. when the wounds were still fresh. still open.

you turned your head to look at him, "what's going on?" he gulped, "just something before our date, i guess." i like to believe barou is a horrible liar towards those he love.

you let out a content sigh, thinking your secret hasn't been found. but, it still felt comforting. he wanted to cry, but the fact he hasn't "cried since birth" was stopping him. hey, can't ruin a streak can you? you both just sat there, melting into each others embrace. <3

Rensuke Kunigami is a similar case to barou. he grew up with an older sister and a younger one. kunigami is most likely to be extremely emotionally intelligent — the man hung out with his sisters throughout his whole childhood.

i personally believe that kunigami LOVES cooking with his partner. cooking requires some gentleness, care and precision. exactly what he seeks. so, when you rolled your sleeves up whilst you were cooking his favourite meal — freaking seaweed soup, he caught glimpse of your arms.

like chigiri, he didn't want to push you but it broke his heart. it definitely shattered into a million pieces when he saw. auburn eyes softening like they've never looked at you with such delicacy before.

kunigami wanted to know what was hurting you. he wanted to know the root cause. he wanted to shield you from all the troubles in the world, but that is a dream everyone wishes they could achieve.

your hands halted as someone's hand gripped onto your wrist. the grip wasn't rough, it wasn't to assert dominance (🐺..?) kunigami's grip was fragile. you could've easily broke free.

it slowly struck you. you gulped. the both of you just stood there like statues, unsure how to act.

Rin Itoshi was cursing himself for not learning more about people and just specifically focusing on english. to be fair, he is a soccer player so he gets a free slide.

rin licked his dried lips, not knowing what to do or say. you had just stepped out of the shower, pajamas on. it was summer, way too hot to sleep in long pants okay? </3 he didn't know how he never noticed. the healing bruises and faint cuts on your thighs.

"[name]!? what's going on- are you okay?!" he'd impulsively blurt out, intruding your comfort. he was cursing himself even more. fuck fuck fuck. you stood in your place, frozen. "what the hell are you talking about?" you smiled, feigning innocence. but rin knew you all too well.

"don't play coy with me, [name]," he groaned, dragging his hand down his face. he swallowed. he knew you hated the question, "why?" and he hated asking it.

"why?" he asked, "why would you do that?" he wanted to understand. however, situations like this are uncomfortable. it's just inevitable that they'd be uncomfortable.

"uhm, because it felt good?" you'd jokingly reply, trying to shift the conversation. he looked at you with widened eyes. he was at loss of words. "don't lie to me, please [name]," he muttered, "it's not fair to the both of us..?"

rin sounded uncertain. he felt so corny. why was even saying these things?! the moment was raw with emotion. i guess the more rin spends time with you the more he has better comprehension skills..?

"i want to help you, [name]. i can't consider myself your boyfriend if i behave like this towards you, where you're hurting and i can't notice," he'd sharply inhale.

— ©iqxatlantic / isaisliterallyhim, 2025

a/n : wow the patience... also anon bby i love you so much, you take care of yourself too ahhhhh! hugs and kisses right back to you love <33 if this isn't how the character or you would act um.. spare me, i don't usually write for them 😓 also i had to add rin lol

[mari-starz-writing]

Hi Mari!! Can I be fishy🐟 anon :D btw can i request a shedletsky/betrayed 1x1x1x1 x Artist! Reader

thank you!! also remember to take care of yourself, remember to eat well, hydrate yourself and get some rest!! :DD

I actually like this duo, it feels right. There's a chance this could be OOC, so my apologies if it isn't in character.

(NOTE: For two characters in one request, it'll be 5 for each instead of the usual 10 for one character. For example...)

1 character - 10 headcanons for each

2 characters - 5 headcanons for each

3 characters - 3 headcanons for each (And a bonus.)

4 characters - 2 headcanons for each (And two bonuses.)

5 characters - 2 headcanons for each

6 is my limit. Just a rule I may add for the future.

Shedletsky and 1x1x1x1 x Artist!reader

Shedletsky

・Oh, this poor man... The pining he experienced was horrible. Looking at you whenever you weren't, sneaking a few peeks at your sketchbook when walking by, and always asking questions about your works. Just so he could admire your beauty. Of course, he pretended he wasn't being an absolutely smitten man by cracking so many numerous cocky and flirty jokes before saying something along the lines of, "Oh, haha, I was just kidding! Admins have humor too, you GOOFBALL... (Acting like he isn't one himself, I see. -Mari/Kanade)"

・Whenever you two are cuddling (If you initiate it first. Despite that playful demeanor, he's... Pretty shy to initiate things. -Mari/Kanade), he'll play with your hair, talking about his day while you're forced to lay there beside him, his arm a around you and listen. If you're the one talking, you'll talk about your latest drawings and how they've been turning out, Shedletsky laying on your chest and looking up at you with a smile as he nods intently.

・You may want to pay for things due to your money from art, but he's pretty rich due to being one of the admins for Roblox itself. So, he'll probably insist on paying for your meals or art supplies. You might resist a bit, but he'll flaunt how amazing the both of you are, so he could handle it. In the end, it'll probably just be a split bill, after all of that drama...

・He's overprotective of you during rounds. Going to slash the killer whenever you're both near them, staying nearby you at all costs, or keeping watch while you do a generator. You get thrown a medkit or Bloxy Cola when needed, and when you get injured, Shedletsky will rush in, picking you up and carrying you bridal style to somewhere secluded to tend to you and your injuries. And... Maybe try to get a few kisses for saving you.

・If he's not being bashful, he's being quite flirtatious towards you. Whether you're drawing in your sketchbook or cooking a meal in the kitchen, Shedletsky will come up to you and sit next to you, putting his arm around you as he smiles, before saying something stupid. "Oh? My dear partner whom is suuuuch a cutie? What are you doing there hmmm?~" Sigh. You don't now how that's flirting, but whatever. He makes you laugh.

1x1x1x1

・She thought the feeling in her chest was jealousy of your skills, not love. After all, they're the embodiment of Shedletsky's hatred. How could they feel attraction to some random artist? But when he finally accepted her feelings, it'd be obvious. Constantly sparing you. Always "accidentally" leaving a useful item near you. Stealing some of your drawings to hang on somewhere to look at. Could they make it more obvious?

・Whenever you're drawing, you'll feel something looming over behind you. And when you look, it's 1x1x1x1, staring at your work with an interested face. He'll ask about different parts of the drawing, and compliment the small parts that most don't notice. She genuinely loves your art, and expresses it in one of the only nice ways she knows.

・1x1x1x1 would surprise you with art supplies left at the floor of your door, and act like they weren't the one who left them. You'll roll your eyes and act like he's right before kissing his cheek and thanking her, a soft smile on your face as you pick up the gift and take it into your workspace.

・You were the one who confessed. A painting of them was left on their bed, a note attached to the corner of it reading, "I'd like to show my love for you. Not platonically. Romantically. Please meet me at the dock at 2AM." When she walked to the entrance of the wooden dock, you gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek before smiling. She gave you a kiss back on the lips, before nodding. (I believe that's their way of showing reciprocation?.. -Mari/Kanade)

・1x1x1x1 will randomly show you one of their own drawings, pointing out that you were the reason he wanted to make it. You're such a talented artist, so why not show her appreciation with some imitation? It is the sincerest form of flattery, after all. You'll take the paper, studying it before constructively criticizing some parts and complimenting it, and giving them a kiss as a thank you.

