#or at least that's the story his music tells

[writing-is-a-martial-art]

THE TITANIC is on me. I know it, from the movie, from the TV screen outside the soft shapes of bodies upon me, half-watching or asleep. I do not have the privilege of sleep, of half. I have seen the titanic sink exactly nine times, plus the brief mention of it in the news report of some submarine following its fate. It is sinking, right on me. Halfway down.

"You will ruin the leather," I tell it, although i do not know if it will hear or understand. It feels more like a metaphor than anything but I feel like that sometimes, too.

"I have been betrayed by everything that I am," says the Titanic, a strange, steel pride in its voice. "By all which I was ever promised I was. I am the ship that never sinks, the perfection of engineering. I am drowning in the faultiness built into my bones, into the trajectory of me. You are about the size of a single second class bed within by hull, hardly half the price. You cannot fathom the scale of ruin I am going through."

"Also," it adds, "I will not ruin your leather. The ocean is only present in the shape of my despair. It does not produce any moisture."

"You could have just led with that," i bite back, some distant memory of grazing teeth of something part of me might have been.

In the lull that follows I can hear it, the music on board of the sinking titanic, how the hum of it mixes with the noise of people trying to do some more of their living. I'm not sure if the musicians are good musicians - not much of a musical education from under the buttocks of some fellow who only listens to things in his headphones - but I'm sure they're trying their best.

"I can fathom it, you know."

"Oh?"

"The betrayal, I mean. I thought I would be leather seats in a car, back when I was hide. See the sights. Become a dozen pair of boots and walk a thousand mismatched miles all across the globe. Maybe some of me did, but not any of the bits I am. My two trips were from the factory to storage and from storage to this guy's flat, both in a closed truck. I remember every moment of motion that I have ever had. The string of light between the second truck's doors - i think someone may have locked them wrong. I have composed odes for them in my mind, comparing them to that sliver. The hard shock of pavement, birds on wires, someone complaining i am blocking the entrance. The movers hauling me up and up the stairs. Living room carpet bristling against my legs as I was maneuvered to the perfect TV-viewing spot. End of story."

"Well. That's just sad. But hardly the scale of tragedy I am talking about."

"And why is that, exactly?"

"I mean, you never really knew what you lost, did you? Can't even call it loss, the things that, logically speaking, were never promised to you. I was supposed to sale every ocean. To know the shape of every land against the shape of every shore against the shape of myself, and yet, here I am."

"At least you got to see something. The sunrise, I mean as it really is, not just on TV. Have the people move around inside you, have the birds follow you through the sky."

"Have an iceberg tear through my side. Yes. Very aspirational."

"What I am trying to say is, the sort of capital T Tragedy you are speaking of requires a promise of greatness, a sliver of freedom. I do not think that to never be expected to be anything at all is a greater kindness between the two."

The titanic makes a disgruntled noise. A few lifeboats flop off its edge and right between my duvets, next to the tangled up headphones and a stray sock.

"I suppose you're right. We both fucked"

"I don't think that's how the expression goes."

"Well, excuse me for not keeping up with the grammar of every vulgarity ever uttered on board of me. I'm going through something right now, I don't know if you noticed."

"Ha. Fair, fair. We both fucked."

[miorirenkova]

"dream about me" CHAPTER 05

park sunghoon x fem!reader

“park that car, drop that phone

sleep on the floor, dream about me.”

CHAPTER 01, CHAPTER 02, CHAPTER 03, CHAPTER 04, CHAPTER 05, CHAPTER 06

synopsis: you weren’t a good person—everyone knew that. cruel, sharp-tongued, and ruthless in high school. but you weren’t a killer. at least, that’s what you told yourself.

just as you were trying to change, news breaks: your high school enemy, park hana, has taken her own life before university.

and her brother?

he’s convinced it’s your fault. determined to make you pay. but the deeper he digs, the more you both realize—hana’s death isn’t as simple as it seems.

warnings: heavy mentions of suicide, self harm and bullying, violence, abuse, terrible parenting, heavy topics like death (mentions of a character’s death), gaslighting, manipulation, corruption, blackmail, guilt, trauma, revenge, LOTS of angst, fixation, smut (smut warnings will be given in the smut chapter!!), forgive me if i miss any/more might be added

note: super sorry about the late upload like i said college has been beating my ass but finally here i am. hopefully to make up for it i can get the next chapter out faster </3 thank u sm for the support and patience

song for this chapter: not around by nova

word count: 11.1k words (a little shorter than last time i apologise)

whole paragraphs in italic are flashbacks of past events and color text without quotations are lyrics ! if they have quotations too, they are lyrics + dialogue in story.

playlist link: click here !

mdni . hate comments will be deleted.

it’s raining. again. the kind of rain that makes everything look greyer than it is — streaking down the windows, soaking into your shoes, making the corridors smell like damp socks and spilled instant ramen. eugh.

you’re walking fast, hoodie up, earphones in — not really listening to the music, just needing something to block the noise of everything else. you normally loved the sound of rain but now it was extremely annoying since you had been hearing the same noise for the past week.

your group’s somewhere back in the cafeteria, probably talking or laughing about something that doesn’t matter. you just needed a breather. five minutes alone. you loved them but the noise from the pouring outside was driving you insane and you could not bare sitting there anymore.

perhaps some drink that sounds good enough from the vending machine could help.

you round the corner and stop.

someone’s already there. you don't know his name but you've seen him around. heard about him. you've probably heard his name too before but you couldn't remember it at all right now. all you know is he was one of the new students.

he’s crouched a little in front of the machine, lightly smacking the side like it owes him something. there’s a bag of chips stuck behind the glass.

he notices you after a second, looking at you for a bit before straightening up. "it ate my money."

you blink, tug one earbud out as you raise your eyebrows, confused on why he was telling you that. "what?"

he shrugs, gesturing toward the vending machine. "i wanted the sour cream ones. it gave me air."

you don’t know what to say. you’ve seen him around — quiet, always with a book or his earbuds in. not someone you’ve really talked to. not someone who talks to you.

you move a little closer and dig in your pocket. "here. try again."

he looks at the coin in your hand, then back at you. "you don’t have to—"

"i want milk tea anyway," you say, dropping it into the slot before he can argue. "consider it a vending machine tax."

he lets out a small, surprised laugh. it’s soft. barely there. but enough to fill your heart with something you couldn't quite identify. "thanks."

you turn to look at him but quickly end up looking away. his smile catches you off guard with how.. cute he looks. you shake your head, hoping to shake off the thought along with it.

you both wait while the machine hums and whirs and finally spits out the chips.

he grins and opens the bag, takes one, then pauses. offers it to you. "want one?"

you raise an eyebrow. "offering someone the very thing you were about to fight the machine for? bold."

he smiles — not wide, not obvious. but it’s real. "you helped. it’s only fair."

you take one. just one.

you don't realize that as you eat it and open your milk tea, sunghoon was admiring you.

he couldn't figure out quite why he was looking at you. he wasn't the type to stare, that's for sure. and these chips? those were his favorite. he wouldn't even share them with jay.

yet, as he noticed that you finished eating it, he held the packet out again.

for a moment, it’s quiet. not awkward. just… quiet.

then the bell rings. and just like that, the bubble pops.

you both look at each other like you're trying to memorize something. this moment or maybe each other's faces. or maybe both.

"see you," he says casually, like it’s normal.

"yeah," you reply, pulling your hood back up, hiding the small curl of a smile before you turn away.

yet, you both forgot to memorize each other's name.

your house feels warm as you lie on your bed, mindlessly scrolling through god knows what on your phone.

sunlight filters through the blinds in faint lines, striping the floor like lazy warnings. the air conditioner hums overhead, swirling cold air along with the soft wind that was coming in through the window. you groan before putting your phone down, making it lie face down on the table, but it starts vibrating — one long, sharp buzz after the other.

you pick it up again despite just placing it down.

and honestly, you already know what it is before you even read the screen.

"we’re going to need you to come in again for further questioning."

that's all the officer said before cutting the call. you throw your phone beside you on the bed, stretching out your legs as you look up at the ceiling. it's not like you weren't expecting this — they had informed you that they might call you in again — but that doesn’t stop the unease from curling somewhere in your chest.

you toss on a top and jeans without much thought. there’s a half-empty mug on your desk, something you meant to finish hours ago. the taste of something you couldn't quite put your finger on stays stronger in your mouth than the coffee ever did.

to the police station, i suppose.

by the time you’re standing in front of the station, the pit in your stomach has settled into something much more.. calm, lighter. maybe it's because of exhaustion. maybe acceptance. maybe both. but you aren't as.. on edge as you were last time you were here. you didn't know why.

you sit in the same chair from last time. the clock ticks too loud. someone offers you water. you decline. a different officer this time. or maybe just one you didn’t talk to before. you can’t tell. you’re not really interested in finding out the answer to that either.

"we just have a few follow-up questions," they say casually, clicking their pen.

you nod.

and, he didn't lie. he truly just asked some simple questions. not too much just extra information, you suppose. much easier than last time, that's for sure.

you were pretty at ease when suddenly,

"what was your relation with lee inho?"

you blink.

you’re not sure if it’s the way the question is phrased, or the fact that it came so suddenly—out of nowhere, dropped between two more mundane ones about your class schedule and last known whereabouts. but it hits harder than it should.

the painful memories attached to a name you barely knew. a name everyone assumed you did know. it threw you off guard but you would be lying if you didn't expect this to somehow be brought up with everything that happened.

you clear your throat, shifting slightly in the chair, not even sure what that question means. "we went to high school together."

the officer nods, doing a motion that implied him already know that. "were you close? relationship, maybe?"

you narrow your eyes, caught off guard. you'd barely spoken to that guy other then that one day. what the hell does he mean by that? your eyes drift to the corner of the desk. "no. we weren't even friends. just someone i knew."

he hums at that. doesn’t say anything else for a moment, and that’s somehow worse. you’re used to their back-to-back questioning, the constant pressure, the feeling of trying to keep your head above water. but this silence feels like a trap. like they’re watching you squirm, waiting for something to slip.

"did you bully him too?"

ouch. the tone and the way he worded it, the 'too' all hit you hard. and it only added to the constant reminder of what you faced with his name in high school too.

"no. no i fucking didn't." you groan, throwing your head back in exasperation.

another pause. a longer scribble on the paper. then—

"are you aware the case surrounding lee inho’s death is also being re-evaluated along with hana's case?"

you look up at the officer for a second before looking to the side again. "now i am."

"heard you had an argument with him once. is that true?"

"you're making it sound like i beat him up and punched him in the gut during the argument. it was a stupid class argument. almost every student has those type of arguments. hell, even with teachers. are you going to tell me the teachers have been plotting to kill the students now?" you groan as you finish, sick of the bullshit being put on you.

the police officer raises his eyebrows, scoffing before nodding, closing the file he had opened. "understood."

you nod, your ears catching onto a male voice from the other room but not really paying much mind to it.

"that’ll be all for now. we may call you in again if needed. you can go now, miss y/n l/n."

you nod wordlessly and stand, feet feeling slightly too detached from the floor as you mumble out a thank you before walking out.

and it’s only when you’re outside again, cool air hitting your face, that you exhale properly.

and now you suddenly really regret refusing that water early. you didn't realize how thirsty you actually were. great.

you look around, trying to figure out where you could get water in this government hellhole.

your eyes land on a small vending machine parked awkwardly near the far end of the corridor, just before the main gate. it hums faintly, one side flickering like it might die any second. you make your way over, scanning the vending machine before finding a bottle of water, quickly punching in the code for it. you dig into your pocket for some change and mentally prepare yourself for the possibility that the machine might just eat your coins for fun.

it doesn’t. by some miracle, the bottle clunks into the tray.

you grab it quickly, twist the cap open and down nearly half of it in a single gulp. your pulse slows a little. the dull ache in your head eases—barely—but enough to let you breathe again.

you’re just about to turn and head toward the exit when you spot him.

someone talking to an officer in the room besides the vending machine. honestly, this police station must not take confidentiality serious at all since you could practically hear every syllable in their conversation. this is the second time you've caught wind of something related to a case.

how professional.

you are just about to turn around when you hear something.

"sir, how can you be so convinced she is the one responsible for both the suicides? we haven't found any proper evidence yet other then petty school bullying."

now doesn't that sound oddly familiar to your life?

you listen in, confused about whether it truly was something related to you or if it was just some other weirdly similar case.

unfortunately or fortunately, your doubts get answered far too quickly.

"tch. a person who isn't guilty wouldn't go cry in a secluded room after hearing about inho's suicide."

you freeze.

your hand tightens around the half-empty water bottle, fingers crinkling the plastic as the words echo louder than they should. you don’t mean to listen—not really—but your feet don’t move, your eyes stay glued to the wall like you can suddenly see through it, like you’re waiting for the next blow.

what. the. fuck?

and that's when you actually, truly, recognize the man standing in the room. when it actually clicks in.

lee inho's dad.

you'd seen him when he'd come to the school for the memorial. and when he'd come for an investigation.

and now, you're seeing him here. honestly, you didn't expect to see him here.

but more than that?

you didn't expect to hear him say those words.

no one. no one fucking knew about that.

you had this room in high school which you would always go to when you just needed a bit of space. it was the janitor's room on the third floor in the secluded corner area. no one was actually allowed to go there but you managed to get there after you'd gotten floor captain duty once and learned about it.

so how the fuck did he-

wait a fucking minute.

that note.

"get more marks than hana in the upcoming test. avoid the janitor's room. wear red to the friday party. reject that weirdo."

that fucking note. you'd wrote down this note in your notes somewhere. you remember finding it that day when you were going through your high school stuff.

it was all rubbish really, get more marks, wear red. all just useless thing.

but that one line.

'avoid the janitor's room.'

you suddenly remember why you'd wrote it. when you read it then, it was something meaningless you didn't bother dwelling on. but now you fucking remember why you wrote that.

hana was the then floor captain but she never really visited the janitor room and only came to lock the area towards the end of last period. that's why you always went before or after lunch break. you would always make sure you didn't run into her.

but that day, by your unfortunate luck, you ran into her.

you were overwhelmed by what everyone was saying regarding you and inho and you had run off to that room. you tried not to cry but the tears fell anyway.

and of course, the same day, hana decided to finish her duty early.

and she ran into you.

it was awkward, to say the least. you quickly got up and walked past her, incredibly embarrassed and annoyed.

due to that, you went and wrote that down so you could remind yourself to avoid that room because you ran into her that day. it was a cautionary note.

but even then, she would still be the only one who saw you that day.

so how the fuck would he know?

you are a hundred percent sure no other student saw and even if hana went and told someone that..

why the fuck does inho's dad know?

not only would there be no reason for any student to be keeping in contact with him but he never really frequented around our school either. hell, not even students knew about that room so how the fuck would a parent know? and even worse, how would he know you cried in that room that day?

you blink, the cold from the water bottle suddenly biting into your skin.

that doesn’t make sense. none of this makes fucking sense.

the words spin around your brain—replay themselves again and again.

tch. a person who isn't guilty wouldn't go cry in a secluded room after hearing about inho's suicide.

it's driving you insane.

you hadn’t even remembered that moment until now. had shoved it down somewhere deep, filed it away under useless shame and moments that didn’t matter. but now, it feels like it matters more than anything else.

because no one knew. no one should know.

except for hana.

your throat goes dry pretty quick again, despite the water. your mind flips through memories—fast, chaotic, like pages turning in a storm—searching for something that will make this feel less terrifying. less real.

but all you find is a slow, creeping realization curling around your chest like smoke.

what if hana told him?

you stare ahead at nothing, your pulse roaring in your ears.

you want to laugh, maybe. or scream. because why would she? how would they even know each other like that? it's so dumb.

and then, like a string pulls taut in the pit of your stomach—

what if hana and inho’s dad kept contact?

it’s ridiculous. insane.

but..

is it?

they both have some sort of grief. you don't know what exactly but they do. grief makes people cling. grief makes people talk. grief makes people team up.

god, who are you kidding? inho's dad isn't some teen boy for hana to gossip and plot with him about a teenager. he's a grown man for god's sake.

but.. for some reason, it just didn't feel like you were convincing your brain to believe the thought to be as stupid as you were making it out to be.

like your brain knew something you somehow couldn't acknowledge yet, something that made it refuse to accept the idea as just a stupid thought.

and that? that made it stick with you.

was it really that insane? especially if they both thought they had the same villain.

you.

you clench your jaw, eyes flicking down to the vending machine, but you don’t really see it anymore. everything is just white noise now.

and then a new thought slams into you, harder than the last.

the letter.

that fucking letter.

the one they "found" in your locker. the one you never wrote. the one that made you sound so cruel. too cruel. the one that turned the tide against you in a way you could never undo.

you remember staring at it when they pulled it out. the way it mimicked your handwriting but not your words. the way your stomach twisted because you knew it wasn’t yours. no matter what anyone said.

but no one believed you.

and you had no way to prove otherwise.

you swallow.

what if… that was the reason that stupid letter was in your locker?

your hands begin to shake.

you feel your pulse thudding in your throat, too fast, too loud. your knees nearly buckle from the weight of it.

everything that never made sense suddenly feels like it does. like it always did—if you’d only looked harder.

maybe you're still missing something but right now? you have a piece of something much more.. weird.

a parent's pain is always the most cruel.

and that cruelty? it's not that hard for you to believe it could lead to the want for revenge.

no matter what.

you stumble back a little, suddenly needing air. the hallway feels suffocating, walls inching closer.

but deep under the panic, something else begins to settle.

something cold. quiet. sharp.

it’s not just suspicion anymore.

it’s the start of truth.

and it’s about damn time you found the rest of it.

you slowly start walking, away from the room your in, towards the exit. your thoughts are scattered. you don't even know what to believe, what to think about and what to do.

the whirring of the vending machine fades in the background as you walk further away from the machine, closer to the exit.

you're so immersed in your thoughts that you don't see him.

see the cause of all your nightmares for like the past month.

sunghoon.

why does it feel like you're running into him a lot more than normal nowadays? fate loves kicking you down, doesn't it?

you don't actually notice him until you take out your phone to call your driver. you only notice him when you hear his voice.

and it only really hits you when he calls out your name.

"y/n?"

sunghoon doesn't realize it but his mouth opens before he can process anything. he ends up calling out your name without even realizing he did.

he doesn't know why he did that. even worse, he doesn't know why his tone was laced with a near confusion. as if he doesn't know why you're here.

"woah, fancy seeing you here mr park." you say, your tone laced with sarcasm as you look at him.

sunghoon honestly didn't know why he was here either. god, why was he so lost?

ever since yesterday, he keeps doing things he couldn't explain. not like, in a paranormal way but.. he just didn't know what and why he was doing.

for example, after he laid down on his bed, he immediately picked up his phone and opened your contact, his finger hovering over random buttons. what the hell?

and now, he led himself to the police station. he wasn't called. he just.. came. what did he think he was going to find?

you?

..well, he did, didn't he?

you, on the other hand, felt even more confused. why did he look.. so lost. like a lost puppy, or something.

maybe a lost hyena would be more fitting. such a cute term didn't fit him. too cocky for that.

and even worse, why did he look at you like that?

for once, you feel like there's someone whose much more confused than you. and that someone was park sunghoon of all people.

interesting, for sure.

you snort quietly, but don’t put your phone away just yet. there’s something different in the way he’s standing there, like he’s not sure whether to stay or walk away.