My first double request. I hope I did alright.

[shedelulululu]

omg lets play blorbos can you talk about your take on what mel and franks proposal would be like im feeling sappy

okay so i have A LOT of thoughts on this

first things first, it's not a total out of the blue surprise. By the time they're ready to consider marriage seriously, their lives are already so entwined that no one really gets why they aren't married yet because they sure act like it. Really what's the difference between a marriage certificate and a mortgage?

Mel will send him a calendar invite for a serious discussion (he's used to this and is very charmed by it), they've both been in therapy for a while now about their respective relationship issues (her with losing her parents so young, and him with the disaster that was his first marriage, they have a monthly coffee date where they discuss what they've been talking about it in therapy) and they both decide they're finally in a place where marriage is the next step for them.

Mel is like giddy at work after this conversation, to the point that people start looking for a ring on her finger, because surely that's the cause. It causes a whole gossip train. And she has a bit of fun with it, she's a bit coy!

Frank, also decides to have a little fun, but in a different way. He knew the proposal was never going to be a total surprise (they're adults, not stuck in a romance novel), but he still wanted the proposal itself to be a surprise.

Frank also knows Mel, he knows she doesn't want a public proposal, that part he has sorted. What's trickier is trying to get a ring, he can't ask Becca for help (she would be a great help!) because she will blab to her sister.

It takes three quarters of a year after their conversation for Frank to actually propose.

A week after, he bends down to tie her shoe as they walk up to Becca's centre. Her heart is pounding and she laughs at her self when he grins up at her "can't have you falling on that pretty face". She was getting ahead of herself.

A month after, they go out to a really nice restaurant in Lawrenceville. Mel figures, this time it has to be real. A restaurant proposal makes sense, Frank is a classic all american guy, of course he's going to go with the classic proposal. They're even in a private-ish corner, so it really wouldn't be that public. Dessert comes and goes, the waiter drops off their bill, he pays. She tries to play it off when he asks why she's so quiet in the car.

It's been 3 months and Mel is still on edge, her heart can't stop whenever she see's him on his knees, fiddling with something in his pocket, or doing something typically romantic. One afternoon he sends her, Samira, and Becca to get their nails done. Mel isn't opposed to a manicure, she'll treat herself and Becca to them, but very very rarely. Mel doesn't want to get her hopes up, but Becca said she heard about this all the time on Tiktok, Samira assured her this is a classic move, and even her technician tells her that all the good men do this.

She tries not to cry when it's been two weeks since her appointment, she chips the gel while working on a patient, and still there's no ring on her finger.

6 months go by and Mel wonders if maybe the conversation they had wasn't received the way she thought. They stop by his parents house after spending a WEEK on vacation at Hilton Head Island, and he still hasn't proposed. Mel doesn't want to ask Frank to ask her (really she thinks she already did that), so instead over dinner she asks Patty Langdon questions about their proposal, their wedding, hoping, that if maybe the direct approach didn't work, that Frank would pick up on the subtleties. Later that night Patty sends Frank out to collect firewood, really just an excuse to get Mel alone, and she tells her not to worry, her son may go about things in ~ his own way ~ but he is crazy about her -- christ Patty hadn't even met Abby before they got engaged.

She cries herself to sleep before he comes to bed that night anyways.

It takes 2 weeks but she confides in her therapist, who reminds her that marriage is a big deal so its understandable that she's having these big feelings, but also to be patient, that it may be harder for Frank than he's letting on. It helps, she makes her peace, and she makes an effort to push it out of her mind. She throws herself into work, starts a new research proposal, makes plans to hang out with Samira, Trinity, Victoria, and Cassie more (individually and in various group configurations), and volunteers for events at Becca's centre.

It had been an oppressively hot August day, which made the crisp night breeze feel all the more delicious on her skin as she sat on their porch swing, mint julep in hand, overlooking the haphazard pollinator garden she, Becca, and the kids poured the entirety of last summer into.

"Hey stranger" she hadn't even noticed Frank's car pull into the driveway. He was working a swing shift today, and based on the bag slung over his shoulder and the scent of fresh lemon emanating from his body, he stopped by the gym after his shift. "Feel like I haven't gotten you alone in a minute"

She smiles up at him, shifting her blanket over to welcome him to join her. They catch up about their respective days. Mel isn't sure if it's the alcohol making its way through her body, or the comfort of being next to Frank, but she feels warm inside, truly content in a way that she wishes she could bottle.

"You want to get married?" He says offhand.

She rolls her eyes, not paying him any mind, "obviously, Frank, was our conversation in November not clear, I've actually been wondering --"

"No, Melissa, I'm asking" She snaps her head over at the sound of her full name, a velvet box in his hand offered to her.

Her heart is racing, her eyes meet his, completely unaware of the tears streaming down her face, "Are you serious?" he nods, a fond look on his face, reaching out to stroke her cheek, "Yes! Yes! Are you? Yes I want to marry you Francis Langdon."

She crashes into him, a messy kiss with too much teeth because neither can stop grinning. She opens the box in nervous anticipation of what Frank had picked out, only to notice the box is empty.

"Uhh, Frank?"

"Oh! Right yeah, I didn't want to get it wrong so we have an appointment tomorrow to design the ring"

"Tomorrow? Oh, I don't know, I have so much more to prepare --"

"Sweetheart, it's just a consultation, it's okay if you don't have it all figured out. It's okay if you decide you don't want to buy a new ring too, we can look for something vintage too."

Mel felt herself crying all over again because, of course, the man she finally said yes to, would engineer the perfect engagement she didn't even realize she wanted.

[likeumeanit9497]

ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ | ᴄ.ꜱ. |

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴇɴᴛʏ ꜰᴏᴜʀ

series masterlist here

summary: Eleanor moves through the world like a shadow searching for light, and Chris burns too brightly, as if trying to outshine a buried grief. When they collide on a night filled with a mutual self-loathing, something quiet but insistent begins to grow between them — a pull that they never dare speak of, yet orbit in harmony nonetheless. Their bond deepens quickly, shaped by vulnerability, near-misses, and the ache of things left unsaid. As their lives pull and blur at the edges, they learn that what they are for one another in the moment may matter more than how it ends. 

warnings (throughout the series): smut; angst; addiction; family trauma; depression; heavy drinking; mentions of death; mentions of abuse; 18+

The morning had pulled her from sleep gently, as though the house itself, worn by years of small mercies and private griefs, had resolved to keep watch over her. She stirred beneath the weight of a soft comforter in a room that didn’t belong to her, yet felt, in a strange way, like something close.

Chris’s arm lay draped across her waist, heavy with sleep’s trust, his breath warm where it gathered at the back of her neck. She turned her head, careful not to wake him, and let herself watch him for a moment. She would never get over the way the hush of dawn made his face softer: the slope of his nose, freckles like faint punctuation across his cheeks, the parting of his plush lips.

Something clenched in her chest. A tightness that was part guilt, part gratitude, part foolish, tremulous hope. She eased herself free from him and slipped out of the bed as silently as she could. The floorboards creaked beneath her bare feet, a sound that somehow only added to the intimacy of it all, like the house knew she was awake.

Downstairs, the kitchen was already glowing with early light. Marylou was at the counter, sleeves rolled up, arranging a cluster of mixing bowls and ingredients. Her curls were pinned back haphazardly, and she already had a smear of flour on her cheek. She looked so natural, so at home in the rhythm of domestic ritual, that Eleanor felt something in her settle just from watching her.

“Good morning, Sunshine!” Marylou called, her voice warm and bright.

Eleanor felt her own mouth shape itself around a smile before she had quite decided to grant one, “Morning.”

“I was just being a little proactive,” Marylou said, gesturing at the ingredients, “But if you’re feeling up to it, we can get started.”

“I’d like that,” Eleanor said softly, stepping forward.

They found a quiet rhythm quickly — Marylou measuring the wet ingredients, Eleanor working on the dry. She sifted flour with hands that were calmer than she had expected, her motions slow and steady. There was something meditative about the act. A stillness she had not felt in days.

“You bake often?” Marylou asked, glancing over with a grin.

“Not really,” Eleanor admitted, eyes on the small drift of flour gathering near her wrist, “More of a…watcher than a doer. But I’ve always meant to do it more.”

“Well, I think that still counts,” Marylou replied, cracking an egg with practiced ease, “Besides, anyone who’s up before nine with a mixing bowl in hand is a marvel in my books.”

They shared a smile. For a while, their talk drifted toward the safe, familiar landmarks — the weather, Eleanor’s approaching thesis deadline, how the boys were always late risers. But eventually, Marylou’s voice took on a gentler tone.

“So,” She said casually, “Is your family going away for the holidays? Is that why you’re not headed home?”

Eleanor’s hands froze on the spoon. A flush crawled up the back of her neck and bloomed across her cheeks. She stared at the bowl, willing her voice to work, to lie maybe. But her throat felt thick.

“Oh, no…” She said, voice landing far too quietly, “It’s— no.”

Silence stretched excruciatingly before Marylou’s head snapped up, eyes wide. “Oh, sweetheart. I’m sorry. That was far too personal, I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s okay,” Eleanor said quickly, even as her voice trembled. She felt foolish for wanting so much to sound composed.

Marylou stepped back instinctively, like she was trying to physically undo the question. “I didn’t mean to bring anything up, truly. We can pretend it didn’t happen. Forget I asked.”

Eleanor looked down, dragging a fingertip across the flowered counter top. Her voice was smaller now. “Chris really didn’t tell you anything?”

Marylou shook her head. “My boys have always been good at keeping secrets. Especially when it matters.”

Something pulled at Eleanor’s ribs at that. The thought of Chris keeping her close, keeping her story safe. “I like that about him,” She murmured.

“He’s a good one,” Marylou replied fondly, as though the truth of it needed no further dressing.

They stood in silence for a beat, until Marylou reached across the counter and patted Eleanor’s hand. She took a slow breath and reached for the rolling pin, letting the motion ground her.

“My mom has…some problems with, uh, drinking,” She said, voice barely above a whisper. Marylou did not react. Did not frown or widen her eyes or ask for more. She simply nodded.

“Did Chris tell you about his dad?” She asked, after a long moment.

Eleanor nodded, “He did.”

They looked at each other for a breath over the spread of flour and cookie dough, and a wave of understanding passed between them.

“I just want you to know,” Marylou said softly, resting a hand on Eleanor’s shoulder, “I may not know much about you yet. But I know my son. And to my knowledge, he’s never told anyone about his father. And he’s never—” She paused, a brief flicker of mischief in her eyes, “—brought a girl home.”

Eleanor blinked. The words settled in her chest like a slow flare of heat. Dangerous and low. She bent over the dough, pressing cookie cutters into its softness with more force than she meant. She did not want to cry, not in front of this woman who had been nothing but kind. Marylou went back to humming under her breath, filling the room with a gentle holiday melody.

Eleanor worked in silence, swallowing around the lump in her throat, trying not to let herself hope too much. Because no matter how tender the morning, how kind the kitchen, she could not forget what had happened two nights ago. His rejection, her hurtful words. And the way he had looked at her anyway — with love, with care, with everything she knew she did not deserve. But she hoped, deep down, that one day she would.

—

The cookies were rested on a wire rack, their sugared coats catching the kitchen light as if they were small, edible jewels. Eleanor had taken her time with the decorating — squinting in concentration as she traced delicate snowflake patterns, pressing tiny candy buttons into gingerbread chests with care. Marylou’s voice had drifted over her shoulder all the while, soft with trivial comforts — recipes, weather, small recollections — words settling like dust motes in a shaft of sun. Eleanor had never moved so slowly, so purposefully, in a kitchen before. It felt astonishing — as though time itself could be coaxed to pause if only she focused hard enough on a swirl of icing.

Now, with two of the best cookies nestled on a plate, she climbed the stairs with a hush in her steps, careful not to betray the fragile porcelain with the clink of her tread. Chris’s door was cracked, just enough to reveal the stillness of the room beyond. She pushed it open with her shoulder, slipped inside. He was still asleep, sprawled diagonally across the bed like he had fought something in his dreams. His hair was mussed, cheeks creased with pillow lines, and the blankets had twisted halfway down his body, baring the familiar grey of his boxers and the curve of his bare ribs.

She hesitated for a second — at the small thrill of crossing into his quiet. Then she padded to the bed, sank carefully beside him, the plate balanced on her palm like something sacred. She nestled into the warmth of his side, the nearness of him drawing something calm and reckless from her at once. She lifted a cookie and traced its sugary edge beneath his nose, as if to conjure him gently back to her.

It worked at once: a twitch of his brow, a scrunch of his nose — then a half-formed sound, low and rough at the back of his throat, before his arm caught her waist in a single, sleepy snare. She laughed — an unguarded, bright sound that startled her almost as much as the way her chest landed flush to his. The plate teetered dangerously near the edge of the mattress. He pulled her on top of him and buried his face against her collarbone, biting her skin playfully just once.

“You smell so sweet,” He murmured, voice a tangle of sleep and impulse.

Her body went utterly still, the warmth unfurling like a quick spill of wine in her belly. She felt the beat of her heart skip hard against his ribs — the small shock of it — the want to say something clever, anything, but nothing came. She felt the weight of it — that phrase — how it lingered between them, unspoken in all the ways it could be finished.

He stirred, surfaced just enough to realize it too. His voice cleared at the edges. “I mean— the cookies,” He said, quick to amend, “You made cookies.”

That made her giggle — breathy, unchecked — the sound barely hers, the plate rescued and set on his chest. She sat up slightly, balancing herself on his hips, still straddling him and trying to ignore the morning tension in his lap. “Mhmm,” She said, and grabbed one of the cookies off the plate. “Open.”

He obeyed — eyes half-lidded, lashes low, a slow bite that brushed her fingers just enough to catch her breath. He chewed lazily, as though drawing something private from the taste, never once looking away from her. When he swallowed, he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth, letting his eyes flutter shut as he let out a pleased sound.

“You’re in an awfully good mood today,” She teased, voice low, her fingertips drifting to brush a flake of sugar from his jaw.

“I am,” He said, eyes crinkling, “I’m happy you’re here.”

The words lodged in her chest like something caught mid-flight. She swallowed around them, dizzy and light, and looked down at him again. His cheeks were perfectly pink, icing smudged faintly near the corner of his mouth.