"so... what are you doing here? got a secret hobby of making the cops’ lives harder?" you tease, but your voice carries a faint edge of realness.

you immediately regret your words as soon as they leave you, realizing how stupid you sound. of course he's probably here for the same reason as you. probably called in for something related to the case.

..but much to your surprise,

"i don't know."

what does that even mean? how do you not know why you're here? you're at a police station for god's sake.

what have they done to the real park sunghoon? the real sunghoon would have already finished insulting your whole bloodline till now.

you raise your eyebrows, confused at his answer.

sunghoon also mentally slaps himself for what he said, realizing far too late how dumb he sounds.

his hands are in the pockets of his jacket, hair slightly wind-tossed, face unreadable. he looks like he wasn’t expecting to run into you, but now that he has — he isn’t backing off.

"y/n," he says, again. no smirk, no annoyance. just your name.

"what?" you answer, too tired for anything else.

"what did you mean that day," he asks, "when you said the witness statement was based on a lie hana fed me?"

you blink. "really? you’re asking me that now?"

how fast sunghoon. remembered that pretty quick.

he steps closer, but not too close. "yeah. now."

you exhale, looking away. the words don’t come out right at first — just a vague, tired shrug. but then you look at him, and you see it.

the uncertainty.

not anger. not judgment.

just… doubt.

and suddenly, the words are just a bit easier.

"i never pushed hana down those stairs," you say quietly. "we were talking at the stairs. near the top of them. i can't even remember how it happened but one thing led to another and as i was about to move away, she tripped over the stairs. god, i wasn't even fucking near her. i even told the management to check the cameras but they never did."

he doesn’t say anything, but you know that look. he’s remembering. connecting. rethinking.

"so either i’m a psycho who physically tries to hurt a student and then starts acting like i didn't do it and a compulsive liar… or something or someone was wrong."

the silence hangs there for a second. and then:

"i found the letter," sunghoon says. "in her room."

your breath catches, caught off guard by what he says. it takes you a second to understand what he was talking about but you eventually catch on.

he’s serious. he’s not accusing anymore. he’s not looking at you like you’re guilty.

he’s thinking.

"and now i don’t know what to believe," he admits.

you hesitate, then say, "well, welcome to my life."

he lets out a humorless exhale, almost a laugh. "i’m not saying i trust you. but if something about this isn’t adding up, i want to know what really happened. for hana’s sake."

you cross your arms. "sure. for hana. for me, it’s about proving i didn’t push someone to kill themselves. i don't care about anything else."

he nods slowly. "fair."

there’s a pause.

then sunghoon says, "let’s look into this. together."

you look at him, giving him a look, as if he had said the most insane thing.

you raise a brow. "and if we find out i’m still guilty?"

"then i walk away."

"and if we find out you were wrong?"

he meets your eyes.

"then i deal with it."

another long beat. then you nod.

"fine," you say, stepping past him. "but i’m not doing this for you. i’m doing this to clear my name."

"good," he replies. "then we’re on the same page."

you don’t walk out together. you both just happen to leave at the same time.

but something’s shifted now.

and honestly, you feel much lighter than you did when you walked in the station.

honestly, in hindsight? it's dumb to just go ahead and work with the same person whose the reason you're stuck in this mess.

but that's where others would be wrong. you aren't doing this at all to help him out.

call me selfish, but you're doing this purely with the hopes that you can clear your own name. and what better way to do it than do it with the same person whose the most convinced of your guilt?

sorry yunchae, i'm sure you'll understand.

so no, you aren't doing this out of sympathy for him. though it definitely still hurts your ego to work with him, you'll have to do it anyways.

you just have to hope this decision won't bite you back in the ass later.

after you reached home, you decided to lie down, burying your face in the pillows and just thinking about everything and what you could do.

that's when a sound interrupted your chain of thoughts.

the noise caught you off guard as you looked towards your phone, long discarded on the other side of the bed, doubt filling your head. these days picking up your phone to check these notifications has only brought more despair.

for a second, you contemplate picking it up, thinking about just ignoring it.

but you pick it up anyways, curiosity getting the best of you as you unlocked it.

+1 message from unknown number

???: sunghoon here. save it

you laughed dryly. somehow, you didn't need him to say his name for you to know it's sunghoon. even the way he texts is so.. sunghoon.

you react to the message with a thumbs up, opening the contact to save it. for a second, you think about saving him as a bad name but decide against it, laughing to yourself about it.

surprisingly, you feel a little free today. after so long, you don't feel utterly miserable.

you throw your phone back to the other side of the bed, turning on some music and laying back.

you barely got out of bed today because of how well you slept last night. you literally slept like a baby. and it helped, you felt so refreshed and didn't feel dread to go to university.

well.. other than the fact you had to leave your comfortable bed. but that had more to do with leaving the warm comfort of your bed than anything else. you already knew you would be daydreaming about your blankets in class. you could feel it.

you moved slowly, letting yourself linger in the hot water of the shower, rubbing lotion into your skin with a little more care than usual. it smelled faintly like vanilla — soft, safe.

you grabbed your hoodie, slung your bag over your shoulder, and headed out the door.

classes pretty much passed in a blur. you wrote notes, went to your locker, walked around, went to your next class and repeat. you have the next class free due to your professor being on some sort of leave. you didn't really care to enquire.

you headed outside to the field, the sun low but still warm, the air brushing softly against your cheeks. you walked up the bleachers slowly, savoring the breeze and the sudden quiet. it was peaceful in a way you hadn't felt in a while. you enjoyed the way the cool air hit your face.

you sat down and opened your laptop, scrolling through your emails, deleting spam and half-hearted reminders from clubs you no longer attended. there were a few course-related updates, some forwarded assignments, and a student council email about some upcoming festivity you were barely interested in.

you could hear the distant sound of sneakers skidding against the court and low shouts from the other side of the field. people were playing — probably basketball. you didn’t really bother to look up.

but then a familiar voice echoed, distant yet clear. not one you bothered to look up to find the source of, though.

"yo, pass it!"

on the far end of the field, just near the fenced court, sunghoon was playing basketball with a group of guys — his usual crowd. jake. jay. ni-ki. heeseung. even jungwon and sunoo were there, clutching a water bottle and laughing from the sidelines.

sunghoon caught the ball mid-air, spinning before driving it forward with practiced ease. his hair was slightly damp, sticking to his forehead, and his jersey hung loose over his lean frame. he moved effortlessly, like the court was second nature to him. his sneakers squeaked as he cut across the side, bouncing the ball once — then twice — before launching it toward the basket.

a clean, satisfying swish.

"damn!" jake yelled, jogging over to high-five him. "you’ve been possessed today or something."

sunghoon offered a tired smile, brushing the sweat off his forehead. "just that good. and focused."

jay came up behind him. "that’s the fourth clean shot in a row. focused on what, exactly? world domination?"

sunghoon chuckled faintly, breath catching in his throat. "something like that."

"you’ve been weird all week," heeseung added, tossing a spare ball between his hands. "like… brooding, more than usual. even your brooding has layers now."

sunghoon rolled his eyes. "i’m not brooding."

ni-ki snorted. "you’re absolutely brooding."

he doesn't respond, instead turning to the court again and calling for the ball. it was easier to play — to move — to focus on the weight of the ball in his hands, the rush of adrenaline, the burn in his lungs.

because the moment he stood still, that letter came back.

god, he was the worst.

"sunghoon!" jake called again.

he blinked. "what?"

"you’re staring at the fence like it insulted your mother."

sunghoon’s eyes flicked up — and then stopped.

there you were.

on the bleachers, legs crossed and laptop in your lap, completely unaware of him watching. your eyes were focused, your expression calm, the breeze gently lifting a few strands of your hair.

you looked… peaceful.

he was going insane, wasn't he?

"ohhh," jake said slowly, sidling up beside him. "now i get it."

sunghoon didn’t answer.

"that’s why you’ve been off," jake grinned. "you’re thinking about her. seriously, what's with you two?"

"i'm not," sunghoon muttered under his breath, but his eyes stayed locked on you.

"did something happen?" jay asked from the other side. "i mean—more than usual?"

sunghoon didn’t say anything. he just laughed dryly. "let's take a break." he announced before going to the opposite bleachers, taking out his phone.

sunghoon: when can we meet? sunghoon: i mean sunghoon: to discuss

sunghoon sent the messages, then looked up at you.

you get interrupted by the sound of a notification from your phone, causing you to look away from your laptop and towards your phone, picking it up.

you read the messages and raise your eyebrows, finding it funny how he was treating it like a team project.

y/n: whenever you want

sunghoon sees you move your fingers to type on your phone, the sound of a notification on his phone confirming it. he looks down, reading the message before replying.

sunghoon: meet me after class at the yard.

the rest of the classes pass by easily too, or rather—quietly. you didn’t have much to do, so you just stayed put on the bleachers, watching the sky shift as time crawled forward.

you weren’t sure what you were feeling, exactly. this whole thing, meeting up with him… you didn’t know what to make of it. after everything—after all the second-guessing, the weird interactions, the overthinking—it almost felt unreal. like maybe you dreamed it.

but your phone still buzzed gently beside you, the last message sitting at the top.

meet me after class at the yard.

you stared at it longer than you meant to. not replying. not reacting. just thinking.

he wasn’t acting like usual. it weirded you out. he wasn't being sweet but he wasn't being cocky either. and you didn’t know what version of him you were going to get now. still, curiosity—or maybe something else—pulled at you like a thread.

the bell finally rang, snapping you out of your haze.

you packed your stuff up slowly, the way someone might stall when they’re not sure what’s waiting for them. your laptop went into your bag, followed by your charger and notebook, and you made your way down the bleachers, feet light on the steps.

the yard was quieter now. the basketball court had mostly cleared out, just a few guys still hanging around. you noticed that jake and heeseung were messing around with a ball, laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world. but sunghoon wasn’t with them.

you instead spotted him near the edge of the yard, sitting on the grass. he was still in his jersey, hair messy from the game, expression unreadable.

and a book on his face.

you raised your brows, confused. he had a book on his face, covering him, almost as if he was using it as a cover to sleep.

you hesitated.

he moved, the book falling down like he sensed you coming.

his eyes met yours—and for a second, the noise around you vanished.

"oh, i didn't see you," he said softly, picking up the book from his lap and placing it beside him instead before looking down.

you nodded, making a quiet noise of acknowledgement, standing a few feet away. "you wanted to meet?"

sunghoon doesn’t look up. "you’re three minutes late."

"wow. keeping track already?"

he finally glances up, eyebrows twitching just slightly. "noted for our next report: my co-investigator is a time hazard too." he finished before rolling his eyes.

you roll your eyes too but can’t help the smallest grin. co-investigator huh?

he pushes a cup of coffee towards you. you nod, silently accepting it. weirdly… thoughtful of him. then again, you wouldn't put it past him to have it poisoned or something. he does still hate you that much.

"okay," you say after a moment. "where do we start?"

sunghoon pulls the notebook toward him and opens it to a page that has scribbles across it — arrows, names, random notes.

you raise a brow. "you made notes?"

"not all of us improvise life," he mutters.

in a way, it's funny to you he made notes like a true detective. but also, it's not. it shows just how much he cares. and it hits you, hard.

you lean in slightly. "what’s that?"

"just observations. stuff that doesn’t add up."

you glance over the page. he’s got names from your class — old classmates, teachers, even a couple names you didn't really recognise. and at the bottom, a question written in a messy scrawl:

why lie about the summer?

"i keep thinking about it," sunghoon says quietly, fingers tapping the corner of the page. "if hana lied about you bullying her during the break, even after you apologized... there has to be a reason. she wouldn’t just—"

he pauses.

you finish the sentence for him. "she wouldn’t just lie unless something was up."

he looks up at you. doesn’t answer, but doesn’t disagree either.

"i overheard something," you admit, curling your fingers around the coffee cup.

for a second, you honestly hesitate telling him. the secret of you crying that day was something you were far too ashamed about. because of how guilty they had made you feel when you weren't. and how you actually let it get to you.

so.. you weren't all that jolly to be telling him about it.

"this seems insane, but do you know that guy who committed suicide in our school? inho?"

sunghoon raises his eyebrows, confused why you were bringing him up. "what about him?"

you inhale, the edge of the paper coffee cup pressing against your lip.

"i think hana was in contact with his dad."

sunghoon stills.

"his dad?"

you nod slowly, watching his brows knit together.

"i overheard something at the station," you say, voice low. "he was talking to one of the officers. not exactly clear, but… it sounded like he’d been close to her. he said something really weird.. and i have reasons to believe hana told him that."

sunghoon leans forward now, posture tighter. "as in, close enough that they were talking even after inho died?"

"i'm not sure when they started talking but," you murmur. "it seemed like hana was telling him things." you purposely leave out the parts where it's your things that she could be telling him.

"what would hana even be doing talking to him in the first place? what would she gain out of it?" sunghoon seemed shocked but also just confused and not convinced. obviously. he might be thinking you're going crazy right now but he'll just have to trust you.

..though that's hard for someone who thinks you're a killer.

you look down, swirling your coffee even though there’s nothing left in the cup.

"i know you might think it's crazy. i know you might even think i'm making up lies to save myself but just for now, listen to me, no matter how insane it seems." you say, just now realizing how insane it sounds and how it sounds like you're saving yourself.

thankfully, sunghoon nods. "not that i think you're trustworthy or nice, i still want to trust you because that's what we agreed to do when we decided to work together. and i'll do it, for the sake of this."

you nod, proud that you've got at least some sort of lead now.

sunghoon flips to a new page in the notebook, scribbling down inho’s dad? and underlining it twice.

"okay," he mutters, tapping his pen against the page. "so we’ve got... this weird connection between hana and inho’s dad. and a lie about the summer that doesn't add up. maybe it’s all just coincidence. or maybe it’s not."

you watch him work, something clenched inside your chest loosening—just a little. it’s weird. surreal, even. seeing him take your words seriously, even if he doesn’t fully believe you yet.

and he didn't try to pry out of you the reason why you think that. that's.. weird.

"do you think he could've manipulated her?" you ask quietly. "i mean, she wasn’t exactly.. fine towards that month's end. what if he used that?"

sunghoon’s jaw ticks, his eyes vulnerable. "hana wasn’t stupid."

"and i didn’t say she was."

"then don’t talk like she was easily swayed." his voice is sharp. defensive. but there’s something fragile underneath it.

you look at him. really look. and for the first time in days, maybe weeks, he doesn’t look angry.

he just looks tired. you notice that his eyes flash something, akin to pure vulnerability when her name is mentioned. you don't know what to make of it.

but it annoys you so bad. why does he think everything that leaves your mouth is a insult or threat against him and hana? god, you really have to keep reminding yourself you're doing this to clear your own name too. that you have your own benefits out of this.

you really, really want to say you're not a selfish person. but god, every word sunghoon lets out forces you to remember those benefits.

"i wasn't trying to. i'm just giving an idea here. stop fucking assuming everything i say is a threat against you." you groan, annoyed.

sunghoon looks at you for a second before looking down at his notebook.

he doesn't respond.

he only notices the way your eyes twitch, the way your fingers twitch. he quickly collects himself before you can say anything.

you sigh, pushing your hair behind your ears, fingers trembling just a little. "i don’t want to make her the villain. that’s not what i’m trying to do. but i know what it’s like to feel so guilty you’ll believe anything that makes you feel like you deserve it."

sunghoon’s eyes meet yours then—flicker-fast, unreadable.

"let’s try to figure out who this guy is. maybe start with school records. find out where inho’s family lived. maybe we can trace something from there."

you hum in agreement, and then—almost as an afterthought—you mutter, "what if he blames me for inho?" you scoff, dryly laughing at the irony. it's like everyone in this world needed someone to blame for their issues and found only you.

sunghoon glances at you, frowning slightly. "did you ever talk to inho much?"

you shake your head. "not really. barely. he was quiet, sweet. and not really the type i bothered with, i guess. but i wasn’t... cruel. ..not to him."

sunghoon doesn’t speak for a second. then—

"is that so.." he says. "we'll just have to hope he's not blaming you then." he looks at you, and his voice is steady when he answers.

you fall silent. it hurts to know that's exactly the reputation you've built for yourself.

that's why you're in this mess too.

in a way, deep down, something still screams at you. telling you that you deserve it.

for how cruel you were.

but you know, then, that no matter how ugly this gets—sunghoon’s right. you have to figure this out. not just to clear your name.

but because someone wanted you buried under the weight of guilt you didn’t earn.

and maybe, just maybe, that someone is still watching. waiting.

"then let’s start digging," you say.

sunghoon nods, flipping to a fresh page.

you and sunghoon spent the next hour or so combing through every scrap of information you could recall—old names, half-remembered conversations, strange behavior from classmates, and the way certain teachers seemed way too invested or distant when it came to certain things. the pages of his notebook filled slowly, scrawled in both neat bullets and messy, frustrated thoughts. somewhere in between connecting dots and sharing quiet theories, time started to blur.

you only noticed how much had passed when the golden hue of the sky shifted into something darker, colder. sunghoon glanced at his phone and muttered something about needing to get home before practice.

"i’ve got a match tomorrow," he said casually, standing and brushing grass from the back of his jersey. "you could come. if you want. it’s after school so it makes it easier to meet up after."

you blinked. "to the match?"

he shrugged like it was nothing, but didn’t quite meet your eyes. "yeah. it’s open anyways. i’ll find you after."

the offer hung between you longer than it should’ve. you nodded, brushing it off like it wasn’t a big deal either. "sure," you said. you knew he wasn't inviting you just to invite you, you did understand that it was so you both could meet up easily after.

but still, what's the harm in going? you loved these matches and it had been a while since you'd gone to one. it could be fun.

the word fun felt foreign on your tongue. everything lately had been anything but. but something about the idea—watching from the stands, blending into a crowd that didn’t stare at you like you were the ghost of something awful—felt a little like peace.

or maybe a distraction.

you parted ways with a simple nod, the air between you still fragile, stitched together with a thread of shared suspicion. not trust. not yet. but something.

as you made your way back toward the main road, your phone buzzed with a message from emi.

emi: dude where ru? do u wanna to get some food together?

seeing her message made you crack a smile, the thought of getting food outside much more appealing then it should be. you were really exhausted and also hungry. coffee isn't very filling in terms of solid food.

y/n: still down? i’m free now

her reply came instantly.

emi: burger place in 15.

you texted a quick confirmation and headed toward your car, dangling the keys in your hand. you'd finally gotten your car back after you'd sent it for maintenance. it feels nice to be able to drive your way to places again.

the evening pressed against your skin like a sigh. you softly hummed to the music in your car, tapping your legs to it.

maybe it was the weight of everything you’d just gone over with sunghoon. maybe it was the weird invitation to his match. or maybe it was something else altogether. something less rational. but you felt a little unease about the match.

and worse—you'd seen the same thing reflected in yourself. you weren't as numb as you'd wanted to believe. not when it came to hana. not when it came to the way sunghoon still flinched when she was mentioned, like grief hadn’t fully settled in yet, like it still knocked him sideways when he least expected it.

and not when it came to the way he looked at you—like he wanted to believe you, even if the belief hurt.

it's given that he hadn't got over the grief but still.. and feeling that guilt still crawl up your spine when you see him? when he talks about it all? the one you try so hard to remember is not yours.

even then, a lot of that guilt is still a burden you deserve to carry.

by the time you reached the burger place, emi was already there, waving dramatically from the booth. you slid in across from her and she launched into a chaotic rant about a group project gone to hell, gesturing with a half-eaten fry. it was ridiculous and dramatic and you were enjoying it, tears in your eyes from laughing.

these past few days, you finally don't feel like everything's miserable. that things can be fixed.

like you truly, truly can fix this.

you’re halfway through your burger when emi pauses, eyes narrowing like she’s just remembered something scandalous.