“I’m happy to be here too,” She replied. And then, in a conspiratorial whisper, “I love your mom.”

That made him chuckle. A real, unguarded sound that warmed her from the inside out. “She loves you too,” He said, as if it were a fact that had always been true.

Her chest swelled. That gentle, familiar rush of joy when it has been absent for too long. When it arrives, you don’t quite know what to do with it, how to hold it. So she did not. Instead, she leaned in slightly and tapped a finger against her lips, voice as small as her heartbeat. “Kiss.”

Chris blinked, still drowsy, his gaze heavy-lidded and unguarded. Then his eyes dropped immediately to her mouth, something quiet and almost dazed passing over his face. “Kiss?” He echoed, in a whisper that felt far heavier than the word itself.

She nodded slowly. Eyes sparkling, lashes low. “A friend kiss.”

Something in his eyes softened at that, and his hands found her cheeks — warm and steady. He held her like something precious. His fingers brushed back a wild strand at her temple, lingering just long enough to make her hold her breath. “Okay,” He breathed. And when he drew her down, it was as if the room itself stilled to watch.

The kiss was slow. So slow. It was not searching or impatient or greedy like she was used to. There was no edge of expectation to it, no pull for more. Just soft lips against soft lips. His mouth moved gently against hers, tasting of sleep and sugar, and her whole body softened into him like snow melting under sun.

His hands stayed at her jaw as they kissed, thumbs brushing the edge of her cheekbone. She let the plate of cookies slip onto the mattress beside them, forgotten. All of her attention had narrowed into this moment, this feeling of comfort, the exact point of contact between her mouth and his. She felt his mouth shape itself around her lower lip once, and then still — as if learning something it wanted to remember exactly. She melted — into the shape of him, the shape of her, the same of them.

When she finally pulled back, breathless, it was only due to the unmistakable sound of footsteps in the hall — the sudden, real-world sound that shattered the spell but left its warmth behind. She turned her head just as the door creaked open. Matt leaned into the room, expression unreadable for a beat as he took in the scene — her curled over Chris’s lap, flushed and wide-eyed, Chris’s hands still lazily holding her waist.

Matt’s mouth twitched into the ghost of a smirk, “You both awake?”

Eleanor pulled herself upright, clearing her throat, “Barely,” She lied.

He forced his mouth back into a straight face. “We’re leaving for the rink in twenty.” He said, and with that, he vanished back down the hall.

She turned back to Chris, raising a brow with a suspicious little grin, “Rink?”

He chuckled, brushing a hand through his hair as he guided her gently off his lap and into the space beside him so he could stretch. “Skating,” He confirmed, yawning, “You were warned.”

She sighed dramatically and sank back into the pillow as he rolled out of bed, “I thought you’d spare me.”

“Nope. You’re definitely coming.”

She smiled into the duvet despite herself, heart still humming from the kiss, still holding the shape of his mouth. Watching him cross the room, still sleepy in his boxers, she felt something flutter low in her belly again, but gentler this time. That undefined current between them that haunted her. And she was okay with that. For now, she was just happy to be here, with him. And for the first time in a long time, here felt like exactly where she was meant to be.

—

The skate laces refused to cooperate. Chris tugged at them, fingers fumbling more than they should have, the tongue of his boot slipping sideways again. Mild curses bloomed under his breath, though it was not truly the skates that made him clumsy. His mind, always betraying him, had abandoned the cold rink long before — it drifted instead back home, back into the hush of his room where morning light fell across her skin like art at an exhibit. Back in the weight of her sitting on top of him with cookie crumbs forgotten on the bed and her finger tapping against her lips like a secret.

She had asked him to kiss her. Not in the half-dark of some drunken, ruinous night; not in grief’s reckless pull; but because she simply wanted it. He doubted he would ever forget the way she looked at him when she asked. Sparkling eyes, flushed cheeks, that smile that had been absent for too long and returned as if it had never left her face. It had not felt the way their first kiss had — no, that one had been half-desperate, half-panicked, an impulsive reach toward something slipping away.

But this time, it had been easy. Like they had kissed a hundred times already. Like it was muscle memory. Like his mouth already knew how to meet hers in the dark and in the morning light and in every quiet moment in between.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he did not fight it. Nick’s voice rose and fell in a half-heard joke, Matt’s laugh joined it, and then Eleanor’s — that sudden sound, bright and unguarded — skimmed across the cold air like a skipped stone. Chris focused on his skates: no knot, no progress, only the loose tongue of the boot sliding out of place. He blinked; shook himself from the fog. And then — felt a tug on his hoodie sleeve.

“Earth to Chris.”

He turned, drawn back to her. She was watching him with eyebrows lifted, head tilted slightly, the ghost of that same smile playing at her lips, as if she found him half-amusing, half-lovable in his distraction.

“Sorry,” He said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand that remembered how her hair had felt gathered in his palm, “What’s up?”

“Think you could tie mine when you’re done?” She asked, lifting an unlaced foot an inch off the floor, “I’m kinda useless in this department.”

He let out a breathy laugh — grateful to be tethered to the present — and hurried through his own laces. “Yeah, yeah. I got you.”

He managed his own knots at last, then shifted to her. Crouched before her, he caught her foot, steadying it between his knees like second nature. He worked the laces through his fingers, slow, sure, the rough scrape of fabric against his skin oddly comforting. He could feel the warmth of her ankle even through the skates, felt her breath above him, imagined her watching him with that amused curiosity she wore so easily today.

“I really wish you weren’t making me do this,” She murmured, her voice pitched low with false complaint.

He glanced up at her through his lashes, a crooked smile playing on his lips, “Come on,” He said, “You’re from the East Coast. This shit’s in your blood.”

She groaned, shifting dramatically as he finished one foot. He tapped her shin gently, and she lifted her other foot, knee brushing his chest. It jolted something gentle in him. “I’ve never actually skated before,” She admitted, quieter this time.

He paused. His eyes lifted to hers, and there it was — that flicker of nerves, doing a great job at hiding beneath her exaggerated eye-roll and bravado. The wild in her eyes was dulled into something uncertain, and he felt his chest tighten.

“That’s okay,” He said softly, “You’ve got the best coach you could ask for.”

She looked up at him then, something fragile and grateful and bright behind her lashes. Her teeth caught her bottom lip — slowly, almost unconsciously — and Chris felt his own breath stutter. That small, unconscious gesture — so simple, so innocent — seemed somehow more intimate than any kiss could be. More dangerous, too. His mouth ached. Still tasted like hers. He blinked hard, tried to shake it off, and finished the knot with a decisive pull, as if to steady himself.

“There,” He said, settling back, “Perfect.”

She offered him a lopsided grin, “There’s gonna be nothing perfect about this experience.”

He stood and extended his hand to her, “Guess we’re about to find out.”

They began the slow shuffle toward the rink together, her skates clacking against the rubber flooring, her hand tight at his elbow as if to test how much of him she could lean on. He did not mind. He almost wished the corridor were longer, so she would hold him that way a little while more.

The moment her blades touched the ice, Eleanor’s body jolted into panic.

“Chris—!” She gasped, arms flailing, both hands flying to clutch the front of his coat, “Oh my god, oh my god, I’m gonna die—”

He caught her, laughter easing from his chest as he gripped her waist. “You’re not gonna die.”