"wait. did you say sunghoon told you to come to his match?" 7

you blink, chewing slowly. "…yeah?"

"park sunghoon? same guy who pettily refused to take a paper from you? same guy who snatched your water from you? same guy who you refuse to have any history with and only a crush? invited you—public enemy number one—to his game?"

you sigh, setting down your drink. "well, thanks for the recap. also, i told you already, the crush thing was just a cover up!"

"no, no. enlighten me. because it sure sounds like you’ve been asked on a very dramatic, sports-movie-coded date."

you groan. "emi, no matter how much you wish it were a date, a date is the last thing any of us would refer to this as."

if only you knew emi. if only you knew.

"uh-huh." she grins, chin in her hand. "so he just randomly decided to offer you bleacher seats to his big moment out of the kindness of his icy heart? suddenly after all the pettiness?"

you flick a fry at her, but she dodges and instead catches it in her mouth, eating it. "we’re just working together for something. he probably thinks it’ll be easier to talk after the match."

"you do realize this is the same guy who wouldn’t even look at you two weeks ago without looking like he wanted to throw a chair."

"yeah," you mutter. "trust me, i remember." don't worry emi, the feeling was pretty mutual.

emi leans back, her smile fading just a little. "you okay with going, though? like, really okay? he didn't like blackmail you into this, did he?"

you pick at the edge of your napkin, letting out a laugh at emi's comment. "and if i said he did, would you rescue me like my prince charming?"

emi raises her eyebrows, scoffing at your words. "sureeee, my princess."

you laugh before leaning back, wiping your hands with the napkin. "anyways, don't worry about it. he only asked me to come so we could meet up easily after. he said it's my choice so no force. and plus, won't it be fun? i love these kinds of matches."

she nods, more serious now. "okay. then i’m with you. but remember, if you ever need back up, just give me a call. i'm ready to kick him in the shin."

you raise your eyebrows, making a sound of amusement. "please don’t. they’d definitely arrest you. and he is not some avengers level threat for me to need back up, trust me."

"worth it," she says, popping a fry into her mouth.

sunghoon didn’t know how long he’d been staring at the wall.

the lights in the hallway were dim, humming low above him. everyone else had gone to sleep. he probably should’ve too. but sleep hadn’t come easy in months.

his notebook sat beside him, pages fluttering slightly from the fan. the last thing he’d written was already starting to smudge, his palm resting over it for too long.

he sat there, cross-legged on the floor, back pressed to the wall.

his phone buzzed once.

he didn’t look at it.

oh she could be up,

somewhere in his chest, the ache had gone dull. not gone, never gone — just quieter. the way grief always got when it had overstayed its welcome. people thought that meant healing. it didn’t.

it just meant you were getting used to carrying it.

he sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. the match practice earlier had gone fine. good, even. people have their hopes up now. his friends asked if he was coming to the diner afterward.

he said he had to study.

it wasn’t a lie.

he kept thinking about what you said earlier.

oh she could be down,

not hana. you. the girl he couldn’t stop staring at lately, the one with too many shadows behind her eyes and too many knives in her back.

he hated how it made sense.

he hated that she didn’t act like someone who was guilty.

he hated how a small part of him —a traitorous, unforgivable part— started to think maybe she wasn’t.

maybe she really had been alone.

he squeezed his eyes shut.

"you should know," he muttered to himself. "you should’ve been better." the words reminiscent of his parent's.

but i'm not around to see her

he was a shitty person. it's not like his parents hadn't already made sure he knew how much of a shitty person he was already.

but this felt like the cherry on top.

he couldn't think about anything. about what truly happened with hana. about the possibility—that seemed even more real and possible now—that he was being a jerk.

about what jay said.

because if she had lied, if hana had really twisted something, then sunghoon had played his part perfectly. he hadn’t questioned it. hadn’t looked at the cracks. he just believed her — because she cried, because she was sweet, because he loved her.

and if all of that was true...

then what the hell had he done?

no. it's not like he was giving up and losing trust in hana. of course not. that's his sister. and it's not like he's completely convinced that you were innocent now. but..

fuck.

he leaned his head back against the wall, the cold biting through the cotton of his hoodie.

his eyes burned.

he didn’t cry. not really. not since the funeral. not since the questions started and the police came around asking what he knew and how long it had been since he last saw her happy.

the worst part?

he didn’t even know the answer to that.

and now he was stuck — between the ghost of the girl he couldn’t save, and the guilt of the one he couldn’t look in the eye without having the same thought creep up behind his neck.

he inhaled sharply. let the silence fill in the cracks.

he didn’t know who the villain was anymore.

he didn’t know if he was one.

but god, it felt like it.

the next day, you head home earlier than usual, the afternoon sun bleeding through your bedroom window in soft gold streaks. your backpack drops to the floor with a dull thud, and for a moment, you just stand there, staring at it.

you’re going to his match.

it feels dumb to be nervous. it's not like you're going for him, not really. you're going because of the arrangement—and because, somehow, this tangled mess between the two of you has started to turn into something else. not exactly trust, not exactly friendship. something in between. a ceasefire built on suspicion and shared grief.

and also because it could be pretty fun.

you sit on the edge of your bed, fingers toying with your phone. part of you still expects a message from him, saying never mind. or maybe a prank—like he only said it to mess with you.

but the notification never comes.

it's dumb. so dumb. why were you so nervous for a match? it's not even like you're going for him like emi said. it's insane. it's just a match, you remind yourself. you're going for yourself to have fun.

so, you get up.

you pull open your closet, fingers brushing past hangers. it had been a while since you'd gone to a match so you weren't too sure what to wear. still, you want to look… decent. not for sunghoon. definitely not for him. you just want to look good, nothing bad in that, right?

you settle on something casual, something that doesn’t scream trying too hard, but still looks like effort. then you pause by the mirror and tie your hair back, then untie it, then pull it back again. god, you don't remember it being this hard.

as you're applying lip balm, your phone buzzes with a message.

emi: ur still going right emi: send pics or i swear to god emi: if u come back and tell me nothing happened i’ll drag the details out of u myself

you snort, texting her back.

y/n: calm down stalker, ill tell u everything lol

you grab your bag, then your headphones and glance once more at yourself in the mirror, smiling before taking a pic and sending it to emi.

you just really hope everything goes well. not that there was anything to go wrong but still, you felt worried for no reason.

you look at yourself one last time before heading out.

on the way to the field, the streets buzz with the leftover warmth of daylight, students walking ahead with school scarves and excitement in their voices. you spot a few classmates, waving to them and saying hello as you keep walking.

you keep walking as you finally reach the edge of the stadium, bleachers set up, people already gathering.

you scan the field.

sunghoon isn’t there yet. the players must still be inside, getting changed or warmed up or whatever it is they do. you find a spot off to the side, somewhere not too obvious but still within sight of the field. you’re not sure if he’ll even notice you showed up. not sure if he wanted you to.

still—you’re here. whatever, he gave you the invite. who were you to decline a match?

in the locker room, the air is thick with heat, adrenaline, and the sound of sneakers squeaking against the tile floor.

sunghoon rolls his shoulders back, pulling his jersey over his head. it’s a little damp from warm-up drills, his hair already starting to stick to his forehead. someone throws him a water bottle—probably sunoo—and he catches it without looking.

"yo," jake calls, walking past and bumping his shoulder. "you good?"

"yeah." sunghoon nods, quick. "why wouldn't i be? just… focused."

he doesn’t say on what.

jay is taping up his wrist near the lockers. "you’re always focused. what’s new?"

"focused weird," jake mutters from the bench. "he’s been in his own head all day. i swear, he didn’t even laugh when riki imitated mr. cho’s rant this morning."

sunghoon throws a towel at him.

but honestly? they were right.

he’s been distracted. he just can't figure out by what.

or maybe he doesn't want to.

he doesn’t even know why he told her to come.

"you nervous?" jungwon asks quietly, tossing him his armband. he always knows how to read the shift in sunghoon’s energy.

sunghoon shrugs, fingers fumbling with the fabric. "it’s just a match."

jungwon gives him a look. "you’ve never cared this much about just a match."

sunghoon doesn’t respond.

heeseung claps his hands together. "alright, warm-up. let’s go. don’t make me carry your asses again."

everyone laughs and groans but they file out, cleats hitting the turf. the sky outside is bleeding into dusky orange, the crowd starting to fill the bleachers with shouts and movement.

sunghoon jogs out behind them, muscles loose, mind still tight.

and then—his eyes flick across the field.

and he sees you.

just for a second.

he quickly looks away. he doesn't know why he does so but it almost feels wrong to see you here.

but in a way, it motivates him.

..or he's just being dumb.

his steps falter just slightly before he regains pace.

"whoa—sunghoon. what’s that?" riki smirks, jogging up beside him, following his line of sight. "you got someone coming to cheer for you?"

sunghoon elbows him lightly, smirking as he changes the topic. "you sure it's not you whose got someone cheering for you?"

although he's joking about riki, sunghoon doesn’t deny his words.

and just like that, the team slowly splits off into drills, the cheers around rising.

the match went better than you expected.

you didn’t know much about football, but even you could tell sunghoon was good. the way he moved — fast, sharp, focused — like the game was the only thing on his mind. but, you don't want to compliment him too much now.

and it wasn’t just him. the whole team had energy. you weren’t sure if they were actually great or if the other team just sucked, but they won, pretty well in fact.

and sunghoon scored the final goal.

you didn’t realize you’d gotten so into it until sihwan, who you'd coincidentally found earlier, smacked your arm when they won and you clapped a little too hard.

"you're pretty into this," he laughed.

you laughed, smirking as you shrugged. "i used to love these type of matches. i mean, i still do."

and you were, pretty into this. not just the game — the way sunghoon’s expression broke open for half a second when he scored. like for that one moment, he wasn’t angry or exhausted or guarded. just a boy who got a win.

you don't know why you noticed that, but you did.

"what about you? not much of a sports guy?" you asked sihwan, taking out your phone to check if you got any messages.

"nah, more like i'm not much of a basketball guy. i'm more of a football guy. you should come to my matches one day too! i play for the university football team."

you raise your eyebrows, surprised that he plays football before you high five him, nodding.

after sending off sihwan, you end up walking around the side of the building after the match, half-looking for sunghoon for what you'd both agreed, half-looking around out of curiosity when you hear voices.

"no, but seriously—" a familiar laugh. "we actually pulled it off."

you round the corner and freeze.

sunghoon, there he is. and… heeseung?

they’re walking towards you. both still in their jerseys, both sweaty and smiling. well—heeseung’s smiling. sunghoon’s just... walking.

goddamn, does he always have a stick up his ass?

..nevermind, maybe there's a reason for that. you take back your words immediately.

heeseung notices you first. "oh—hey. didn’t expect you here."

"uh, yeah," you say. "sunghoon told me to come."

heeseung raises an eyebrow and glances at him. "did he now?"

sunghoon just exhales like he regrets every life choice.

"look, i should say this—" heeseung stops in front of you, scratching the back of his neck. "that day in class... when we were talking and you were right there... we didn’t know. i mean—I didn’t. that you heard us."

your fingers tighten around your phone. "right."

"not saying it makes it better, but... sorry. it was shitty."

you blink, a little surprised. "uh, thanks. don't worry about it, i mean."

he grins a little. "you’re kind of scary, you know that?"

"am i?" you raise your eyebrows a little, amused by heeseung's words.

"in a good way." he flashes a crooked smile. "sunghoon didn’t tell me you were hot."

sunghoon groans. "jesus christ."

you bite back a laugh. "i don’t think that’s relevant information but thanks anyways. though, i'm pretty sure you already knew considering your.. interesting conversation back then."

heeseung makes a slight grimacing face before shrugging, scratching the back of his neck. "it’s pretty relevant," he says, nudging sunghoon with his elbow. "anyway. see you around?"

"sure," you say.

heeseung throws you a wink before jogging ahead, leaving you and sunghoon alone in the awkward silence.

sunghoon doesn’t look at you.

"..you gonna say something?" you ask, slightly annoyed by the silence.

"seems like you both had fun flirting." he mutters, already walking past.

you roll your eyes and follow.

you don’t say it out loud but,

he definitely looked back when you weren’t watching.

you don’t know how it ends up like this again. sitting beside park sunghoon, a shared notebook between your knees, half-distracted by the hum of the stadium's rooftop vents and the way the late afternoon sun hits the metal railings just right.

"you take ugly notes," you mutter, squinting at his messy scrawl.

sunghoon doesn’t look up. "and you talk too much."

you snort, nudging his elbow just enough to annoy him. he pulls the notebook closer like you're going to steal it. typical.

"so," you say, leaning back on your palms, letting your gaze drift to the clouds. "what’s your topic of discussion today?"

"i was looking into inho’s address. he lived farther out near the edge of town, the old residential blocks." he flips a page. "they moved there a year before he... you know."

you nod, solemn. "yeah, i know."

he doesn’t say anything, just keeps scribbling something with the back of his pen cap clenched between his teeth.

your stomach growls loudly enough for a pigeon nearby to startle.

sunghoon glances sideways. "nice."

"shut up," you mutter, groaning from embarrassment. "i forgot to eat lunch."

he closes the notebook with a snap. "do you want to eat something?"

"if you can somehow cook something up from the grass and dirt, go ahead."

sunghoon scoffs, flashing a smirk. "vending machines, y/n. there's things called vending machines."

you groan, dismissing him as you both stand. the silence between you is easy now. not warm exactly — but it’s not stiff either. maybe this is what mutual misery looks like. or maybe just two people slowly realizing the other is human too.

the hallway is quiet as you both make your way down the stairs. just a couple of students and players around and the faint echo of your footsteps and the hum of the vending machine ahead.

sunghoon steps up to it, eyes scanning the rows of drinks like he’s memorizing a map.

he mutters something under his breath, but there’s a flicker of a grin before he punches in a code.

a soft thunk — the bottle drops.

you blink.

milk tea.

he turns and holds it out to you.

"how’d you—"

"you liked it last time," he says simply, like it’s nothing. like he didn’t remember a random drink preference from several years ago.

how could you forgive me, babe?

you take it slowly, fingers brushing his for a second too long. "didn’t know you had a memory." you say as you try to mask your astonishment from the fact he remembered something like that.

"selective," he shrugs, grabbing a canned coffee for himself. "i only remember the irritating details."

you scoff. "sure. you just remembered the one thing that would make me not hate you more."

"mission failed, then." he mutters under his breath.

but you're already smiling, sipping the tea, eyes still on the vending machine as the memories of that day fill your head. it's pretty ironic that you both met at a vending machine and now are back at a vending machine, getting the same things.

"then, let me guess, you're going to get chips?" you ask.

he pauses.

"yeah."

how could you forgive me?

"you said ‘milk tea.’ i thought you were psychic or something."

sunghoon chuckles, low under his breath. "nope. just unlucky."

"mm, sounds like your whole personality."

he doesn’t bite back this time. just looks at you, a little quieter than before.

"why’d you ask me to help with this? i mean, i know that you wanted me to tell you what i knew but," you ask softly, shifting against the cool metal of the machine. "was it really because you wanted to know the truth, or because you wanted to catch me lying?"

he meets your eyes. and something in his gaze falters — just briefly.

"i think... at first it was both," he admits. "but now i think i’d.. i don't know, damn it. maybe i just want to find out why hana did this."

you don’t know what to say to that. your throat closes up a little, but you force a small laugh instead.

"you’re so dramatic sometimes."

"you’re deflecting."

"so are you."

and for a moment, you both just stand there — two quiet figures under the humming fluorescent lights, shadows overlapping.

"want some?" he offers and you take it, just like that day, confused on why he would give this to you. you just don't know what 'this' refers to here. you weren't.. friends, not enemies either.

something in between. sunghoon still hates you and you aren't all too different from him but at least now, you have some sort of.. understanding, if anything—however twisted it may be.

"come on," he says, breaking the stillness. "we’ve got more work to do."

"yeah, yeah," you sigh, trailing after him. "detective park."

he looks over his shoulder. "co-investigator."

you shake your head. but this time, it's much more humorous to you rather than a stupid, snarky remark.

and the milk tea tastes just like it did that first day — sweet, cold, and weirdly comforting.

end note: this feels like kind of a filler chapter but do forgive me sigh </3 hope you enjoyed <3

taglist: @arcvillie @mochi13 @chocminteu @outroherrr @gyurilla @supershy3 @woibeb @saraabbas @nithxhoon @dajeong-cats @rairaiblog @beebopisjustwatching @rikidaze @renlikecookies @graythecoffeebean @ginjey19 @semi-wife @valesunae @desistay

(sorry if i missed anyone, please lmk if i missed u) mdni, feedback and reblogs, comments and likes appreciated. hate comments will be deleted. please let me know either in the comments or inbox if you want to be added to the taglist <33

i do have a permanent taglist so do lmk if u wanna be added to that too <3

[uhuhmaries]

If You Could, Would You? | PART 4

Warnings: 18+, grooming mentions, trauma, age-gap dynamics, emotionally messy interactions, power imbalance, NSFW (heavy petting, edging, no condom, no penetration), guilt, codependency themes, hurt/comfort, emotional infidelity, angst

Full Series: If You Could, Would You?

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

The car is quiet when he starts driving again.

No music. No talking. Just the rhythmic sound of the tires against wet pavement, and the occasional hum of the heater cutting through the stillness.

“Hope you like shitty coffee and stale pies,” Harry says finally, glancing at you. “It’s the only diner I know that never closes. Feels like time forgets it.”

You nod slightly. You’re trying to read the room. The tension. The vibe.

The diner is exactly what he promised. Sticky booths, neon lights that flicker, and a waitress that barely looks up as Harry slides into a corner booth and you follow. He orders for both of you without asking—black coffee, blueberry pie, and fries. It feels oddly safe.

“Come here often?” you ask, watching the way his fingers tap restlessly against the ceramic mug once it’s set down.

“Too often,” he answers. “I wrote half my songs in this booth.”

You laugh softly. “Romantic.”

He leans back. “You laugh, but it was either this place or the studio. And sometimes, the studio’s worse.”

You take a sip, feeling the burn down your throat. “Can I tell you something?”

He doesn’t look at you, just nods.

“I think my problem is I don’t really have one.” You stare into the mug like it holds all your truths. “My life’s been easy. Average. Nothing traumatic. No big stories. No pain that shaped me. And I hate that. I know how it sounds— it’s fucked up. But sometimes I wish something hurt me. At least then I’d understand why I feel so empty.”

That cracks the silence wide open.

Harry’s shoulders shift as he breathes. “That’s not fucked up.”

You look up, surprised.

“I get it,” he continues. “I think sometimes… it’s scarier when there’s no reason. Like, what’s wrong with me then? Why am I still not okay?”

You nod slowly. Your chest feels tight. Like he just named something you were too ashamed to say out loud.

“But then you set your eyes on me,” you whisper, not even sure why you say it.

He flinches just slightly. And then silence. The kind of silence that says everything.

Harry clears his throat. “You’re young.”

You don’t argue. You are.

“You need to figure shit out alone,” he adds, more to himself than you. “Not with someone who’s already messed up and stuck in a cycle he doesn’t even know how to leave.”

“You mean Alice?” you ask gently.

He nods.

You don’t say anything. You let him speak when he’s ready.

“We met when I was 15. She was 23.” His eyes are fixed on the window now. “She helped me get gigs, book shows. Fed me when I didn’t have a damn clue how to take care of myself.”

“And then?” you ask softly.

“And then… I guess I thought that’s what love was. She told me it was. I didn’t have anyone else to tell me otherwise.”

You want to scream. Want to reach across the table and shake him. But you don’t. You just… listen.

“She never hit me. Never yelled. Just… shaped me. Decided who I should be. And I let her.”

You reach across the table. He doesn’t pull away when your hand touches his.

“I don’t blame her,” he adds quickly. “She loved me the only way she knew how.”

You squeeze his hand gently, but your chest aches. Because you know what this is. What it was.

Grooming.

But you also know he’s not ready to hear that.

“I’m sorry,” is all you say.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

He drives you back to your hostel, but you don’t get out. You just sit there in the dark with him, both of you swimming in things unspoken.

He looks at you, really looks, and you feel it building again.

Something volatile. Something stupid. Something magnetic and wrong.

He reaches over, tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, then lets his hand linger along your jaw.

“You should go inside,” he says, but he doesn’t move.

You lean in first. You can’t help it.

He meets you halfway. It’s soft at first—hesitant, like your mouths are learning each other. But then it turns urgent. Desperate.

You climb into his lap without thinking. He groans quietly against your lips as your hips rock forward, needing friction. You’re both drowning in it—this feeling, this need to feel something even if it’s guilt and lust and regret tangled together.

His hand slips beneath your shirt, dragging up your spine. You arch into him. He palms your ass, grinding up to meet you. There’s no mistaking the hard press of him beneath his jeans. You’re soaked through your leggings.

You tug at the hem of his hoodie. He lets you. Lets you kiss down his neck, nibble just beneath his jaw.

His hand slips under the waistband of your leggings. No underwear. His fingers glide over your slick folds, drawing a breathy whimper from your lips.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You shouldn’t— this is wrong—”

But he doesn’t stop. He kisses you again, harder, deeper. You drag your nails along his hair, grinding down on his hand as he circles your clit, slowly, then faster.

Your own hand slips down between you, finding him. He gasps into your mouth.

You both freeze.

“We can’t, Y/N,” he breathes, voice strained.

You nod, but your hands are already moving, unbuckling his belt with trembling fingers. He doesn’t stop you— he helps. His breath stutters as you free him, his cock already thick, flushed, and painfully hard.

You slide your leggings down, just enough to straddle him again, bare and soaked.

You line yourself up—not to take him in—but to grind. To feel. You lower yourself onto him slowly, dragging your wetness over the length of him, letting the tip of his cock catch on your clit with every pass. The contact sends shocks up your spine.

“You’re…” you whisper, voice catching as you look down between you. “God—you’re so big.”

He gasps. Loud. His head tips back, eyes squeezed shut, the guilt turning his pleasure into something almost violent.

Your slick coats him— glistening, messy. You both watch it happen. And then… the tip nudges your entrance.

Just slightly. Just enough.

You both moan. It’s loud and unfiltered, like it caught you off guard. It slips in barely– just the edge. Barely a stretch, but enough to ignite something dangerous.

Neither of you move.

Your heart is hammering. Your body is screaming for more. But your conscience is louder now. Screaming no. Screaming stop.

You shift, and he slides out with a low, tortured groan.

“Don’t,” he pleads, voice cracking. “Don’t do it, Y/N.”

But his hips betray him— rolling forward, slow and needy, chasing the friction, the warmth, the idea of being buried inside you.

You tremble, biting your lip as you feel him press against your entrance again, just the tip slipping past that threshold.

Your mind blares warning signals. So does his. But it’s his eyes that make you stop.

You pull back.

He lets his head fall against the seat, hands trembling as he rests them on your thighs. You’re both breathing heavy, chests heaving, the weight of what nearly happened sinking in.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

Breathing heavy. Legs shaking.

Neither of you move for a while.

“You need to rest,” he murmurs, voice low but gentle. He pulls your shirt back down with careful hands, then helps you adjust your leggings, smoothing them over your hips like he’s apologizing without saying it. He tucks himself back in too, jaw tight, eyes avoiding yours now—as if touching you any longer might unravel him completely.

You nod.

You climb off him slowly. Pull yourself together. Open the door.

But before you get out, you turn back. He looks fucked up. Hair a mess. Lips swollen. Eyes tired and red.

You want to say something. Anything.

Instead, you just nod once more and close the door behind you.

He doesn’t drive away right away. And you don’t sleep easily that night.

⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹ ࣪ ˖₊˚⊹⋆ ⊹

📝 Author’s Note:

FUCK MAN THIS GOT TOO MUCH EVEN FOR ME WHAT 😭😭😭😭😭😭

[deiaiko]

You know that fanmade Cave game? Yeah, it makes me so unwell 😩🤲🥹❤️‍🩹

I can't read/write Japanese and I don't have twitter, but still I want to thank the creators for making and sharing it 🙏 Please accept my offering

[luvuomi]

an untuned 𝓿𝓲𝓸𝓵𝓲𝓷 ༄.°

though the departed have long since transcended to a realm that is beyond mortal reach, traces of their existence continue to remain left behind like the feathers of a snow-winged goose that has taken flight. aside from his vision—its rekindled permanence forever a stark reminder of the burden that must be carried—amélie also harbors another relic of ███ and unlike the former, its presence harbors much more fond memories from a simpler time.

when she was still a child, on his fifteenth birthday, the boy had urgently roused her from sleep in the dead of night, showing her two tickets for a performance happening in the opera epiclese that very day. hesitant to leave the comforts of her bed, the boy’s enthusiasm—which had been a rare sight in regards to his otherwise stoic demeanor—was difficult to ward off. and so, in silent acquiescence, amélie would accompany ███ to the court of fontaine, lending an ear to his passionate musings, which was an uncommon indulgence for him before arriving at their destination.

the opera house felt larger than life itself back then; regal halls decorated with oil paintings gilded in gold, polished marble floors, and chandeliers that dangled high from the ceiling, sparkling in their opulence. amélie won’t forget how out of place she had felt the entire time, especially once they had taken their seats on those velvet chairs that felt as though they were made to sit royalty. but as the lights dimmed and a ballerina, alongside her violinist took to the stage—accompanied by a fellow orchestra—amélie was no longer just a little girl sitting in the theater.

following that night, ███ had insisted they learn the piece, with the hopes of one day getting to perform it for themselves. he would play the violin and she would play the role of the ballerina. they would practice for countless hours along the shorelines of petrichor playing until either his fingers grew calloused or her legs became too sore to move. in the end.. they never would get to play that piece together and their only audience had ever been the pale moon above.

years later, amélie now returns to that spot on the shorelines, unaccompanied and with a violin in hand—his violin. it has remained untouched for quite some time now, strings taut from a lack of attunement and the hollowness from within more apparent than when he had held it. but here on this familiar stage, where the waves slowly fall in and out of the tide and the moon offers its faint gaze upon her just as it did all those years ago, the lonely ballerina takes hold of the violin once more.

“to you my friend. may the stars of this sky guide you on into the afterlife, and may you find peace in a world much kinder than this one.”

🎨 →⠀﹐⠀╱⠀adorable chibi art was made by the lovely Renkiiqui whom you can find on vgen and twitter! guys please go commission them ( threat /lh ) they are so talented and deserve so much more recognition for their work. trust me when i say you will not be disappointed with the outcome <3

[areyoudoingthis]

taylor swift getting out of a six year relationship with an apparently very boring guy and rushing to get into the dumbest, wildest possible situationship she could find only for it to predictably end a couple of months later and then writing song upon song about how much she loved him and wanted to marry him and how he was the love of her life and he broke her is the funniest most relatable thing she's done to date

[arolesbianism]

Some stuff I've drawn semi recently

[yanderenightmare]

♡ TW: implied noncon, break-up, toxic relationship, crazy ex-boyfriend, intrusive thoughts, anger issues

♡ FEM reader

Thinking about gamer boyfriend who doesn’t know what he has before it’s gone…

You told him you were leaving, but it didn’t dawn on him that’s what you’d meant. He was deep in-game—he couldn't pay attention to your whining. He figured you went out to the store or something, but later, after midnight, he realized he was hungry, and you were nowhere. Not in the kitchen making dinner, not in his bed sleeping, and not in the bathroom either. 

Did you go home? He wonders, standing alone in the dark, empty silence—feeling a little put off at the sight of his room—how even in the dim light, it’s a clear fucking mess. You usually tidy up a bit for him, but you hadn’t this time—no, there’s old underwear and socks everywhere, shirts and hoodies too, empty cans and pizza boxes. It’s a bit gross, actually, he admits while scratching his neck. 

The drawer he’d dedicated to you in his dresser is open and empty. Did you take everything to get it cleaned? You are a bit of a neat freak—unlike him. Suppose that would be something you’d do. Weird of you not to take any of his laundry as well, though.

Oh, well. He shoots you a “gn bby” on his phone, then collapses on his bed and falls asleep—smiles a bit as he does so—it’s nice not having you here to tell him to undress and go shower first. Yeah, you can be such a nag sometimes.

He wakes up late in the day. You’re not there. Usually, you come over to wake him with some breakfast. He checks his phone—you didn’t reply last night. It isn't that weird—you were probably already asleep at that point. But why didn’t you answer when you woke up? There’s no way you’re still asleep, right? 

Fuck, he’s hungry.

“gm,” he sends—contemplates asking you what’s up but doesn’t. You must be busy with something not to have checked your phone yet.

The entire day goes by, and you still don’t answer. He doesn’t take it too hard. But he won’t deny being a bit miffed.

It’s when three days go by that he’s well and truly confused. He’s sent you several texts at this point, even called you a few times, getting a little worried something had happened to you before he got the message that he’d been blocked. 

What the fuck’s going on with you?

He thinks back to the last time he saw you. What did you even say? He can’t remember. Something about being tired—something, something—I’m leaving.

He swallows thickly. No… No way, that’s what you meant, right? No, can’t be. You love him. You’re his pretty girlfriend. The one that comes with his food and later comes back for his bowl. The one that sucks his dick under his desk as he goes on a kill streak. The warm pillow he uses when he finally drags his bad posture to the bed and falls asleep.

No. Where the fuck are you? Are you sick or something? Yeah, must be, right? So delirious you’ve managed to block him somehow. You were probably only trying to call him back. You were never so tech-savvy—a fever must have worsened it. He should go to you. He can bring his pc. Or no, he can get you and bring you back here. Yeah, that would be easier.

He calls your roommate, tells her he’s coming, and asks her to let you know to get ready.

“What are you talking about?” she says through a piece of gum—her voice all dull as if bothered to have picked up the phone. Or, rather, she sounds a bit drunk. There’s music in the background. “Girl broke up with you, didn’t she?”

His blood runs cold at that. A lump forms in his throat—a thick, unmovable lump that makes him think he’s about to throw up. “N-no, she didn’t.”

“Hey!” she calls out, not to him, though—she’s covered the mic with her hand. He only hears the muted distortion of voices and bass through it before your roommate comes back to him. 

“Sorry—she’s telling me a different story,” she relays, popping her gum in his ear before sneering—or, at least, that’s what he pictures. “Honestly, how long did you think she was gonna put up with cleaning up after you anyway? I know I wouldn’t last half as long as she has.” The lump in his throat grows thicker, swelling up until it's choking him. “Anyway, good luck.”

She hangs up, and he drops his phone. There’s a crack as it hits the floor. And then something wet on his face. Something hot. Something searing as it tracks down his cheeks and drops off like acid onto the floor. 

What should he do? What do you want him to do? To tidy up? He can do that! He’s not some imbecile like your friend makes him out to be who can’t even do the basics of chores. Of course, he can! And so that’s what he does—hands shaking as he tidies. 

It feels foreign, and he’s not even sure where to start. And it quickly proves to be a lot worse than what he’d thought. Beyond stinky clothes and dirty dishes, there’s trash, rotten food, sticky surfaces, and other things he can’t even put a name to. It’s gross, actually. Downright disgusting. How long’s it been like this?

Even after everything’s put in order, there’s a smell that lingers and no end to the dust he has to clean—cringing at the little insects that come crawling out of their hiding spots. Geez—has it really been this bad?

He falls asleep on the floor at some point—having completely forgotten to eat—then wakes up feeling awful the next day. The kitchen is barren, and so he orders take-out. Eats and then goes back to cleaning. There’s still a lot left.

It’s barely recognizable once he’s done. Nice and bright and tidy and clean. There’s a sum of a dozen large black trash bags in the hallway he needs to take out, but other than that, everything’s perfect—perfectly presentable to have you come over again.

Still, he gives it a couple of days. He knows you. You’re going to change your mind. You’re too sweet to be breaking up with him. Too nice. You wouldn’t just leave him, not like this. Yeah, you’re only trying to teach him a lesson—after a while, you’ll come back on your own. You’ll be ecstatic over what he’s done with the place—apologetic even as you tell him you were wrong about him—and then everything will go back to normal. Make-up sex and everything. 

But you don’t. No. You’re nowhere to be seen or found—even after a week’s passed. You’re still gone. And he’s starting to believe you might just be gone for real.

No. He sees what this is. You’re waiting for the grand gesture, aren’t you? He never knew you could be so petty—but it’s actually kind of cute. Fine then. He’ll play along—come crawling to you on his hands and knees with the best apology you’ve ever heard. And then you can end this whole thing.

And so he finds himself at your place, pressing the buzzer, not knowing if he’s catching you at home—if not, he’ll just try again tomorrow, and so on until he does. He hears someone at the other side of the door—they must be looking at him through the peephole. It takes a while before the locks click and open.

“Hey…”

It’s you. 

“Hi,” he smiles in return, happy to see you. He’s been so nervous, but somehow, your face and voice are enough to calm him down.

“What are you doing here?” you ask.

Oh, of course. You weren’t expecting him. Still, it feels weird of you not to gush happily over the surprise and rush him inside. It’s not every day he goes outside—you should be a little impressed.

But no, of course, you’re playing the part of fed-up girlfriend—acting hard-to-get. He’s got you—he’ll play his part, so don’t worry.

“I wanted to apologize,” he announces. “I haven’t been a good boyfriend—I see that now. But I’ll be better from now on, I promise—come over, and I’ll prove it to you.”

As far as apologies and promises go, he thinks that sounded pretty smooth—not too desperate, not too demanding. Pretty slick, if he can say so himself.

And so, why aren’t you smiling? He can understand being nervous—so is he—but why do you look guilty?

“That’s really nice. And… I’m really happy you’re looking better. But…” you start, and his gut’s already wrenching. “I think you need more time for yourself to just… enjoy what it’s like to be independent, you know?” 

No, he doesn’t know. What are you saying? And why are you holding onto the doorknob like that? Holding it steady as if you’re planning to shut it as soon as you can—why?

“Thanks for stopping by. It was nice seeing you—it really was. Take care of yourself, okay?”

It’s shutting—his plans—disappearing right before his face. He knows he isn’t owed a second shot, but this isn’t fair. You can’t be serious—are you?

“What? No, wait—” He stops you, weighing his own hand on the door, keeping it open. “Listen, I’m good now. I’ve pulled it together, you’ll see—I’ll come in, and we’ll talk about it.”

You resist, using both hands to almost push the door back on him. “I have company, so—”

“What’s up?” another voice announces himself—deep and presentful. He comes into view behind you—taller than you, taller than him—looking down his nose at him with a raised brow. “Who’s this?”

You look a bit panicked—no, embarrassed. “Oh, uhm—”

Why are you embarrassed? “Who’s that?” The bitterness in his voice surprises even himself—loaded with the same type of spite he seethes with when players use cheats to win.

“He’s an old friend, but he was just leaving,” you say, but you’re not speaking to him. No, you stroke a hand over the guy’s broad chest, looking up at him apologetically before turning back to him again, voice strict in a way he’s never heard, “Bye.”

“But—”

You shut the door. On him. In his face. 

His skin crawls—goosefleshed and chilled. Was that a date? No, right? You have a brother, don’t you? Yes, must be. No way you’re dating. There’s no way, right? It’s only been a week… no way you’ve moved on in only a week, right?

You looked really nice—wearing that sweet blouse with all the little bows and that cute little skirt you’d always wear out on dates. Damn, when was the last time the two of you went on a date? Must be months ago, if he can’t even remember. 

Come to think of it, the two of you would always have sex when you wore that skirt. Yeah, it’s your fuck-me-skirt. Are you going to fuck this guy too now? On the first date? Is it your first date? No, probably not—who has their first date at home? That’s more like a third or even fourth or fifth date, right? Were you dating him while the two of you were still together? Have you been cheating on him all this time? Laughing at him behind his back—talking shit with your bitch-roommate? About what a pathetic loser he is? About how he’s a slob who can’t take care of himself? How he needs you? Have you!?

He shouldn't be texting you all this from a random number. He knows that, but the full realization doesn’t dawn on him before it’s too late, and he’s sent you over a hundred messages, some small and others at such a length they take up more than what the screen allows. What the fuck’s he doing? He’d bought the new sim so that he could contact you in an emergency, not to spam you with accusations like some crazy ex. 

He starts deleting them—in some desperate wishful thinking, with the hope you wouldn’t see them, but then the dotted line starts beating, jumping in taunt. His eyes are wide as he stares at it, holding his breath. Ten seconds pass before it disappears—no message sent.

You blocked him again. And he can’t blame you.

And yet, he can’t let you go, either. 

He spends the first few weeks hauled up at home—his flat becoming as trashed as ever as he doomscrolls all your socials through a fake account. You’ve deleted all the pictures of him—even the ones of yourself when you’ve been with him. There’s no evidence the two of you were even dating.

How could you do this? How could you erase him like this?

He has questions, and he needs answers. You can’t just do this—the two of you haven’t even had the talk—he hasn’t even got to say his side yet!

He just wants to talk to you—why won’t you let him? He just wants you to hear him out. He deserves that much. But since you’re not giving him any option of contacting you, he’s had to resort to medieval methods—lurking outside your apartment like some creep, eyes peeled on your building’s entrance, waiting for you to show.

He’s there for hours, patiently—refusing to go home—thinking he’ll be there all night if he has to.

But then there you are—coming out of the complex, stepping down the alley, dressed all nice for the night. You seem to be in a hurry—are you on your way to another date? Well, wherever you’re going and whoever you’re meeting, they can wait.

“I need to talk—” he doesn’t get the words out.

You’d noticed him following you and tried to out-pace him—make him lose interest. But the area your flat’s situated in is a sketchy one—at least for girls, and you’d made the decision long ago that you’d never walk outside unprepared. And so, as soon as feeling the stranger's hand on your arm, you whip around to maze him right in the face.

“Argh!” he screeches and stumbles back, hands covering his eyes. “Fuck—ow-fuckin’dammit, shit—what the fuck did you do that for? Fuck—”

You were going to make a run for it, but the familiar voice has you halt—wait a minute…

You call his name, and sure enough, it’s him who looks up at you through the teary redness of your pepper spray assault. 

“Oh my god, shit—I’m so sorry—I thought you were a—” you stop yourself. “Fuck—never mind. Come—” You link his arm with yours and lead him back inside the apartment you just left. “I’ll help you rinse—I’m so sorry.”