She pressed closer, knees locked, skates quivering beneath her. “I’m serious, Chris, this was a mistake — can you just, like, drag me over to the rail?”

“No chance,” He murmured, lips curved, nose nearly brushing her temple, “You gotta trust me.”

“Chris,” She warned, “I will cry.”

He bent closer, so she would hear it only as a hush against her ear, “I won’t let you fall. Just relax. Lean into me.”

She gave a breathy, terrified laugh but slowly he felt her shift — her weight yielding, bit by bit, until her hips settled against his. He turned her carefully, aligning her back to his chest, fitting her inside the loose shape of him.

“There we go,” He whispered, tightening his arms around her ribcage as they started forward, “Now we skate.”

They moved together in slow, careful circles, the cold air kissing his face, her sweet-smelling hair tickling his chin. But he felt her gradually loosen, felt her let herself drift into his rhythm. She leaned into him, trusted his direction, let herself glide where he guided her.

And then, a bright peal of laughter broke from her throat. It startled him, how genuine it sounded. How much it made his chest feel like it could split wide open with relief and something warmer, deeper. She called out to Nick and Matt as they passed, triumphant. “Look at me!” She shouted, “I’m doing it!”

“You’re doing great,” He chuckled, pushing them faster as his brothers cheered for her. She squealed, giddy, shouting for more speed, and Chris obliged, feeling a heady mix of pride and adrenaline spike in his veins. He could not stop grinning. She felt weightless in his arms, the easiest thing he had ever held.

When at last her legs gave their first protest, she laughed again, breathless. “Okay, okay, I’m done. Break time,” She huffed, palm pressed to her chest like a small pledge.

He slowed them gently, steering her back to the safety of solid ground, steadying her with hands as if she were a promise he refused to break. When she sank onto the bench, she did so with theatrical drama, but her cheeks were warm, her eyes bright with something new. He stood above her a moment longer, watching the breath still clouding her lips. She lifted her face to him, flushed,

“Go on,” She said, motioning toward the rink where Matt and Nick were now firing pucks into a net at the far end, “Have fun. I’ll be right here. Watching and judging.”

He gave her a fond smile — quiet and unguarded and belonging only to her. “Don’t judge too hard.”

“Never.”

With one last look at her — small and bundled and bright against the battered wooden bench — he pushed himself back out onto the ice, blades biting a groove into the cold sheen. Matt’s shout greeted him before he reached them, a careless bark of brotherly ridicule. His stick came skittering across the ice — Nick’s lazy pass. Chris caught it without looking, his body already moving in practiced arcs.

“You’re on Nick’s team,” Matt called, “He’s getting slaughtered.”

Nick lifted his glove in mock salute, then lost his footing as the puck rebounded off the boards. He was laughing — breathless, unbothered. Chris felt the cold air claim his cheeks, the rush of speed biting at his throat, and he let muscle memory wrap him in something simpler than thought. He ducked past Matt’s swing, hooked the puck clear, flung a grin at Nick that made them both teenagers again — boys on a pond, shouting insults through the echo of frozen dusk.

But some truths wait at the edge of all this easy motion. Mid-glide, Matt’s voice broke the spell. “So,” He said, flicking the puck toward the goal, “Wanna tell me what I walked in on this morning?”

Nick made an exaggerated sound of disgust, nearly tripping on his skates, “Please, don’t. Spare me.”

Chris chuckled, trying not to sound uncomfortable. He kept his eyes on the puck as he corralled it with a tap, “It was nothing. Just a—” And then the word caught in his mouth, the echo of her whisper flaring behind his teeth, “—a friend kiss.”

Matt stared, flat and unconvinced. “You two are so weird.”

Chris didn’t argue. It was weird. It wasn’t just a friend kiss. It had felt soft and easy in a way he never thought possible. He flicked the puck toward Nick, skating backwards now, wind slicing a flush into his jaw. His tongue found the ghost of her on his lip — so faint now, but there. It always would be.

He cast a glance over his shoulder, as if some gentle instinct compelled it. And there she was — a small figure buried in a scarf, hunched against the rink’s chill. Her eyes found his instantly, bright with that secret, delicate light. She lifted a hand in a half-wave that never quite formed, a gesture so unremarkable yet so his.

And then — a flicker. A shift. That almost imperceptible hush before weather changes, the cold pressing in, heavier than it should be. He felt it first along his spine — that unkind whisper of a memory his body remembered before his mind could name it.

At the far side of the rink, someone new slid out of the blurred crowd — a lone figure skimming the ice with quiet command. Even before his gaze could make sense of the silhouette — the white beanie, the pale coat that fell like money — he knew. His breath stopped. The easy motion of his limbs turned leaden.

No. It couldn’t be.

But there she was — the woman he hoped would remain a forgotten ghost of his past — gliding toward him with that same exquisite, unfathomable poise. Her chin lifted, her mouth carved into a hair raising smile that gave nothing away. Her eyes pinned him in place, forbidding him any small lie of distance. And she was skating right toward him.

͏𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 ❤︎ ͏

tags: @slvtf0rchr1s @pip4444chris @oopsiedaisydeer @switchstvrns @ellssturn @idefinitelyhateu @courta13 @b-eharrlichkeit @stellasbookshelf

a/n: eek one of my fave chapters (minus the end yuck we hate cliffhangers) love you all <3

[betweenlands]

I believe, Impulse, a voice that is distinctly not a ghost says, that it's about time we spoke.

Impulse's head jerks up from where he's been resting against one corner of the pyramid, waiting for the crops to grow.

Here's the thing -- he'd know if this was a ghost. He really, really would. He's gotten used to the way they cue themselves in, the way they sound, the way they flit around just out of sight all session. The flickers of familiarity in the back of his head when he says something odd. The quality of their voices, fuzzy and distant.

So this is not a ghost. Because he has not seen or heard any ghosts all session.

Whatever is here and is not a ghost laughs quietly, and Impulse winces. That voice is loud and crisp. Distant, sure, but he gets the feeling that distance doesn't exactly mean much to them.

You can keep thinking it over if you want, the non-ghost says. There's plenty of time for that. But I doubt you'll figure it out on your own.

Yeah. Point two. The ghosts don't generally read his mind.

"Where were you all session?" he says under his breath, in case the sharp tone bearing down on him isn't a mind-reader and is just good at reading his body language.

Observing. Another sharp hmph sort of laugh. It's taking me quite a bit of effort to reach you, you know. I can't make these sorts of connections at random.

"Any reason why?"

I needed to be... subtle. You are solidly within my domain, of course, but I really prefer to not be bothered while I'm working.

Impulse thinks this over for a few seconds. Impulse opens his mouth.

Not Watchers, comes a sharp reply. Although I am capable of sharing. But they don't need to know that.

"You," Impulse says, "are up to no good."

It's a death game, Impulse. One echoing the very past itself. Nobody here is up to any good, and anyone who tells you so is lying.

Impulse considers this for a bit as well, then stands up from where he wasn't actually sitting, because, well, you can't just sit on the ground anywhere in modern Minecraft, let alone an old beta version of the game.

"Yeah. I know it's a death game. That's what I signed up for. And you missed a bunch of great moments to chime in with commentary during the session, so what's the point in talking to me now?"

He regrets changing his tone immediately. Not because he's unsure how far he can push that invisible wall with whatever this thing is, but because they sound so insufferably smug when they respond that he knows they were waiting for him to do exactly that.

Plausible deniability, the presence says. Anything I tell you is something you could simply have gleaned from other sources.

Smug? Proud? Maybe both.

"Okay, go on, make the pitch," Impulse says.

Help me help you. That's all.

"That is the least trustworthy thing I have ever heard anyone say," Impulse responds immediately, just in case they add anything else first. "You know that, right?"

I don't need you to find me trustworthy. When has that kind of thing ever helped you?

Oh, that's... okay. The non-ghost is straight up evil. Great to know.

Evil is a relative term, Impulse. Surely you know that by now. Moral alignment is a fickle thing largely in the eye of the beholder -- ah, I'm getting ahead of myself.

"You're not a Watcher, whatever those are," Impulse says. It's technically a question, but they both technically know the answer. "But you're something. So what do you actually want?"

I told you the truth. I won't mince words further. You want to win? Come find us.

"Us," Impulse repeats. "There's more than one of you."

Of course. History is written by the victors, you know.

...That's the kicker, isn't it. He really doesn't.

[riemanifests]

change your reactions.

some real talk here for a sec, there's been some situations in my life where i noticed that i would get upset or triggered over and over because the situation seemed to not have changed and it was just this loop of me intentionally triggering myself by wanting the situation to change and constantly focusing on it rather than changing myself. but what i could've done that would've saved me a lot of time was to stop focusing on the situation itself and start focusing on me. i should reflect on why it triggers me, what that tells me about me, and most of all what that reveals i need to work on. also changing the way i was looking at the situation would've helped so much more. and i see this in others too especially with manifesting you will look at the 3d and maybe see that nothing's changed or you focus on the lack of your desire. and you will check it over and over getting upset getting triggered and worse of all start wavering. but realize that is a choice. you are not being forced to keep doing that. you can change the way you're viewing the 3d, you can change what you focus on, and you can even stop intentionally checking the 3d. but yes there's a reason why you're repetitively doing that and that's something to reflect on. it may be a pattern that you're so used to something that's sort of habit now but still you can always wake up one day and make a different choice, react differently. and instead of getting upset at why the reflection hasn't changed, change yourself. let's say you get upset at the 3d and maybe it might not change yet still, so then what? are you just going to keep triggering yourself and then cancel out your desired assumption? no this behavior does not help you. maybe in the initial moment it feels like a hit of validation it feels good it's this sort of instant gratification moment, but then think about what that's doing for you in the long run. is that going to bring you your desire? is that behavior aligned with the version of you who has it? would they be checking the 3d like that and having that sort of reaction? no so why are you? you can be different. anytime the 3d looks like something unfavorable and it's something that just really bothers you, what you can do instead of immediately fixating on it and going to your default spiral mode is change your reaction to that. change how you think about it and look at it. return to your desired assumption. start self validating. and if it's a sort of habitual trigger then think about what you need to change within you so that this thing no longer triggers you. you always have a choice. you've gotta take some control over yourself because sometimes the trigger isn't the problem, sometimes things won't change as quickly as we hope, and sometimes its actually us that needs to change. and tbh if you were to change your reaction to the 3d to one that actually aligns you'd be helping yourself in manifesting whatever it is you want. instead of focusing on the 3d and seeing the lack of your desire focus on yourself. so yeah just know that sometimes you need to change how you're looking at the external world before you can experience something different in the external world. break the pattern. change you.

[orellazalonia]

Orella,

If this sounds interesting could I request an avengers x reader inspired by the song Matilda by Harry Styles? (If you don't like Harry, I get it no sweat you don't have to do this)

Buuuuut if you are would you be willing to do it inspired by that:

where the reader has a super shaky relationship with their parents, and it takes the avengers a moment to realize how bad the reader is struggling overall, but their parents suddenly try to get back in their life? Reader can be avenger/civilian IDC you do you soldat

Thank you for putting in hard work and time to make other people's days it means a lot to get to read your stories

Hello there, dear! Thank you so much for the kind words and the lovely request. I’m glad you guys get to read my work and enjoy it!

This was definitely one of the more unique requests based on a song, I’ve never done one of those before so this was a treat! I don’t usually listen to Harry Styles, but I did my best to try and follow some of the themes in the lyrics/song. My apologies if it isn’t entirely accurate to what you wanted or the song. Regardless, I hope you enjoy and Happy reading!!!

You Can Let It Go

Summary: After years of emotional abuse, you’ve learned to hide your pain behind quiet smiles and obedience, until a message from your estranged parents threatens to unravel the careful balance you’ve built. When the Avengers begin to see through the cracks, they show you what real support looks like: quiet, steady, and safe. The kind of family you get to choose. (Avengers x reader)

Disclaimer: Angst. Hurt/comfort. References to a bad childhood (Yelling, fighting, gaslighting, etc.) You are responsible for the media you consume.

Word Count: 3.6k+

Main Masterlist

The tower was always humming.

Soft voices in the kitchen, the sound of Stark’s AI explaining something about the energy grid, or the distant thrum of someone training on the lower levels. There was always sound layered over sound. It should’ve felt like chaos, but to you, it was background noise. Better than silence. Safer, even.

You sat at the edge of the room, half-curled on a stool with your legs pulled up to your chest, cradling a mug you hadn’t actually sipped from. The others were here, scattered across the common floor like they belonged to it. Laughing, arguing about pizza orders or movie nights, throwing popcorn at each other like siblings who didn’t know how to sit still.

You watched, smiled, when you had to, and let your laugh slip in now and then. They didn’t look too closely, which was a comfort in itself.

They saw you as quiet and reserved. A little shy maybe, but capable and kind. You always did what was asked without fuss, without complaint. You trained hard, followed orders, and didn’t make trouble. You were easy to keep around.

You were also good at making yourself small, something you'd perfected long before the Avengers.

The truth was: you had never really stopped being a ghost in your own life.

When you first arrived at the Tower, you hadn’t said much. You hadn’t needed to.

Tony had scanned your file, probably, you’d figured, but never brought it up. Steve treated you gently, like he sensed something, but never pressed. Natasha watched, always silently, the way someone who knew something watched.

But even knowing something was wrong wasn’t the same as knowing what.

They didn’t know that most of your smiles were muscle memory. That you took dinner leftovers to your room so you wouldn’t have to eat in front of anyone. That your shoulders flinched when someone called your name too sharply.

They didn’t know about the childhood that never ended. About the shouting, the silence, the punishments that came dressed as love. The way your parents had twisted the meaning of family until it felt like a curse tied to your name.

They just saw someone quiet and polite and assumed that meant peace, but peace was a long way off.

The nightmares had returned weeks ago and sleep had become this distant thing you kept chasing but never reached. You were trying to avoid breaking. Because you could feel it now, lurking beneath the surface. That sharp, pulsing ache you’d spent years learning how to numb. The part of you that had learned how to make yourself disappear.

And then the message came.

You were standing by the sink in the shared kitchen when your phone buzzed. One buzz with a short preview.

From: Mom

Haven’t heard from you in a while. Hope you’re doing okay. Let’s talk soon?

The text was short, casual even. Like there hadn’t been years of screaming and silence stretched between every word. Like she hadn’t once said, “You’re not depressed, you’re just dramatic.” Like your father hadn’t stood in the hallway with clenched fists when you dared to speak the truth.