You rush him to the bathroom, seating him atop the toilet lid as you wet a cloth and start soaking his face.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t see it was you—” you apologize again. “Are your eyes okay?”

“Not really,” he hisses through clenched teeth, though steals himself soon after. “But they're getting better…”

His face unswells after a good thirty minutes, after which he’s able to keep his eyes open again—sore and no doubt bloodshot, yet fine, if not for that. You’ve moved him into the living room instead, having done what you could to rinse off your attack—having provided him with an apologetic glass of water. Now sitting with him, waiting for the effects to wear off.

It feels nice to be with you again despite the circumstances—but it’s awkward how you don’t speak.

“You look nice,” he says—trying to break the tension. It’s not as if the two of you are strangers, and so you shouldn’t act like it.

“Oh, I’m going to a party—roomie’s already there, so…” you say, sitting at the edge of your seat. “If you’re okay, I should probably head out… soon.”

A silence fills his head, as well as the room—a heavy stillness before a single word leaves him. “What?” His face sinks—part confusion, part offense, and something else—something that makes his voice come out accusatory and outraged, “You maze me in the face, and you’re just gonna fuck off to a party?”

Your eyes widen.“Well… it’s—”

“No—what the fuck?” He stands abruptly. His head’s so empty except for the blinding darkness slowly overtaking it—leaving him feeling boiling and all but nuclear. “That’s all I get? Are you fucking serious?” He’s shouting now—and then he’s on you, with one hand fisting your pretty dress and another around your throat. “First, you dump me without warning, assault me like some maniac, give me a lousy apology, and then tell me to fuck off? What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

You splutter his name and push, but it’s like fighting a wall.

“Where are you actually going dressed like that, huh? What’s so fucking important? Is it another date? What, with that same oaf I saw here last time? Or is it someone new already? I know how flighty you can be. I mean, fuck, I knew you were a little freaky, but I didn’t know I was dating a fucking slut!”

His strength comes as a complete and utter devastating shock. You’d think sitting in a chair all day would make any muscle obsolete—but the hands holding you don’t right now is more than anything you could hope to fight against.

“Stop! Get off me—” you cry, thrashing hopelessly as he lifts your dress and rips your lace panty down your thighs. 

A growl in his voice and nothing but rage on his face.

“If anyone can get it—I might as well help myself.”

♡ INSPO

♡ BNHA – Shigaraki, Dabi, Denki, Kirishima ♡ BLLK – Nagi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[usuallydyinginside]

"No One Mourns the Wicked" is about Glinda, not Elphaba

Okay, but hear me out. Wicked songs are so good at saying one thing and meaning something entirely different once you have more context. For instance, "I'm Not That Girl" is Elphaba singing about Glinda initially, then in Act 2 flips to Glinda singing about Elphaba. Because it turns out, Elphaba IS that girl and Glinda is not. When we meet the Wizard, he sings about how he always wanted to be a father. When you get to Act 2, you get the sad little reprise in the background music as he realizes that WHOOPS, he was one and he destroyed his only kid. "Defying Gravity" starts with "I hope you're happy" in the sarcastic sense and ends with them both using the same phrase to genuinely wish one another well.

"Thank Goodness" is set up as a cheerful engagement song where Glinda genuinely means "thank goodness for how great my life is" and ends in a place where she's insisting that she IS happy even as she realizes her engagement is a sham, her best friend is gone, and she's left with the Wizard and Madame M, who she doesn't even like.

You get the picture.

Basically, the whole musical is about subverting what you expect, starting with the base premise of "what if the Wicked Witch was the hero of the story" and digging in from there.

Honestly, I'd never paid much attention to the first song. It's a good opener, sets things up well, but it has some big competition with later songs. However, in the movie the staging and camera choices made me really notice it for the first time. Because you know what? Someone DID pay attention to that song, and you can really really tell.

For those who need a refresher, the lyrics to the chorus Glinda sings are: And Goodness knows The Wicked's lives are lonely Goodness knows The Wicked die alone It just shows when you're Wicked You're left only On your own I was always so busy noticing Glinda's grief over thinking Elphaba was genuinely dead that I failed to notice Glinda's grief over her OWN fate. The movie did such a good job with this because every time we get to the pink lines about being alone, Glinda IS alone. She is standing apart from the crowd who adores her. Standing above them. Standing at the center of a bunch of people yet still, isolated.

Because in the end, we know that Elphaba DIDN'T die alone. We know she wasn't on her own. We know her life WASN'T lonely ultimately. She had her flying monkey and animal friends. She had Fiyero.

And who does Glinda have?

Everyone, but realistically, no one. She is an ideal, not a person to most of Oz, just as much as Elphaba has become the token scapegoat. Where Elphaba is the "Wicked Witch," Glinda is "Glinda the Good Witch" - she is literally supposed to be the embodiment of goodness.

And what does Glinda have at the end of this whole thing (as of this song at least)? A disastrous end to her engagement, the death of her best friend, a sorceress who has hated her, demeaned her, and dismissed her from the start, and a con man who is also just a symbol more than a person.

I think it really hit me when Glinda throws the fire on the giant effigy of Elphaba. Ariana's acting was SO good there, because I'd expected us to see that private moment of horror or regret. What I didn't expect was the sort of determined and almost angry glare at the effigy.

But it makes sense. At this point, Glinda has realized that she lost everything and everyone she actually cared about.

As she so aptly puts it in "Thank Goodness"...

Though it is, I admit The tiniest bit Unlike I anticipated. But I couldn't be happier, Simply couldn't be happier, Well, not "simply" 'Cause getting your dreams It's strange, but it seems A little, well, complicated.

There's a kind of a sort of cost. There's a couple of things get lost. There are bridges you cross You didn't know you crossed Until you've crossed!

And if that joy, that thrill Doesn't thrill like you think it will Still-- With this perfect finale, The cheers and the ballyhoo! Who wouldn't be happier? So I couldn't be happier, Because happy is what happens When all your dreams come true.

Well, isn't it?

Happy is what happens when you're dreams come true.

It's not Elphaba's fault that Glinda has ended up this way. Glinda chose it every step of the way. Yet, if Glinda had never met Elphaba, (if she'd never known her, you could say), she might have stayed shallow and vain. She might never have been challenged to look deeper and realize how empty it all felt.

So as Glinda sings "No One Mourns the Wicked," she realizes that even if the Munchkins are singing about the "Wicked Witch," she's not.

She's singing about herself.

The one who traded her morals, friendship, and love for a taste of the admiration and power over those who don't really know her. The one who was so worried about being likable that she herself doesn't like who she's become.

Even after she makes things better for Oz and herself by sending the wizard away and getting rid of Madame M, it just leaves Glinda by herself as the leader and source of goodness in Oz. It leaves her on a pedestal she can never step off of.

It leaves her lonely.

Entirely alone.

[cloudyluun]

Soft Spot

Summary: Harry Styles is the world’s most effortlessly cocky bastard in public. But behind closed doors? He’s soft for one person, her. Their love is private, sacred, the only thing that’s ever truly been his. But the internet is relentless, the rumors won’t stop, and she starts to wonder if she’ll ever fit into his world. Just when she’s about to pull away, Harry makes sure she never doubts it again. AKA: Soft (but also possessive) boyfriend Harry? Check. Jealous, protective, doesn’t-take-shit Harry? Also check. A public declaration, viral paparazzi moments, and one very necessary smut scene? You already know.

A/N: This fic is based on two requests (this one and this one from @dipmeinhoneyh) that fit so perfectly together I had no choice but to make it a full story. I hope you love it, I hope it makes you feral, and I hope you leave this feeling at least 10% more in love with Harry Styles than you already were. Also, if you ever see a man carrying all your bags through an airport while wearing your shirt?? Marry him immediately.

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: 

Smut (obviously)—possessive, praise-heavy, SOFT but also FILTHY

Harry being the most protective, doting, airport-sherpa boyfriend alive

Jealousy and minor confrontation (because someone was dumb enough to question her worth)

Public scrutiny and social media toxicity (but don’t worry, he shuts that shit down)

Excessive amounts of boyfriend fluff (back rubs, forehead kisses, and “mine” moments galore)

Did I mention the smut? Because THE SMUT.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Harry Styles was a menace.

Everyone knew it—especially the media. He wasn’t just the biggest name in music, he was also a nightmare to interview. He had little patience for industry bullshit, answered questions with nothing but a smirk or a sip of his drink, and rarely—if ever—gave the press what they wanted.

At this point, journalists had learned to come prepared when sitting across from him. They needed strategy, a solid game plan, and maybe even a shot of whiskey beforehand. Because Harry? Harry made it difficult.

And God, did he enjoy it.

The first clip that went viral was from a BBC interview.

The journalist was older, seasoned. She’d been in the game for decades and knew how to handle difficult personalities. Or at least, she thought she did.

The interview had been going fine—as fine as an interview with Harry Styles could be. He’d leaned back in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, looking like he owned the place. Dressed in a half-unbuttoned silk shirt and tailored trousers, he was a picture of effortless arrogance.

Then she asked, “Do you think you’re difficult?”

Harry blinked. Didn’t move for a second. Then—slowly, deliberately—he picked up his drink, took a long sip, and held eye contact the entire time.

The silence stretched.

And stretched.

The journalist swallowed.

Finally, Harry licked his lips, tilted his head, and asked, “D’you think I care?”

The second clip was worse.

A different interview, a different day, same energy.

Harry was sitting in front of a panel of radio hosts, arms crossed, tattoos peeking out from under the loose sleeves of his sweater. The conversation had been moving along at a leisurely pace, touching on his tour, his latest album, the usual surface-level stuff.

Then one of the hosts leaned forward, smug, thinking he had the upper hand.

“So, tell us, Harry. What’s the song ‘Soft Spot’ about?”

Harry, who had been absentmindedly fiddling with one of his rings, paused. He exhaled through his nose, the barest hint of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth.

Then—without hesitation—he shrugged. “Dunno. Just a song.”

The hosts groaned in frustration.

The internet? Ate it up.

Edits of him smirking, of him dodging questions with effortless ease, flooded Twitter and TikTok. People captioned them with things like “This man is impossible” and “Certified menace behavior”.

The general consensus?

Harry Styles didn’t answer questions unless he wanted to.

Until someone asked about her.

It happened during a late-night talk show appearance.

The studio was dimly lit, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. Harry was perched on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, fingers playing absentmindedly with the chain around his neck. He was half-paying attention, answering questions with his usual brand of casual indifference.

Then the host, a sharp-eyed comedian known for catching celebrities off guard, grinned. “Alright, Harry. I have a question I think the people really want to know.”

Harry didn’t react much. Just arched a slow, lazy brow. “Yeah?”

“You’ve been seen with the same girl a lot lately…”

For the first time all night, something shifted.

Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.

But it was there, the way his fingers paused against the metal of his chain, the way his shoulders tensed, just slightly, the way his mouth twitched, like he was already biting back a smirk.

The audience leaned forward.

The internet, watching from their screens, held their breath.

Harry tilted his head, slowly. His lips parted, there it was. That signature smirk, the one that sent fans into a frenzy.

“Yeah?”

The host grinned, seeing the shift. “Care to comment?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—Harry grinned. Not his usual mocking, I’m-so-over-this smirk. A real grin. The kind that made his dimples crease, the kind that softened his otherwise sharp edges.

His fingers tapped once, twice against his thigh.

Then, he looked directly into the camera, his voice dropping just a fraction.

“She’s great.”

The studio lost it.

The audience roared—cheers, gasps, the works. Twitter exploded before the show even finished airing. Within minutes, #ShesGreat was trending worldwide.

Fans analyzed the clip from every angle:

The way his face softened.

The way his body language changed.

The fact that he—HARRY STYLES, NOTORIOUS MENACE—HAD ACTUALLY ANSWERED.

He didn’t say her name. Didn’t confirm anything outright. But the shift in him? The softness in his voice?

That was all people needed.

It was real.

And the world wasn’t ready.

Y/N wasn’t famous.

She wasn’t an actress, a model, a singer, or an influencer. There was no glamorous past, no viral moment that put her on the map. No high-profile connections, no childhood dream of Hollywood stardom.

She was just a girl with a normal life—one that, up until a year ago, had been blissfully simple.

Her days had always followed a rhythm.

Morning coffee at her favorite little café, tucked into a corner booth with a book. Work, which she genuinely enjoyed—something steady, something real, something that felt like hers. Drinks with friends on Fridays, lazy Sundays spent in oversized sweaters, grocery shopping in peace without having to worry about cameras or strangers whispering her name.

She had a routine. A quiet, predictable world.

Then Harry Styles had walked into it.

And ruined everything.

She still didn’t know how it had happened.

It was easy to pinpoint the beginning—the first time their paths had crossed, the first time she’d realized that Harry fucking Styles wasn’t just a name on a magazine cover, but a person with thoughts and moods and an irritatingly sharp wit.

But she never expected it to go anywhere.

At first, he was just a guy who flirted too much.

Then he was a guy who made her laugh.

Then he was the guy she couldn’t stop thinking about.

And somehow—without her even noticing—he became hers.

It had been over a year now. Twelve whole months of him.

Twelve months of stolen moments, whispered conversations in the dark, secret rendezvous that always ended with his lips on her skin and his voice murmuring, “Just us, love. That’s all that matters.”

Twelve months of hiding.

Because Harry? Harry was obsessed with keeping her safe.

"It’s our life, not theirs," he told her once. "You don’t owe them shit."

She’d been curled up in his lap when he said it, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over the tattoos on his arm.

She had been scared that night—really, truly scared.

Her phone had blown up with messages from friends, all linking her to articles and Twitter threads dissecting her existence. Speculation had spread like wildfire after one blurry photo of them together made it online. Nothing too obvious—just a candid shot of her walking ahead of him, their fingers barely brushing.

But it was enough.

Enough for people to start digging.

Within hours, her social media had been flooded. Comments, theories, strangers demanding to know who the hell she was and why she thought she deserved him.

She had wanted to throw her phone into the ocean.

Instead, she had buried her face into the curve of Harry’s neck, inhaling the scent of him—warm skin and expensive cologne and something inherently his. Something safe.

“I don’t think I can do this,” she had admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Harry’s grip on her had tightened immediately. Protective. Possessive.

“You don’t have to,” he’d murmured. “Not like that. Not the way they want.”

And that was how they lived. No red carpets. No public declarations. No letting the world in. Just them, in their little bubble—hidden away in hotel rooms and dimly lit apartments, in long drives with the windows down, in whispered confessions at three in the morning.

It was beautiful. It was safe.

But Y/N knew—deep down, in the quiet moments when she was alone with her thoughts—that the world wouldn’t stop trying to tear it apart.

Because it wasn’t just them anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

And no matter how fiercely Harry tried to protect her from it, the outside world was still watching.

Still waiting.

Still hungry for cracks in the foundation.

They didn’t understand him.

The world saw one version of Harry Styles.

The public version. The one who didn’t give a single shit what anyone thought of him. The one who strolled into interviews with that lazy, half-lidded smirk, sprawled out in his chair like he had all the time in the world, deliberately giving them nothing just to piss them off.

“Harry, is it true you walked out of your last meeting with the label?”

He barely blinked. “Wouldn’t you?”

“Is it also true that you—”

A slow sip of his drink. A deliberate pause.

Then, just for fun, a cocked eyebrow. “Dunno. You tell me.”

Click. Click. Click. Cameras flashing. Headlines already writing themselves.

Harry Styles: Rock’s Most Arrogant Asshole.

Harry Styles—Too Famous To Care?

Harry Styles Gives Zero Fucks About Literally Everything.

It was a game. One he didn’t mind playing.

Because the more they focused on the persona, the less they looked too closely at what really mattered.

The less they dug into his real life.

The less they found her.

Because private Harry?

A completely different person.

Private Harry sent texts like, “be home in 5”, because he knew she worried. Because he knew she’d never say it out loud, but if he was running late, she’d start pacing the kitchen, chewing at her bottom lip, imagining the worst.

Private Harry stole her hand cream and chapstick just to smell like her when she wasn’t around.

Private Harry carried her bags through airports like they weighed nothing, insisting every time, “Not letting you lift a damn thing, love.”

Private Harry curled around her in his sleep, face buried against the curve of her neck, his fingers tracing absentminded patterns along her spine until he drifted off—breathing easier when she was there.

No one saw that Harry.

And he preferred it that way.

But every once in a while, the world got a glimpse.

And when they did, it fucking broke the internet.

One moment in particular had gone insanely viral.

It had been a bad day—one of those relentless, aggressive paparazzi swarms outside a studio in L.A.

Harry had already been in a foul mood—late for a meeting, running on three hours of sleep, coming off a night of back-to-back phone calls that had left him rubbing his temples in frustration.

The cameras had been waiting for him the second he stepped out the door.

“Harry! Over here!”

“Harry, how’s the new album?”

“Harry, what’s the deal with the tour delay?”

He ignored them. Didn’t even look up.

Then someone got too close—flashed a camera right in his face, nearly knocking into him.

And that was it.

He snapped.

“Fuck off, yeah?” Sharp, cutting, the words slicing through the air like a whip. His jaw locked, his body tense.

Paparazzi shuffled back, startled.

They knew his reputation.

They’d seen him do this before.

They thought that was the whole show.

Until Y/N appeared.

She had been standing a few feet behind him, waiting.

The second he turned and saw her, everything about him changed.

His scowl softened. His hands, which had been clenched into fists? Relaxed.

And in front of dozens of cameras, in front of the very people he’d just been spitting fire at, Harry immediately reached for her—a steadying touch to her back, a soft tilt of his head. “Y’alright, love?”

Quiet. Gentle. Intimate.

As if nothing else existed in that moment but her.

The paparazzi?

Fucking shook.

The clip blew up online within hours.

Side-by-side comparisons flooded Twitter:

🚨 Harry Styles telling the press to fuck off vs. Harry Styles turning into the softest human alive the second his girlfriend walks into frame. 🚨

Memes. Reactions. Fans dissecting the exact millisecond his demeanor changed.

WHO IS SHE?!

HOW DOES SHE HAVE HIM WRAPPED AROUND HER FINGER LIKE THAT?!

The discourse was endless.

And Harry?

Didn’t say a damn word about it.

Because as long as they were talking about that, they weren’t looking for more.

They weren’t digging deeper.

And that meant she was still safe.

For now.

But the internet was relentless.

Because the thing about secrets—especially ones that belong to someone as famous as Harry Styles—is that they don’t stay secrets for long.

And when people suspect even the smallest sliver of something?

They become obsessed.

It started with something small.

Something that, to anyone else, would have seemed like nothing at all.

Harry had been spotted leaving a café in London, his sleeves rolled up, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose, a coffee cup in one hand.

But that wasn’t what fans noticed.

No.

What they noticed was the bracelet on his wrist.

A thin, woven band. Nothing fancy, nothing designer.

And—most importantly—not his.

The theories exploded.

GUYS. HARRY’S WEARING A FRIENDSHIP BRACELET. HAS HE EVER WORN ONE BEFORE? NO. WHO MADE IT?!

Look at the colors. Do we think there’s a meaning?

I AM SO SERIOUS THIS IS A HANDMADE BRACELET SOMEONE IS IN LOVE WITH HIM AND IT IS NOT ME

WHO THE FUCK IS SHEEEE?

There was no confirmation.

No proof.

But that didn’t stop people from digging.

Because once the internet smelled a mystery, they wouldn’t let it go.