You stared at the message until the screen went black. Then you shoved the phone deep into your pocket and walked out of the room before anyone could notice the way your hands were shaking.

You trained too hard that day.

Steve had barely called the start of the session before you were throwing yourself into drills. Sparring partners rotated in and out, but you kept going, faster and rougher. You got hit more than you usually did, not because you were slow, but because you didn’t flinch anymore.

Pain grounded you. It made things real. Physical bruises were easier to carry than emotional ones.

“Take a break,” Steve called eventually, towel slung around his shoulders. His brows were pulled together, voice cautious.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re drenched.”

“I’m fine, Cap.”

It came out a little too quickly than you intended and he caught it.

But instead of arguing, he gave a quiet nod, though his eyes followed you to the bench where you sat, breathing hard, and your fingers twitching from the adrenaline.

The thing was, they didn’t know what to look for really.

You didn’t cry in public. You weren’t reckless or explosive. You were just… quiet which was easy to overlook in a place full of larger-than-life personalities.

You kept your room clean, your reports detailed, and your performance solid. You smiled at the right times, laughed when you were supposed to, and didn’t cause trouble.

But that was the problem. You never caused trouble.

Natasha started noticing first. It was in the little things, the way you flinched when someone brushed past too quickly. How you always asked before sitting on a couch, even when there was clearly space. How you automatically apologized when someone bumped into you.

“Where’d you grow up?” She asked once casually, halfway through a late-night kitchen run.

You shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “Nowhere special.”

She didn’t push, but her eyes stayed on you for a moment too long.

By the third message, your breath started catching in your throat whenever your phone lit up.

From: Dad

We’ll be in the city this weekend. Thought maybe we could grab dinner? Just us like old times.

Old times.

You nearly laughed.

Old times where you being told to “get over it” when you flinched away from shouting. Old times were you being grounded for crying too loudly. Old times were being punished for making them feel bad.

You didn’t want old times. You didn’t know if you wanted anything from them. But the message made your chest tight all the same. Like maybe if you didn’t respond, it meant you were the cruel one now. That old script they wrote into your skin of being ungrateful, cold, selfish, started playing again.

So you went quieter. You skipped team movie night. You missed dinner two nights in a row.

You said, “I’m just tired,” when Sam knocked on your door.

And maybe, if it had gone on just a little longer, no one would’ve noticed. Maybe they would’ve let you vanish the way you always did.

But not this time. Because this time, someone did knock again and they didn’t leave when you didn’t answer.

You didn’t answer the door at first. You heard it, though. A soft patient tap, but you stayed curled up on your bed, blanket pulled up to your chest like it could hold everything in. Your room was spotless, as usual. You liked it that way. Ordered, contained, and untouched. Nothing felt worse than a mess you couldn’t explain.

The knock came again, just twice, and then silence. You closed your eyes and waited for their footsteps to fade, but they didn’t.

Instead, you heard a quiet voice through the door.

“It’s just me. Steve.”

Your stomach twisted.

He wasn’t someone you lied to easily. He looked at people like he wanted to understand them, like their pain was something he could shoulder if they let him. You didn’t know what to do with that kind of kindness. So you stayed silent again.

After a few seconds, the door creaked open just an inch. He didn’t step in.

“I’m not here to intrude,” He said gently. “Just… checking.”

The hallway light barely reached your bed, but he must’ve seen your silhouette on the bed, face half-hidden by your pillow. You didn’t move.

A pause. Then, quietly:

“We’ve been worried.”

You hated that word, worried. It felt like guilt you didn’t know what to do with.

“I’m okay,” You murmured, voice dry and too small.

“You’re not.”

That stopped you. It wasn’t harsh. There was no accusation in it. Just simple, steady honesty, the kind that cracked something in you wide open.

Steve took a step into the room, then another, until he sat near the foot of the bed. Not too close and not too far. He didn’t look at you like a soldier. He looked at you like a person, like someone trying to meet you where you were.

“Did something happen?” He asked.

You stared at the edge of your blanket, your fingers clenching it tight.

“They texted me.”

Steve didn’t ask who. He waited.

“My parents.”

Even saying it made your throat feel tight again.

You swallowed. “They’re coming into the city, said they want to talk. Like… like everything’s normal. Like it’s been long enough that it doesn’t matter anymore.”

He was quiet, letting the words settle.

“I haven’t spoken to them in three years, not since I left. Not since they made me feel like I was losing my mind just for asking not to be treated like… like that.” You exhaled shakily. “And now they want to have dinner.”

Steve’s voice was low and careful. “Do you want to see them?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s okay.”

You blinked hard. Your eyes were burning, but you refused to let the tears come. Not yet. Not again. You turned your head slightly, enough to finally meet his gaze in the dim light.

“They made me think everything was my fault for years. That I was broken, overly sensitive or attention-seeking. That I imagined things that hurt me. I had to leave to remember who I was and now they act like they miss me, like it’s love.”

Steve didn’t try to give advice. Didn’t jump to defend anyone, say “family is complicated”, or some other hollow truth.

Instead, he said, “I’m proud of you. For leaving, for surviving.”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t realize you were crying until he moved slightly closer, not touching, but there. Solid and present like a shelter in a storm.

“I’m sorry we didn’t notice sooner,” He spoke softly. “I should’ve seen it.”

You shook your head quickly, wiping at your face. “I didn’t want you to.”

That made his chest ache a little, that you felt like you had to hide pain just to keep peace.

“I want you to know,” He said gently, “You don’t owe them anything. Not a conversation, not forgiveness, not your presence. You don’t have to go.”

“But what if I do?” Your voice cracked. “What if I go, and it’s awful again? What if I let them back in and it hurts like before?”

Steve met your eyes, clear and unwavering. “Then we’ll be here when it does.”

You couldn’t speak. So you nodded, just once. And this time, when he stayed a little longer, you didn’t ask him to leave.

When the day came to meet them, you didn’t sleep the night before.

You were in bed, staring at the ceiling while the hours turned inside out. Your phone sat facedown on the nightstand, but you didn’t need to check it. You already knew the time, the place, and the message waiting like a trap. Dinner at seven. Just us.

You hadn’t responded. You hadn’t said yes. But you hadn’t said no, either. And maybe that silence was your answer.

And by noon, your nerves were a storm.

You didn’t eat or train. You stood in the shower too long, water going cold, and hands pressed flat against the tile like they could hold you together. And then you dressed like someone going to war despite the plain clothes and neutral colors, armor disguised as modesty.

Your reflection didn’t even look like you.

You tried, for a split second, to imagine them smiling and acting normal. Ordering food and making small talk like they hadn’t tried to erase you from yourself for years.

But the thought made your chest ache.

When you stepped out into the hallway, Steve was already waiting calmly. He wasn’t leaning or pacing. He was just there, hands in his pockets.

“Need a ride?” He asked softly.

You hesitated then nodded once.

The drive was quiet.

You sat in the passenger seat with your hands clenched in your lap and eyes fixed on the sky. Steve didn’t press, didn’t speak. He was just a steady presence beside you, like a lighthouse you didn’t have to swim toward, just know was there.

When he pulled up in front of the restaurant, one of those places with white linen tablecloths and polite silence, you felt like the air had been sucked out of your lungs.