Then came the coffee shop photo.

Blurry. Grainy. Taken at just the right angle to be nearly useless—but not quite.

Because despite the bad quality, despite the distance, despite everything, one thing was clear.

He wasn’t alone.

There was a girl across from him.

A girl who wasn’t famous.

A girl who was sitting comfortably in his presence, laughing at something he said, one hand wrapped around her mug, the other resting—casually, easily—on the table between them.

Too close.

Too familiar.

Too real.

The internet lost its collective mind.

HARRY STYLES SPOTTED WITH THE MYSTERY GIRL IN LONDON—NEW GIRLFRIEND?!

HARRY DATING SOMEONE? WHO IS SHE?!

WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE. WHO IS SHE.

I KNOW WHO SHE IS @yourusername!!

The photo was picked apart frame by frame.

Theories flooded TikTok and Twitter.

Some people were excited—because Harry in love?! Soft domestic boyfriend Harry?! They’d been dreaming of this for years.

But not everyone was happy.

Because some people… some people wanted access.

Some people wanted control.

Some people wanted to destroy anything that felt too real.

It started small.

A few comments.

A few tweets.

A few people saying she wasn’t good enough.

That she was using him.

That she was just another clout chaser who would milk this for all it was worth.

Then the DMs started.

Vicious. Personal. Cruel.

You’ll never be good enough for him.

You’re ruining his career.

No one wants you here.

He’ll leave you just like he’s left all the others.

And she told herself that she wouldn’t let it get to her.

That it didn’t matter.

That these people didn’t know her.

That as long as Harry was with her—really with her—nothing else mattered.

But it wasn’t just online anymore.

Because now, when she stepped outside, she swore she could feel the eyes on her.

Now, when she walked into her favorite coffee shop, she hesitated—half-expecting someone to recognize her.

Now, when she reached for her phone, her hands shook.

She started pulling away. Just a little.

Stopped texting first.

Stopped answering right away.

Stopped leaning into his touch as freely as she had before.

And Harry—because of course Harry noticed—tilted his head at her one night when she turned away from his kiss, his brow furrowing, his thumb tracing soft circles against her wrist.

“Alright, love?”

Her chest ached.

Because he was looking at her like that.

Like he knew.

Like he could see right through her.

Like he was already worried.

She forced a smile. Pressed a quick, barely-there kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” she whispered.

And lied.

The industry party was a mistake.

Y/N had known it the second they walked in.

The air inside the private venue was thick with expensive perfume, whiskey, and the kind of arrogance that could only come from people who knew they were untouchable.

The laughter was too loud. The conversations too sharp, dripping with faux warmth and hidden daggers.

She felt out of place immediately.

It wasn’t her world.

It never had been.

And standing next to Harry—Harry, who fit into this world so effortlessly, who could command attention just by existing, who seemed to belong in a way she never could—only made it worse.

He hadn’t let go of her hand since they arrived.

Had kept her close, thumb brushing over the back of her knuckles, squeezing her fingers in silent reassurance every few minutes, as if he could feel the tension in her shoulders, sense the way she was holding her breath.

But no amount of grounding touches could change the fact that she didn’t belong here.

That much became even more obvious when the wrong person decided to open their mouth.

He was a producer.

Smarmy. Arrogant. The kind of man who loved the sound of his own voice and had been in the industry long enough to think he could get away with saying anything.

And for some reason—maybe it was the champagne, maybe it was just sheer audacity—he chose her as his next target.

“Didn’t think this was your type, Harry.”

Y/N froze.

Harry stiffened next to her.

The producer took a slow sip of his drink, eyes flickering over her like she was something to be inspected.

“Quiet little thing, huh? Thought rockstars liked more excitement.”

Her stomach dropped.

It wasn’t just the words.

It was the way he said them.

The smirk. The condescension. The absolute certainty that he was untouchable, that he could say whatever the fuck he wanted without consequence.

Y/N shrank back before she could stop herself.

And that was when Harry snapped.

He didn’t move right away.

Didn’t react instantly.

Just went completely, unnervingly still.

A muscle jumped in his jaw.

His fingers—still tangled with hers—tightened.

And then—slowly, deliberately—he turned.

And stepped right into the guy’s space.

Harry Styles didn’t have to raise his voice to be intimidating.

Didn’t have to yell, didn’t have to make a scene.

All he had to do was look at someone the right way.

And the producer? He knew.

He fucking knew.

Because suddenly, the confidence wavered.

The smirk faded.

The hand holding his drink trembled just slightly.

“She’s worth more than you ever will be,” Harry said, voice low, icy, laced with so much venom that Y/N shivered.

And then—as if to drive the point home—his hand found her waist, pulled her against him, shielded her from the world with nothing but the sheer force of his presence.

It was a warning.

A claim.

And everyone in the room fucking knew it.

He didn’t let go of her for the rest of the night.

Didn’t stop touching her.

Didn’t stop checking on her.

And when they finally left—when they were finally alone—he held her even closer.

She should have felt safe.

Should have felt protected.

But instead, something heavy settled in her chest.

Because the truth was, this wasn’t just about one asshole at a party.

It was about all of it.

The industry. The fans. The internet. The constant feeling of not being enough.

And maybe… maybe they were right.

Maybe she really wasn’t enough for him.

She wasn’t going to say it.

She wasn’t.

But then Harry—still holding her, still watching her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered—brushed his lips against her forehead, whispered, “You alright, love?”

And it just—it broke her.

Her breath hitched.

And suddenly, she was blurting it out before she could stop herself.

“Maybe they’re right,” she whispered, voice barely above a breath.

Harry froze.

“Maybe I’m not enough for you.”

His entire body tensed.

Like she had just physically hit him.

Like the words had physically hurt him.

“Don’t you ever say that again.”

It wasn’t a plea.

It wasn’t a request.

It was a command.

His hands framed her face, tilting her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And when she did—when she really looked at him—she almost couldn’t handle what she saw.

Because he was devastated.

Shattered.

“Don’t you ever—” His breath shuddered, his forehead pressing against hers. “—say that again.”

She swallowed. “Harry—”

“No.” His grip tightened, like he was afraid she’d slip away if he let go. “You belong with me. Here. Always.” His lips brushed hers, desperate, aching. “And I don’t care what anyone else says.”

She closed her eyes.

Breathed him in.

Let him hold her together, piece by piece.

Because if Harry Styles believed she belonged—

Maybe—just maybe—she could believe it, too.

The storm hadn’t passed.

Not really.

The world still had its claws in them, still watched their every move, still dissected every glance, every touch, every fleeting moment caught on camera.

But Harry… Harry never wavered.

Not once.

Not even when the headlines got uglier.

Not even when the whispers turned into full-blown speculation.

Not even when she started pulling back again, flinching at every flash of a camera, hesitating before reaching for his hand in public, terrified of giving them more fuel.

He noticed.

Of course he noticed.

But he didn’t push.

Didn’t force her to talk about it.

Didn’t tell her that she was still enough, still his, still the only thing in his life that mattered more than anything.

No.

Harry Styles didn’t waste his breath on words.

He showed her.

And the whole damn world saw it.

Madison Square Garden.

A sold-out crowd.

Phones up. Lights blinding.

It was a big night—bigger than most.

The kind of night that would be talked about for years, the kind of performance that would live forever in grainy fan videos, breathless social media posts, and blurry concert footage.

And she wasn’t supposed to be there.

Hadn’t planned on coming.

Had told Harry she’d stay home—avoid the cameras, avoid the crowd, avoid the possibility of being dragged into something she never wanted to be a part of.

But somehow—somehow—she found herself standing in the wings, heart in her throat, hands curled into fists at her sides as she watched him command the stage.

It was impossible not to be captivated.

Impossible not to watch the way he moved, the way he laughed into the mic between songs, the way he glowed under the stage lights.

He was in his element.

He belonged here.

And she—

Well.

She was just trying to stay invisible.

But then—

He turned.

Looked right at her.

And everything stopped.

Because suddenly—mid-show, mid-crowd, mid-fucking-Madison-Square-Garden—Harry Styles did something he never did.

He talked about her.

On stage.

For the world to hear.

“This one’s for someone who thinks she doesn’t belong in my world,” he said, voice steady, eyes never leaving hers.

The crowd screamed.

A roar—loud and deafening and completely unaware of what was actually happening.

“But she is my world.”

Her breath caught.

And then—before she could process what was happening—

He started playing.

A new song.

Unreleased.

Just for her.

And the lyrics—oh, the fucking lyrics.

They were filled with pieces of them.

Little inside jokes woven into verses, fragments of whispered late-night confessions hidden in melodies, the kind of details that only she would understand.

A love letter.

A declaration.

A warning to the world that she was his and he was hers, and that nothing—not the industry, not the headlines, not the relentless scrutiny of millions—could change that.

The internet lost its mind.

Clips went viral within minutes.

Fan theories exploded.

But none of it mattered.

Not really.

Because in that moment—in the middle of everything, in front of everyone, under the brightest damn spotlight possible—

It was just them.

And she belonged.

She didn’t hear the rest of the set.

Not really.

Not past the pounding of her heart, not past the static in her brain, not past the overwhelming realization that he had just done that.

For her.

For everyone to hear.

The screaming of the crowd blurred into white noise. The energy in the arena buzzed around her, the walls seeming to pulse with the sound of thousands of people still losing their minds.

But she couldn’t move.

Couldn’t think.

Couldn’t do anything except stare at the stage where he still stood, grinning like he hadn’t just shattered her entire world in the best possible way.

Because Harry Styles didn’t do things like this.

He dodged questions in interviews.

Shrugged off rumors.

Gave the media nothing to work with.

And yet, tonight—tonight, he had given them everything.

And she had no idea how to breathe through it.

Somewhere along the way, her fingers had curled into the fabric of her sweater, clutching at herself like it might help her stay grounded. Like she wasn’t seconds away from dissolving into nothing but feelings.

Because she knew what this meant.

Knew what it would cause.

Knew that by morning, headlines would be flooded with theories, and her name—or at least her existence—would be dragged into the light again.

But she couldn’t bring herself to care.

Because he’d said she was his world.

He’d said she belonged.

And maybe—just maybe—she believed him.

She was still in a daze when the show ended.

Still stuck in her own head when the lights in the arena dimmed, when the roaring of the crowd turned to scattered cheers and fading echoes of his name.

She barely noticed the way people moved around her.

Security, crew members, the distant hum of conversation—it all faded into the background.

Until—

“There you are.”

Her breath caught.

And then he was there.

Harry.

Still sweaty, still breathless from the high of performing, still looking at her like she was the only thing in the entire fucking world.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Didn’t ask if she’d liked the song.

Didn’t joke about how she’d better have been paying attention.

Didn’t do anything except close the space between them, hands gripping her face, lips pressing against her forehead, breath warm and shaky against her skin.

And she—

God.

She melted.

Because she could feel it—everything he wasn’t saying, everything he had already said on that stage.

The weight of it settled in her chest, so thick she thought she might break apart.

And then—so quietly she almost missed it—

“Tell me you’re staying.”

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Because he knew.

Of course he fucking knew.

Knew how much she had struggled with this.

Knew how many times she had almost walked away.

Knew how much she loved him, but how terrified she was of all of this.

And yet—

His voice was steady.

Not desperate.

Not pleading.

Just… certain.

Like he already knew the answer.

Like he already knew her.

And maybe he did.

Because before she could second-guess herself—before she could let doubt creep in, before she could convince herself she wasn’t strong enough for this—

She nodded.

Just once.

And Harry fucking collapsed against her.

Exhaling like he’d been holding his breath for months.

Arms wrapping around her like he was afraid she might disappear.

Lips crashing against hers in a kiss that was anything but careful.

Because it wasn’t a question anymore.

Wasn’t a hesitation or a what if or an I don’t know.

It was real.

It was them.

And she was staying.

His hotel room was dark, save for the soft glow from the city outside.

But she barely noticed.

Because the only thing that mattered—the only thing that existed in this moment—was him.

Harry.

Pressed against her, warm and solid, breath still uneven from everything that had led to this.

His hands were everywhere.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just certain.

Slow, teasing touches down her spine.

Fingertips tracing the dip of her waist.

Lips skimming along her throat, up to the shell of her ear, where his voice was low, husky, full of intent.

"Gonna remind you who you belong to, yeah?"

Her breath hitched.

Because fuck.

She’d heard that voice before—cocky, teasing, full of mischief when he was playing up his charm.

But this?

This was different.

This was a promise.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping, needing—but he wasn’t in any rush.

Because Harry didn’t just take.

He worshipped.

And she felt it.

In the way his hands moved over her skin—slow, deliberate.

In the way he kissed her—deep, devastating.

Like he had all the time in the world.

Like she was the only thing in it.

His mouth found the curve of her shoulder.

The dip between her ribs.

The inside of her wrist, where her pulse thrummed beneath his lips.

Every inch of her.

And with every kiss, every touch, came a whisper.

"You're everything, love."

"Perfect for me."

"Mine."

Her face burned, but he wouldn’t let her look away.

Wouldn’t let her shrink away from the way he saw her.

Because when she got shy—when she tried to hide—

He caught her chin, thumb tracing her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze.

And fuck, that look.

Like she was something sacred.

Like she was something he could never get enough of.

"Look at you, taking me so well."

Her breath shuddered out of her.

And God, he knew what he was doing.

The filthy praise, the way he held her like she was precious, the possessiveness in his voice—

It was too much and not enough, all at once.

And he didn’t stop.

Didn’t stop until she was falling apart beneath him, gasping his name, hands tangled in his hair, nails raking down his back.

Didn’t stop until she was completely his.

And then—when the world had settled again, when their breathing was slow and tangled together, when she was half-asleep in his arms

Harry took care of her.

Of course he did.

Because he always did.

Pressed a kiss to her temple.

Murmured soft things against her skin as he cleaned her up, as he wrapped her up in him.

Strong arms pulling her close, keeping her warm, keeping her safe.

Only ever his.

And just before sleep pulled her under—

Just before her body fully relaxed against his—

She heard it.

Soft.

Low.

Meant just for her.

"Love you, you know that?"

And she did.

God, she did.

But what really got her—what really made her heart ache in the best, most devastating way—was that he never said it like he needed her to say it back.

Never said it like he was waiting for some kind of validation.

He said it like a fact.

Like the sun would rise tomorrow.

Like the sky was blue.

Like her being his was something permanent.

And maybe it was.

The airport was a nightmare.

The second they stepped inside, cameras started flashing, voices shouting—Harry! Over here! Is that your girlfriend?! Harry, can you confirm—

He ignored them.

Of course he did.

Didn’t even flinch.

Just kept walking, kept his hand firmly on the small of her back, kept her close.

And he was carrying everything.

Her suitcase.

Her tote bag.

Her carry-on.

Even the stupid travel pillow she’d nearly forgotten in the car.

Meanwhile, she was strolling beside him, completely unbothered, sipping her coffee like she didn’t have a single care in the world.

The contrast? Insane.

And the internet lost its mind.

The tweets came fast.

@stylesupdates: HARRY CARRYING EVERY SINGLE ONE OF HER BAGS WHILE SHE JUST DRINKS HER COFFEE??? SIR. YOU ARE WHIPPED.

@hslotlover: HE'S WEARING HER SHIRT (it’s posted on her Instagram @yourusername) AGAIN I CAN’T DO THIS TODAY.

Because, yeah.

He was.

It was an old, slightly oversized tee—hers.

The one she always stole from his drawer. The one she wore to bed whenever he wasn’t around.

And now?

Now he was wearing it in public.

On purpose.

Like some kind of quiet, undeniable statement.

Like a middle finger to the world.

But the real moment—the one that cemented it all—was the photo.

A blurry, candid shot someone snapped from across the terminal.

Harry, walking ahead, death glaring at the paparazzi.

Her, right behind him, looking effortlessly soft, untouchable.

And the caption?

"He’s still an asshole, and she’s still his soft spot."

And fuck.

If that wasn’t the truest thing anyone had ever said.

Because the world still didn’t get it.

But he didn’t care.

Because she was his.

And that was enough.

That had always been enough.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Thank you so much for reading, you’re a total angel! Don’t forget to like, comment, and reblog if you enjoyed! It means everything to me! 💖

taglist: @oscahpastry @mema10 @angelbabyyy99 @iloveharrystyles04 @cinemharry @drwho06 @donutsandpalmtrees @panini @mads3502 @imgonnadreamaboutthewayyoutaaaa @one-sweet-gubler @rizosrizos26 @ciriceimpera @everyscarisahealingplace @hello-heyhi @sexymfharriet @lizsogolden @hannah9921 @chicabonitasblog @huhidontknowstuff @berrywoods1245 @jennovaaa @angeldavis777 @prettygurl-2009 @almostcontentcreator @run-for-the-hills @maudie-duan @dipmeinhoneyh @harrrrystylesslut @georgiarose94 @stylestarkey @watarmelon212 @hopefullimaginer123, @fangirl509east @bethiegurl19 @adoredeanna @secretisme4 @harry2121 @hopefullimaginer123 @fangirl509east @uncassettodiricordi @2601-london @zbaby @harryscherries28 @michellekstyles

[luveline]

Shy!reader and post prison Spence - the first time he calls her a pet name? I love that your Spencers always use “honey” or “dove” or “love” and we know she’d be a mess.

P.S. completely agree with how much I love the gentleness of your characters. The way you write Spencer in love is literally my favorite

ty for requesting <3 fem

“Are you sure it’s okay?” 

Spencer holds a hanging strap. You hold your own, core tense with the movement of the train. “I think I would’ve mentioned it before you got on the train if it weren’t.” 

You nod, glancing around the traincar at the other passengers. There's a stout lady wearing a large fluffy sweater, turquoise with two white kittens at her chest nuzzling one another in knit. A man with three bags of groceries sits just beside her. Further down, a teenage girl listens to music through leaking headphones, her phone reflecting blue light on her cheeks. 

“But are you sure I won’t be an imposition?” 

“You aren’t usually. I guess we won’t know until we get there.” 

“Maybe I should just find a hotel for the night.” 

“Y/N, I’m kidding. You’re not an imposition, it won’t be a problem. There’s enough room at my apartment for you to stay however long you want. Between all the books, that is.” 

It’s just not something you pictured asking him for. Your kitchen flooded in your apartment and the landlord had to put you up in a hotel until he could get someone in to make sure the stove wasn’t about to explode or catch light. But the idea of a hotel is rough torture —somewhere unfamiliar, living out of a suitcase, surrounded by people you don’t know without a door that locks properly. Spencer caught you sweating over it at your desk, pulling the story from you in reluctant drags with a hand on your shoulder. 

It’ll be okay, he said, you can just stay with me. 

Which is relieving and somehow a new can of worms to deal with. At least at a hotel there was no chance of seeing Spencer in a towel. Spencer seeing you in a towel, in your pyjamas, without your formal office protections. 

The worst part is the excitement. 

Terrified he’ll see it on your face, you stare at your shoes next to his. Spencer… Everyone told you he was a dork. When you joined the team in his absence, not once did you get the impression that the man who’d be coming back was like this. You feel like he’d been infantilised. Which isn’t to say he isn’t a dork, he is, he tells you the strangest things, facts or statistics to accompany each topic of the day, and he has all the manners and chivalry of someone who knows what it’s like to be as painfully shy as you are. But he isn’t shy. 

Autistic, he’d confided once. Probably. I’m better at dealing with it now. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

“Nervous.” 

“I know.” He grasps your arm as the train screeches on tracks, turning a tight bend. You’re grateful, but immediately flushed with heat. 

“I don’t want to embarrass myself.” 

“You couldn’t. I think I know you too well already.”

“You’ve known me for less time than the rest of the team, but you were the first person to offer me a place to stay.” You clench the rickety handle of your suitcase. “Thank you.” 

“That’s okay, angel.” He says it simply and softly, like you really are an angel. Something breathless to wait with. 

Angel, you think, heart skipping a beat, pulse slow and then suddenly ramped. 

His arm slips behind your back. “I don’t want you to stay in a hotel if it’s going to scare you. Besides, it’ll be fun. Like a sleepover.” He laughs. And you, despite your flush, heat sinking across your chest like a bruise, manage to laugh back. “I’ve never had one before.” 

“What?” 

“Never had a sleepover. I didn’t have any friends in school, and I haven’t had a girlfriend stay the night before.”

You look up at him with wide eyes, expecting a retraction. Not that you’re my girlfriend, not that you’re anything like that at all. 

He smiles at you. “Should we get takeout?”

“What were you thinking?” 

“There’s an Indian restaurant between the station and my apartment? We can stop in. Or we can order something to come. Or I can cook, if you want home cooked.” 

“No, it’s fine, you don’t have to cook–”

His lips turn to a quizzical pout. “I don’t mind.”

You want him to call you angel again. You want him to take you home, make you dinner, and you want to sleepover. Like a girlfriend, you want to wake up in his bed. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, “I think I’m just tired.” 

“Are you sure?” You nod. “Alright. I was worried you didn’t like the pet name, but your pupils dilated when I said it–”

You can’t escape him. One hand in the hanging strap above, the over on your suitcase handle, you have no choice but to stand there with his arm around you to keep you from falling, face so hot with it that you’re sure you’d be feverish to the touch. “It’s fine,” you say, too afraid to look at his face that you end up staring at the nice shape of his throat, his black and purple tie. “Call me what you want. Um, I think we should get Indian.” 

“Good choice, angel.” 

[surielstea]

Can I get HCs for the Bat Boyz & the autumn boyz (Eris & Lucien, my favourites) with this dialogue:

“There’s nowhere to sit” “My lap is right here.”

Bonus points: if it’s not always the boyz’ lap that’s being referenced here. Personally I think Lucien, Rhys and Cass would find it hilarious.

Thank you! 💀

“My lap is right here.”

Pairing: ACoTaR men x Fem!Reader (separately)

Summary: requested above.

Warnings: All fluff with some suggestiveness!

A. Note: this is just a little something for you guys while I finish my Azris x Reader story (it’s already 10k words…) it’s gonna take me a minute to edit that so enjoy this while you wait! :)

Rhysand

Rita's was packed, the music thrumming through the air, a bass-heavy pulse that vibrated through the floor. Laughter and conversation wove together, filling the space with an electric kind of energy. You should have expected this—should have known that a night out with the Inner Circle would be anything but quiet.

The lot of you had managed to snag one of the larger rounded booths, a semicircle of plush velvet meant for maybe six or seven people. But there were ten of you, and despite the shuffling, adjusting, and outright shoving that had taken place, only nine had managed to squeeze in.

Which left you standing there, arms crossed, staring at the filled seats.

"Well, where am I supposed to sit?" you asked, arching a brow as your so-called friends barely spared you a second glance. Even Amren—tiny, ruthless Amren—had somehow managed to claim a spot.

Before anyone could answer, a strong hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you forward with a familiar, effortless strength. A gasp left your lips as you tumbled into a broad, solid chest, your mate's scent of sea salt and citrus washing over you as he caught you with ease.

"My lap is right here, darling," Rhys purred into your ear, his voice a velvety caress. His arms caged you against him as he leaned back into the booth, utterly at ease with you in his lap. "This seat is always reserved for you."

A flush crept up your neck, heat coiling low in your stomach as his lips ghosted over the sensitive spot just below your ear. You swatted at his arm half-heartedly, though you didn't move away.

"Get a room," Cassian groaned, shaking his head. "Or at least wait until we've had a few drinks before you start eye-fucking each other."

"Oh, please," Mor cut in, already sliding out of the booth. "Tell me about it, Cass. I'm getting a round."

"Get us doubles!" Amren called after her. "We're going to need them." She sighed beneath her breath.

The table erupted in laughter, but Rhys barely paid them any mind. His fingers traced idle patterns along your thigh, his lips still dangerously close to your ear.

"You don't mind sitting here, do you?" he murmured, the hint of amusement in his voice making it clear he already knew the answer.

You tilted your head just enough to meet his gaze, violet eyes dark with mischief. "I think you planned this," you accused, narrowing your eyes.

His smile was all wickedness and charm. "And if I did?"

You huffed, shaking your head—but you didn't move from his lap. And judging by the way his hands tightened ever so slightly on your hips, you doubted he had any intention of letting you go.

Let Mor bring the drinks. You had everything you needed right here.

Azriel

"Hi, handsome," you greet, a smile curling at your lips as you swing open the door to your apartment. The crisp scent of rain drifts in with the night air, mingling with the warmth of your cozy home. Azriel stands in the doorway, shadows curling subtly around him as if hesitant to cross the threshold.

His hazel eyes soften as he takes you in, lingering on the comfortable sweater you've thrown on, the glow of candlelight flickering in the background. He steps inside, shaking a few stray raindrops from his hair, and you close the door behind him, shutting out the storm.

"You're soaked," you remark, reaching out to help him shrug off his damp jacket. His fingers brush against yours as he hands it over, and even with the chill clinging to the fabric, his touch is warm.

"It's cold out there," he murmurs, eyes scanning the space around him. He's never been to your apartment before, and you watch with amusement as his gaze sweeps over the small but welcoming interior—books stacked in uneven piles, a few blankets draped over the couch, a candle flickering on the coffee table. A place lived in. A place entirely yours.

"But it's nice in here," he adds, his voice dipping lower as he turns back to you.

You barely have time to process his words before his lips are on yours—slow, deliberate, his hands coming up to cradle your jaw as he deepens the kiss. You melt into him for a moment, savoring the warmth that spreads through your chest before you pull away with a playful smile.

"Come on," you say, tugging him toward the couch. "Make yourself comfortable."

Azriel hesitates. It's subtle—the slight shift of his weight, the way his wings twitch behind him as he glances at the couch. It's not exactly built to accommodate a six-foot-something Illyrian warrior with a wingspan that could cast an eclipse over your entire living room.

"Uh... where should I sit?" he asks, the uncertainty in his voice so rare it almost makes you laugh.

You smirk, patting your lap in invitation. "Right here's an option."

His lips twitch in amusement, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his gaze before he makes his decision—easing down onto the couch beside you instead. His wing unfurls slightly, shifting behind you before settling around your shoulders like a warm, protective cloak.

You hum contentedly, pulling a blanket over both of you and nestling into his side. The steady beat of his heart thrums against your ear as you relax into the comfort of his presence.

"Thought you'd take me up on my offer," you tease, tilting your head to glance up at him.

His lips brush against your temple, voice low and amused. "Maybe next time."

For now, you're more than happy with this—wrapped in the warmth of him, the scent of rain and cedarwood clinging to his skin, and the quiet, unspoken promise that he is exactly where he wants to be.

Cassian

"Babe, you in here?"

Cassian's voice carries through the library just before his head peeks around the doorway. You don't bother looking up, too engrossed in the book cradled in your hands—a detailed account of art created during the war. Nestled beneath a thick pile of blankets in a massive leather chair that practically swallows you whole, you simply lift one hand from the cocoon of warmth and wave lazily.

"Here."

He steps inside, brows knitting together. "I called you through the bond. You didn't answer."

"I'm reading," you murmur distractedly, flipping a page without sparing him a glance.

"Reading or not, answer next time. I was worried, okay?" His voice dips into something softer, more serious as he strides deeper into the room.

You hum in vague acknowledgment but don't respond, eyes locked on the words before you.

“Baby," he tries again, tapping a finger against the edge of your book.

You snap your gaze up at him, blinking as if just now remembering his presence. "Huh?"

Cassian exhales through his nose, clearly unimpressed. "Okay?" he repeats, waiting for some kind of confirmation.

Not entirely sure what you're agreeing to but wanting to return to your book, you nod absently. "Yeah, okay."

He watches you for a long moment, his broad shoulders deflating when you go right back to reading. The silence stretches between you, filled only with the soft crackling of the fireplace and the faint rustle of pages.

"Aren't you going to ask why I was looking for you?" His voice carries the weight of expectation.

"...No." You shrug, completely unrepentant.

Cassian lets out a dramatic sigh, his hope for your attention swiftly diminishing. "If you look at me right now, I'll leave you alone with your book," he mutters.

Your head snaps up instantly, locking onto his warm caramel gaze.

"Cauldron, you're determined," he grumbles. Then, in one swift motion, he swipes your book from your hands and snaps it shut.

You gasp, eyes widening as you reach for it. "Cassian!"

"You can read later. Give me attention now," he hums, looking far too pleased with himself.

You narrow your eyes at him, lips parting to protest, but then an idea strikes. You soften your expression, tilt your head slightly, and give him the biggest, most pitiful puppy-dog eyes you can manage.

His smirk falters. Then crumbles entirely.

"Okay, I'm sorry," he blurts, scrambling to return your book. He flips it open and, somehow, miraculously lands on the exact page you were on.

You blink in surprise before shooting him a suspicious look.

"What?" he says innocently, though the glint in his eye suggests he knew exactly what he was doing.

Still, you smile in triumph, sinking deeper into the chair and pulling the book back into place.

Cassian frowns at you, clearly still unsatisfied, and before you can react, he swoops in, effortlessly lifting you from your seat.

A startled yelp escapes you as he sets you on your feet, stealing your chair for himself. You huff but refuse to be deterred, standing directly in front of him, reading as if nothing had happened. Every so often, you flick a page, ignoring the weight of his amused stare.

A sudden shiver wracks through you, the realization settling in—you had been so warm under that blanket. You glance up to find Cassian comfortably wrapped in it now, looking entirely too smug.

"Give me my spot back," you grumble, crossing your arms.

"My lap is right here," he counters smoothly, patting his thigh.

You roll your eyes but don't hesitate long before crawling into his lap. His arms immediately come around you, securing you against his chest as he reclines the chair back. The warmth of him, the steady beat of his heart against your back, melts away any lingering annoyance.

Without another word, you resume reading, far more comfortable now than you had been before. Cassian presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, fingers threading through your hair in a way that is both distracting and soothing.

You silently thank him for keeping your hair out of your face, appreciating, despite everything, that he always finds a way to take care of you—even when he's being insufferable.

Eris

The golden throne is a masterpiece—intricate carvings of twisting flames and autumn leaves adorning the armrests, the deep red cushions a striking contrast against the polished gold. But the true vision of perfection is the male seated upon it.

Eris, legs spread carelessly, his head resting against his palm, the faintest smirk playing on his lips. His auburn hair catches the flickering candlelight, a halo of fire framing his sharp, impossibly beautiful features. His amber eyes—always so sharp, always so calculating—soften slightly as they land on you.

You shift your weight, feeling oddly out of place as you stand before him. "So... do I get a throne too?" you ask, tilting your head.

Eris raises a single brow, amusement flickering across his face. "Why?"

You blink at him. "Because this is the throne for the ruler of Autumn," he explains, as if the answer is obvious.

"Right," you say, crossing your arms. "But I just mean... I'm High Lady. Shouldn't I have a throne too?"

It feels strange, asking for something like this, but before you were even married, Eris made it abundantly clear—you are his equal in all things. He's never once treated you as anything less.

He exhales softly, watching you as if he's trying to puzzle something out. Then, finally, he shrugs. "We share a bed. Shouldn't we share a throne?"

Your lips part in protest. "It's not exactly large enough—"

But before you can finish, Eris moves. With a fluidity that makes your breath hitch, he reaches forward, gripping your wrist and tugging you toward him. A startled gasp escapes you as you stumble, catching yourself on the arm of the throne just as you land in his lap, straddling one of his thighs.

The position leaves your faces mere inches apart—your wide eyes meeting his entirely relaxed, smirking expression.

His hands settle on your waist, fingers drumming idly against the fabric of your dress. "We can get you your own throne if you really want, pretty," he murmurs, his voice a silken promise. "But what's mine is yours. So share this with me—for now, okay?"

You stare at him, still slightly stunned by the sudden shift, the warmth of him seeping into you, the firm press of muscle beneath you. His scent—smoke and crisp autumn air—wraps around you, grounding you in the moment.

Slowly, you nod.

"Good," he whispers, his smirk softening into something dangerously close to adoration before he leans in, capturing your lips in a slow, deliberate kiss.

A kiss that lingers, that tastes of fire and devotion.

And as you melt into him, you think—perhaps his lap as a throne was a perfectly good alternative.

Lucien

The gathering was already in full swing by the time you and Lucien arrived. The grand hall, adorned in golden candlelight and autumnal tapestries, was packed with High Fae from various courts. A long banquet table stretched through the center of the room, lined with platters of rich food and goblets of deep red wine.

You had expected a formal meeting—discussions of trade agreements, court relations, maybe a bit of posturing. What you hadn't expected was an entire buffet spread out on the table, and for every seat to be taken.

Lucien, of course, had found one easily, already seated comfortably among the dignitaries. His russet-red hair gleamed under the chandelier's glow, and he looked completely at ease, one arm draped over the back of his chair, a goblet in his other hand. He was already speaking with someone from the Winter Court, his voice warm and smooth—an effortless diplomat.

You stood at the edge of the table, scanning for an open seat. Nothing.

Lucien's keen gaze flicked to you. A slow, knowing smirk stretched across his lips. "Problem, darling?"

You crossed your arms, pursing your lips. "There's nowhere to sit."

Lucien took a languid sip of his wine, clearly reveling in your predicament. Then, with all the smugness in the world, he patted his thigh. "My lap is right here."

You shot him a sharp look, but he only raised a brow, entirely unbothered. His amber eye gleamed with mischief, the gold in it catching the candlelight. "Unless you'd rather sit in one of my brother’s advisor’s lap?" he mused, tilting his head toward the older men at the end of the table, who were giving you disgusting looks but thankfully too far away to catch wind of Lucien's ridiculous suggestion.

Your glare hardened. "Absolutely not."

Lucien grinned like the cat that got the cream. "Then by all means, make yourself comfortable."

You let out a long, suffering sigh before lowering yourself onto his lap, doing your best to maintain your dignity. His arms came around you without hesitation, one resting lightly at your waist while the other adjusted to make space.

“You know,” He started, lips brushing your ear. "You could have at least pretended to resist a little longer," he murmured, his voice low, meant only for you.

"If this makes a scene, you suffer the consequences."

Lucien hummed in amusement, fingers absently tracing patterns against your hip. "I think I rather like these consequences."

You were about to retort when a voice from across the table chimed in. "Comfortable?"

You looked up to find Helion watching the two of you with raised brows, his expression far too entertained.

Lucien didn't miss a beat. "Very," he replied smoothly, fingers tightening just slightly at your waist.

Helion chuckled, shaking his head, but said nothing more. Like father like son.

You, on the other hand, were going to murder Lucien the second you were out of sight of the High Lords.

But for now, as the night carried on, his warmth steady beneath you, his presence grounding in a way you weren't entirely ready to admit—you allowed yourself to relax, just a little.

And if Lucien pressed an occasional kiss to your shoulder throughout the evening, well... you supposed you could let that slide.

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[eraserbread]

MEAN NANAMI, I BEG. He's so annoyed with his wife!! I'm talking hair pulling, (loving) slaps, all of it. I need you to write this I think It'll save me

i'm taking any reason to make kento call u nanami baby, im not sorry. also... who let her out of the house? (≖_≖ )

kento's in from work, exhausted to the bone, and thoroughly peeved. it's a long story, and he doesn't want to think about it anymore, so the first thing he does is phone his savior.

"dear?" he calls when you aren't at his beck and call immediately. the house was quiet... a bit too quiet for his liking. there isn't any comforting music playing, no comforting smell of dinner on the stove, and more gravely -- there's no you.

but, he gives it another try.

"nanami, baby?" silence. he's fuming.

that's all it took, now the straw is broken over the camel's back.

in your defense, you didn't think he'd be home right at 6. he usually takes his time on his commute back, but he got off a bit early today and didn't tell you. it's your biggest mistake to date. you failed at the one thing he expected of you.

so, you are definitely thoroughly surprised and a bit flustered when you come back home in the car he bought you, flushed from rushing home from a friends place, to see him right in the entryway, fist tightened against the handle of his briefcase.

"ken, i'm so sor-

"hope whatever kept you so long was worth it."

"it was just-" you pause, turning around to click the door shut and locked. with your back turned you make a small, pained face. he drops his briefcase.

"i'm waiting for the excuse..."

"i just got caught up at my friends, we started watching a show and I... i wasn't paying attention to the clock. i should've been home hours ago, I know. I'm so sorry, I'll get right to working on dinner, let me just..." you're all over the place, sliding off your own shoes and shedding your outside clothes. the only thing on your mind was 'what can I make him that takes the least amount of time?'

salad? no. ken would be even more pissed if you handed him a plate of raw vegetables and called it dinner.

omlettes? stew? chicken?

a million options come to mind, and you're not even thinking when you pass right by him and into the kitchen to begin. he just... watches you, shifting so he can keep a constant, deep glare on your back.

"hope you're not forgetting anything." he bites, then drops his briefcase, making quick work of his tie.

then, it fucking dawns on you and you're scurrying over your feet to help him shed his day away. but, you're too late. he already has his fingers tangled in the buttons on his shirt and isn't even looking at you anymore.

yeah, you're an idiot.

so, he has you by the hair, huge fist wrapped tight as he walks you to the bedroom. it's hard -- impossible, really, to keep up with him, so he's doing most of the dragging.

"i hope you see just how upset i am with you." though he's seemingly upset, his voice is still as soft as a whisper, clueing you into the fact that he doesn't actually hate you, but he'd fuck you like he did.

"i know, i'm so sorry. so-

"shut up." he doesn't even flex the single arm that sends you stumbling into the bedroom, needing to steady yourself across the footboard. it's still unmade from this morning, too. your stomach drops.

"just what have you been doing all day?"

he wants an answer. he expects an answer.

"I just - I..."

he waits, raised eyebrows and expressionless. you swallow back a lump, holding your breath as you try and gather your thoughts.

"surely you weren't at her house all day?"

"it was a high school friend, I had to." now, you're begging. for him, for mercy, for more. all of it. ken never gets too mad at you -- not like this. you can see it in his once-kind, welcoming eyes. they're shadowed.

"present yourself to me over the side of the bed." he begins, looking down as he pulls his belt off, whipping it through the loops and letting it drop in a shattering clang.

you don't move for a second, staring open mouthed at him like a fish out of water.

"need i repeat myself?" his tone goes completely left, treating you like an annoying student who wouldn't take no for an answer. he's holding it a bit louder, breathing heavily through his nose. "chest to the mattress. Now."

that gets you going in 2x speed, heart hammering cruelly in your chest as you rush to the bed, keeping your clothes on as you rest your front against the mattress. it's instinctual when you bury your face into the sheets, not wanting to see his disapproving face anymore.

you'd let him do anything to you if it means he'd wipe that look off his face.