“They’re already inside,” You said, barely audible.

Steve didn’t ask how you knew or if you were sure. He just looked at you.

“You don’t have to do this.”

You stared out the window. The windows of the restaurant gleamed in the early evening sun, and through the glass, you could see the back of your mother’s head. Her posture still perfect, her gestures still poised.

You swallowed hard.

“I think I need to know if they’ve changed,” You whispered. “Even if they haven’t.”

Steve gave the smallest nod. “I’ll be here when you’re done.”

You looked at him, and for a second, something loosened behind your ribs.

“Promise?”

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

You opened the door and stepped out into the weight of your past.

When you went inside, the restaurant was polished and glowing gold in the evening light. There were crisp tablecloths, wine glasses and menus already placed, and napkins folded neatly like secrets. You spotted them before you stepped inside.

They looked… untouched. As if the past hadn’t scorched through your life and left it in ashes. As if they were still the kind of people who got to sit here, drink expensive wine, and talk about family like it was something soft and sacred.

You almost turned around, but then your mother looked up and waved. And your feet moved anyway.

“Sweetheart,” She said when you reached the table, like her voice had never cut you open. “Look at you, you’ve gotten so strong. You look healthy, balanced.”

Your father stood to give you a brief hug. Light and distant, just enough to say he did it. His cologne smelled the same. You hated that you still remembered it.

You sat down slowly, the cushion too soft beneath you. The table felt too close and your skin buzzed with everything unspoken.

“We’re so glad you came,” Your mother said, already smiling at the waiter. “This place has the best lemon risotto. We used to come here before… well, before life got complicated.”

“I remember,” You murmured. You knew what they were trying to say.

Before you got tired of being screamed at in the kitchen. Before you stopped letting them call it discipline. Before you realized love wasn’t supposed to make me sick.

And from then on, it started.

Small talk, like nothing happened. Work, the city, what shows they were watching. Your father joked about something on the news while your mother commented on how nice your hair looked pushed behind your ears. Neither of them asked how you’d been. Not really. They asked like people fishing for evidence that you were better now, as if your struggle had been a phase, an inconvenience, or a bit of drama you’d finally grown out of.

They didn’t ask why you left. They didn’t say the word sorry. They didn’t mention the fights, the fear, or the nights you had locked your bedroom door and pressed your back against it because silence could turn into shouting in an instant.

They just smiled like all they remembered was you being difficult.

Halfway through the appetizer, your throat closed. Not from panic, not quite. But grief. Grief for the kid who had once begged them to see her pain and been told she was too sensitive. Grief for the years you spent wondering if you were the problem.

You put down your fork.

“I can’t stay.”

Your mother looked up, surprised. “What?”

“I thought I could do this,” You said quietly, forcing your voice to stay steady. “But I can’t.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Your father said, almost automatic, almost bored.

You flinched. Not visibly, not enough for anyone to see. But inside, that word opened something inside of you like an old wound.

“I’m not being dramatic,” You said, sharper this time. “I’m protecting myself.”

The silence at the table turned cold. Your mother’s smile faltered.

“We’re just trying to have a nice evening–”

“I came here hoping you’d changed.” You cut in. “But you haven’t. You’ve just… gotten better at pretending everything’s fine.”

You stood, your chair barely made a sound as you pushed it back. You looked at them both and felt nothing. Your mother opened her mouth, but you didn’t stay to hear it. You turned and walked out of the restaurant before they could say your name like a leash.

And just as he promised, Steve was waiting just outside, leaning against the car.

When he saw your face, unreadable but tight, like a balloon moments from bursting, he opened the passenger door without a word.

You climbed in, chest burning, and hands cold. The silence was a gift.

It wasn’t until you were halfway back to the Tower, streetlights blurring past the windows, that the first tear fell. Just one. You wiped it away quickly, but Steve saw.

He glanced over, voice barely a murmur. “Want to talk about it?”

You shook your head, eyes burning again. “They were… who I remembered, just in nicer clothes.”

He didn’t say I’m sorry. He just nodded.

You leaned your forehead against the window.

“I kept thinking it was me,” You whispered. “That maybe I remembered it wrong or exaggerated. That maybe I owed them another chance.”

“You don’t,” Steve said.

A pause before he added,

“But you deserve people who show up when it matters.”

And maybe that was the moment. Not the dinner, not the goodbye, but this, where you started to believe him.

After that day, you didn’t tell the team everything.

You didn’t sit them down and have a heart-to-heart or spill your past over coffee. You still smiled, still trained, and still laughed when someone made a dumb joke. But something had shifted, not loud or visible unless someone really looked.

And now, they were looking.

You came back from the dinner and didn’t go straight to your room. Instead, you sat on the floor of the common area, back against the couch, and legs stretched out. Steve brought you tea without asking. He didn’t talk or hover, just placed it beside you and left a blanket nearby in case you wanted it.

You didn’t cry again, but the tea was warm in your hands.

Later that day, Natasha came in and sat down beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You don’t need to talk,” She said, her voice like dusk, calm and measured. “But if you ever do, I’ll listen.”

You nodded, throat too tight to reply and that was enough for her.

The next day, Sam made you laugh.

It wasn’t on purpose, not really. He walked into the kitchen barefoot with a bowl of cereal and a blanket over his shoulders like a cape. You were sitting at the table, still wrapped in your own quiet. And without looking up, he mumbled, “You ever think birds are just government agents with wings?”

You snorted into your drink.

He grinned without looking at you. “There she is.”

You didn’t say anything but you smiled, for real this time.

That was how it started. Not with pity, heavy conversations, or team-wide check-ins, but with space. With care disguised as normalcy.

You noticed it everywhere.

Clint stopped teasing you when you were quiet. Instead, he started leaving music playing in the gym when you trained alone. Something soft and wordless, never anything overwhelming.

Bruce started knocking before entering any shared lab space, even when he knew it was empty. He never said why, but it made your chest ache in a good way.

Tony didn’t say anything at all, but your bedroom door got a new lock on it. One only you controlled. No access override or emergency bypass. Just you.

You cried a little when you found out. Silently, in private. Because no one had ever trusted you to be safe on your own before.

And then there was Bucky.

He didn’t try to fix it. He never said, “I know how it feels,” even though you were pretty sure he did. What he did instead was small, steady things.

He sat next to you when you couldn’t sleep. He passed you your favorite mug before you reached for it. He offered to spar, and when you said no, he didn’t take it personally.

He was simply there for you like everyone else in the small ways that mattered.

That didn’t mean that you didn’t struggle anymore. You still did.

There were still days where you flinched from kindness because it felt unfamiliar. Days where a voice too sharp or a door too loud sent your heart racing. Days where you felt selfish for needing space or broken for needing anything at all.

But now, when those days came, you weren’t alone with them.

You’d sit in the corner of the common room, curled up on the couch, and someone would always be near. Not hovering, just present. Steve reading on the other end or Natasha drinking tea nearby. Sometimes it’d be Sam humming under his breath or Bucky asleep in a chair nearby.

No one pushed you to talk when you weren’t ready or made you feel like you were being dramatic for having bad days. Because somehow, they made it safe to be not okay.

And slowly, quietly, you started to believe what Steve said before:

You didn’t owe the people who hurt you a seat at your table.

You could let it go. And for the first time in years, you were. Slowly, gradually, and not alone anymore.