"you remember, don't you?" he starts, unbuckling and letting his work pants pool around his thighs once they fall. there's no waiting for a shaky answer, he continues. "few weeks after I proposed, I told you what I needed from you... the one thing I always needed. what was it?"

it's like a fucking quiz. you suck at tests, and he told you a lot back then. "uh-

"you're not stupid." suddenly he's behind you, taking a grab of your ass under your loose cotton skirt. it's too long to pull up like he wants, so he waits. "the one thing."

"dinner?" then, he spanks you and it takes every ounce of willpower you have not to choke out a surprised cry. he's never shown you this side before... you love it.

"shit! i'm sorry, so sorry."

"i work five days a week, nine hours a day... everything you ever glanced at, I've given you. cars, this big house, this fucking skirt on your ass... it's mine. the one thing I've always wanted in return is your comfort after my long day."

you could cry right now, you're so mad at yourself. "so sorry, ken... i'm so sorry, i knew that."

"sorry is nice, but it won't make me feel better." he decides, then leans down to yank your ankle length skirt high above your waist. somewhere inside of him, he debates gagging you, but wouldn't want to miss your pretty cries. so, he decides against it.

he reaches, dragging two fingers through your cunt, swimming in the fact that you're already so wet for him. he was afraid his mood would turn you down, but if anything, you're weeping for him.

now, kento would never hurt you, really. but, he will and is about to fuck you black and blue. after all, you're the naughty one -- just you. he won't tell you his shitty day filled him to the brim with unkempt angst and he had to expel it.

you're whining under his touch, rising to your tippy toes to try and chase it once it pulls away. little did you know, you're trying to chase the quick little slap he lands right over your needy cunt, sending you crying into the mattress.

you're so turned on, it's scary.

but, when you try to turn around to see if ken's just as affected, he closes his hand around the top of your head and pushes you back into the bed. he's got a socked foot pressed into the mattress next to your hips, giving him the perfect alignment to ease inside of you ever-so-kindly, not giving you any clues to the way he's about to,

ravage you like a beast.

"oh, thank you. god, thank you. thankyou, mm."

"hate when you annoy me... just don't be annoying - fuck."

"this 's why i married'u... gonna -- mmf, fuck. I'm gonna make you limp, 'f you're not pre-mgh-gnant now, u're gonna be."

"need to hear you say... lemme hear it, n-nanami, mm, sweet girl."

"iloveyou." you squeal into his hand as he pierces you fully on his cock, feeling the throb and ache of him flooding your insides with him. it leaks and drips as he takes you through it, sneaking a few fingers in your mouth to play with your tongue.

he's panting like a heathen behind you. it's the most you've heard him speak in one sitting in... forever. it's the most expression he's ever showed.

if you could hear his thoughts right now, all you'd hear is s symphony of:

lovelovecomfortprettycomfortingbeautifulselflessselfishinterestinglovingcomforting

you're his everything. but most of all, you're his entire idea of comfort and safety personified. even when he's fucking you halfway to death, he stops to kiss your tears away and tell you,

"'m sorry for bein' so rough. thankyou for takin' it. love you s'much.."

lucky you

[ponett]

favorite things from Breaking Bad VR But The AI Is Self-Aware, aside from the obvious stuff like the music, the ending, and walt being haunted by the specter of the breaking bad poster:

in general, the stark difference between the people who clearly know the scenes and the actual lines from the show and the people who either don't know or don't care, and the way wayne has to roll with it and constantly shift between both styles

as one of the youtube comments put it, the way walt's agency is downplayed by the railroading of the plot and the way his most heinous acts (letting jane die, poisoning brock, etc.) are largely skipped over make many moments where characters turn on walt and attack him feel comically unprovoked, which makes it feel like the version of the story walt would tell to make himself look better

mining the giant crystal for meth

the fact that they made "drives an el camino" at least 70% of skinny pete's personality

the sudden extreme yellow filter that appears when they cross over the clearly marked mexico border

the bit where they straight up just play the saul goodman commercial from the show on jesse's tv via youtube, but then someone switches it to the "you're not a real lawyer" scene from better call saul and they're all just so caught off guard that they kinda just start watching the scene. and then they just ignore what chuck is saying about his brother and let the quality of the cinematography alone convince them to hire saul

hank suddenly appearing in the car for a split second when walt, jesse, and saul are driving back from the desert, and to avoid completely derailing the plot wayne just looks down and clutches his head and says "cancer did that"

jesse saying he can do anything walt can do better and playing the breakcore breaking bad theme remix and wayne just goes "damn! damn!" and starts dancing

the fact that there's an extra salamanca cousin to make them triplets for no particular reason

the whole jane subplot isn't depicted so the plane crash above walt's house becomes a complete non sequitur

baaulp referencing the spice curls

they skip over the events of fly, but the map references it by having a giant fly in the superlab, which is labeled with an arrow so you can't miss it

jesse's drug-fueled house party having this playing on loop in the background

the homoerotic moment walt has with one of the salamanca triplets at the party in mexico, and also the one he has later with saul

to sidestep the whole neo-nazi thing in their lighthearted gmod stream they instead give uncle jack a gang of clowns and an evil circus (playing off of the vamanos pest fumigation tents, i assume), clearly labeled Uncle Jack's Evil Circus

since they skip the whole train heist they just have drew sharp show up at vamanos pest looking for some tiddlywinks

everything that happens with huell when walt is trying to explain to saul that hank figured everything out

and, of course, saul being chased off by the undead chuck mcgill

[rememberwren]

Skin Deep

Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand your horizons, you get your first tattoo from an enigmatic artist deemed “Ghost”. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.

Sequel here.

-

“I bit the bullet!” you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friend’s ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.

“You bit what?” she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep. 

“The bullet,” you laugh. “I called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!” 

She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. She’d been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped you—encouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to ‘make more mistakes’, to live life more fully. Now she’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head and it’s the one doing the talking. 

“What guy I recommended?” she asks. 

“Kevin!”

“Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?” 

You frown. “You said you went to Kevin.” 

“It wasn’t a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! He’s a creep; there’s a reason why I never went back.” 

You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. It’s not just the tattoo. It’s the icing on a shitcake of a day. 

A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life. 

“You conveniently left that out. Ugh. I’ll cancel it. What am I even fucking doing—thank you—” you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. “—none of this is like me.” 

Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. “You were the one who said you’d always wanted a tattoo. You’re an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions you’re old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and he’s highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?” 

“Alright,” you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesn’t work out with this next tattoo artist, then you won’t be getting one at all. You’ll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all. 

-

What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it. 

The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to people’s disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isn’t until you’ve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand rings—and it’s him. 

“Hello?” 

“I’m free Wednesdays for consultations,” says a baritone voice from the other end of the line. 

Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. “I work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?” 

He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him. 

“Name a time. I’ll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,” he says. 

Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isn’t trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that you’ve already made an impression so foul that it’s incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted? 

“Alright,” you answer cautiously. “How’s five?” 

“Five. Don’t be late.” 

He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.

-

You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itself—a tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagram—is locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesn’t help. How are you supposed to get in? 

All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy. 

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost. 

Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting. 

Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize. 

“I have a consultation,” you blurt out. “At…five?”

He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. He’s so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.

“Sit,” he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sip—of tea, judging by the smell. “Name?”

You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek. 

“The water is for you,” he says. 

“Oh!” You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. “Thank you.”

“This is your first tattoo.” 

“What gave me away?” you ask with a weak laugh. 

He doesn’t laugh. “Everything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.” 

“What? No, of course not. I want this, I’m just, I’m an anxious personality. I promise.” You hesitate and then add: “I probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.” 

His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as you’re comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.

 He asks what you want and God, that’s a harder question. 

You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silence—pausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair. 

He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing. 

He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and you’re just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book. 

“I think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and we’ll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?” 

“I mean, it hurts?” you offer. 

He stares. “Two sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.” 

You think that maybe he’ll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you can’t help but watch him. 

He’s handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. It’s almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again. 

“Here.” 

You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didn’t make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean. 

His thoughtfulness touches you. 

“I love it. I want it,” you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you. 

“This is just a first sketch,” he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. “I’ll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?” 

“Yes,” you say, nearly buzzing. “I really want to book.”

He’s expensive—but judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, he’s got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldn’t bore him to death. 

“Thanks again for meeting with me,” you say as he sees you out. “I’ll be waiting for your text.” 

“You’ll get it.” He glances past you out the window. It’s dark. “Did you walk?” 

“No, my car is just there.”

“I’ll wait.” 

And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears. 

-

You didn’t tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend. 

GHOST? Cute? I’ve never even seen his face lol. He’s always wearing one of his masks. 

You chew over this information. Yes he’d been wearing a mask, but he’d lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something?  

Masks are cute, you say. 

Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe he’ll ink you for free. 

You’re terrible. 

You’re…thinking about it. 

-

Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. It’s from GHOST. 

The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness. 

I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think that’s the one. 

Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate.  

And fuck, you didn’t even think of that. 

-

“You’re being ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another. 

“You are,” your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. “Your tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.” 

The look you give her is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after, surely. She doesn’t even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. You’ve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed. 

“Be glad you’re not going to creepy Kevin anymore,” your friend says.

“Very glad of it.” 

You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a word—it didn’t embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions. 

“You should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. He’s been doing this for years. I’m sure he’s seen it all,” she says—the first good idea she’s had all night, miles ahead of ‘Just let Ghost see your cute tits’. 

That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you aren’t overstepping some weird artist-client boundary. 

I’m a little nervous.

You can cancel, is all he says. I’ll refund your money.

It’s not that. 

What is it? 

Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true. 

But all he said back was: how can I help?  

I don’t know, you admit. Then; sorry. I’m probably bothering you with this while you’re working. 

I’m not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you aren’t going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. I’ll let my piercer know I’m with a client and not to walk in. I’ll keep you covered every moment I can. Better? 

Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better. 

-

You bring the pasties anyway. 

-

The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase ‘knees knocking together’, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghost’s hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass. 

When it does, he’s like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in place—typical for him, if your friend’s words are to be trusted—but his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasn’t been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs. 

You’re horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friend’s words echo in your mind—fuck the tattoo artist, maybe he’ll ink you for free. 

“Hi,” you squeak. 

Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.

“I’m still nervous,” you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesn’t. 

“That’s normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if it’s still what you want.”

It’s exactly what you want, and more. 

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.” 

He huffs a little, like you shouldn’t have said such a thing. 

The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once he’s gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years. 

You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. There’s just something about a person who knows exactly what they’re doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.

“Ready?” he asks at length. 

You nod, hoping your nerves don’t show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt you’re wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. He’s not watching a strip tease, he’s looking at a canvas. 

Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you. 

“Am I hairy?” you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way. 

“Yes,” he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. “Everyone is. Everywhere. It’s normal.”

“I’m just teasing you.” 

“Didn’t think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,” he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. “You’re nervous, I mean.” 

“Would you take the mask off?” you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face. 

“No,” he says. He adds: “Sorry. It’s more sanitary f’you if I keep it on.” 

You get the feeling that he really is sorry—and that’s well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax. 

After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. It’s sexy. You’ve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than you’d ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadn’t expected. You feel so…badass. 

“Good?” He asks. 

“Very good,” you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.

But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt. 

“Thank you,” you say softly. 

He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. “I’ll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.” 

“I’m not backing out.” 

He clicks his tongue as if to say, It’s your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line. 

It burns more than you expected it to. There’s a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a cat’s tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isn’t overwhelming. In fact…a strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe it’s the rush of endorphins. 

“Good?” He asks. 

“Good,” you squeak. 

You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.

“Let me know when you need to break.” 

You don’t know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs. 

“Alright. Break,” he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. “Take ten.”

He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it. 

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, offering him an out.

“No,” he says. “I make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.”

It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up. 

“Good for more?”

And so it repeats. 

At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. It’s too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through. 

His thumb gently strokes your sternum. 

“It’s rough. You can take it,” he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Good girl.”

Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast. 

“You can do it. Just a little longer for me, and we’ll break.”

“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again. 

He hushes you, surprisingly tender. 

“This is the worst of it.” This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear.  

“Break. Ten minutes,” he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain. 

You call out: “Hey, wait—I’d rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.” 

“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.

You duck your head, feeling silly. ��Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He vanishes again. 

He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoic—what bits of it you can see from behind the mask—as he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again. 

This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breasts—a fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail you’d give your life to follow). 

“I think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,” he mutters at length. 

“Eager to be done?” you wonder. 

He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said. 

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply. 

So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently. 

“Go take a look. I’m going to cover it up.” 

It’s beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.

“I love it,” you choke out. “Thank you.”

“Can I take a picture of it?” he asks. “For Instagram.” 

“Sure!” It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are covered—the very far edges—but you can’t deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way. 

After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: “Let me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Don’t do anything stupid to it. Understand?” 

“I understand.”

“And if you have any questions—text me.” 

-

You get home to find that Ghost’s personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental ‘likes’). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable. 

-

Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you don’t text him like he asked you to. You call. 

Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much? 

The internet doesn’t help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.   

With shaking hands, you don’t even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring. 

He’s going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone else—except he doesn’t. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering. 

“Yes?” Ghost says into the phone, as if that’s a decent hello. 

“There’s something wrong with my tattoo!” you cry. 

“Wait—get out of my goddamn way.” There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. “Say it again. Now I can fucking hear you.”

“There’s. Something. Wrong,” you say through your teeth. “With my tattoo!”

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s falling off, for one!”

He snorts. “That’s normal. That's why you called?” 

“It’s all swollen and hot. And it hurts.” 

Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. “Hurts how bad?”

“Worse than getting it.” 

“Fuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop in…twenty?” 

“Twenty minutes from now?” 

“From when else?” He hangs up. Man doesn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye. 

-

The night is cool. You don’t bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop. 

Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow. 

He’s dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your tits—or resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes. 

“Well. Sit. Show me.”

You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. “What, just flash you?”

“Nothing I’ve never seen before.” 

Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands. 

“I was smoking,” he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation. 

“You’re worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?”

“Fuck my lungs,” he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. “Can I?”

You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. “Any fever?” he asks. 

“Not that I’ve noticed.” 

“You feel warm, but I’ve felt warmer. I don’t think it’s infected. Have you tried icing it?”

“No,” you admit. 

“Ice will help. Just use something clean, for fuck’s sake.” As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. “When you called, I thought it was for me.”

“It was for you,” you say, brow furrowing. “Who else?”

He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. “Forget it.” 

“Forget what?” 

“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”

You groan, tossing up your hands. “You’re impossible.” 

He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttons—you end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one. 

“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry it was for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “And I wasn’t doing much.”

“You were with friends,” you insist.

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?” 

“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.” 

“Nosey.” 

“I could buy you a drink sometime,” you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out?  “Make up for the ones I lost you tonight.” 

“Maybe.”

God, it’s like he’s not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt. 

“Would you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to be…positive?”

He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You don’t cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off. 

“Maybe you should look closer.” 

His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”

Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”

“Can’t get much closer than I am.” 

“You could—if you wanted to.” 

“If I—“ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: “Closer.”

“Mhm.”

The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching. 

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want this—and whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already you’re aching—have been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the street—but he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat. 

“Pretty little tits,” he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair. 

“Be still,” he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. “Let me play with you.” 

“Please,” you gasp. “Play with me—even if that’s all you want—just don’t stop, please.” 

His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I—“ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. He’s so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattoo—and then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness. 

You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex. 

“Driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple. 

You gape at his admission. Had you been? He’d been so closed off and cool…though now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind. 

He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until you’re no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. “You the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?” 

“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing. 

He buries his face in your neck. “Good. I won’t last when I’ve got my cock in you. I’d like you to cum at least once before then.”

“Oh god,” you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips. 

“What else do you need?” he asks. 

“My—touch me—“ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly. 

Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. 

“Fucking perfect.” You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. “Look at me. Look at me.” 

You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure. 

He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth. 

When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. It’s probably a good thing too. You aren’t sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.

Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh. 

Fingers enter your vision—your own—reaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. He’s so bloody tall, too…but he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso. 

“Does it hurt?” You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola. 

“No,” he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. “You can play with it.”

You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite. 

“You’re so—“ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: “—hot.” 

He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You can’t help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. “You broken, or can you take more?” 

“I want more.”

“Want my cock?” 

You nod, feeling like a bobble head. 

“I want to hear you say it.” 

“I want your cock.”

His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artist’s hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps. 

He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief. 

“Oh my god,” you mutter. 

“No gods here,” he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art. 

“Can’t believe you let me ink you,” he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. “Practically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. They’ll know who touched you.” 

“Good,” you breathe. 

His sigh is shaky. You’re learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means he’s pleased with you. You’ve said something right. 

He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to you—for inspection, you realize, though you’ve had so few one night stands (try zero) that you’ve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length. 

Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily. 

“Relax…there you go. Let me in,” he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretch—he’s thick everywhere goddamn it—but it’s a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure. 

“Ghost,” you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.

“I think you can take it,” he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. “But what do you think?” 

“Your cock—want it—please—“

“Alright,” he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. “No need to beg.” 

He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until you’re clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin. 

His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when you’re pinned beneath it. 

“Stay still,” he mutters into the juncture of your neck. “Stay still or I’ll cum and this is all over.”

“Can’t,” you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. “Have to move, ‘m so full—“

“Fucking hell,” he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. “Roll onto your side.” 

He gives you instruction but isn’t shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit. 

You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat. 

“Want you to cum again,” he says, stilling your movements so that you can’t fuck your self back against him. “Give me one more. Then it’s my turn.”

“Ghost—I can’t—“ you’ve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms. 

“If you can’t, then don’t,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit. 

You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you aren’t the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex. 

“Oh fuck,” you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again. 

He hums behind you, a smug sound. 

“Not sure I want you to cum now,” he says. “Hold it. I’m thinking it over.” 

“Ghost!”

He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead. 

He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you. 

The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs. 

He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you. 

Sooner than you’d like—but he’d warned you, hadn’t he?—his thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. And again: “Fuck, fuck. You broken?” 

“Yes.” 

He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he can’t see. 

-

“Sorry about this,” he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. You’re still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself. 

“Regretting it already?” 

“Yes,” he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: “Should have at least taken you to dinner first.” 

“Dinner?”

“You owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.” He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasn’t relaxed, he says: “I don’t regret the sex. Do you?”

You shake your head. 

He scoffs a little. 

“I mean it,” you insist. You touch your tattoo. “I wanted it…the day you did—this.” 

He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” you admitted sheepishly. 

“I jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,” he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. “I was interested.” 

You laugh; you can’t help it. “Dinner, then? Or drinks?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Get dressed.”

[p1astr81]

just a prank - op81

in which: Lando has his friends over, and while his roommate is taking a shower, they decide to play a prank on her. Oscar is the one to come to her rescue.

pairing: Oscar Piastri x Lando’s roommate!reader

warnings: uni au, fluff, bullying lowkey, use of y/n, a little objectifying, my first fic on here so pls don’t be rude

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊ ‧

Y/N just got off work, and she desperately needed a shower.

Wanting to become a physiotherapist, she worked part-time at a private secondary school alongside the athletic trainer to make some money while she studied at uni. She was helping one of the football athletes. He’d sprained his ankle earlier in the season, and she was having him do a few exercises to rebuild his strength in that foot.

Long story short, three boys came in asking for her to tape up their knees. Before she could say anything, one of the boys “tripped” and spilled an entire can of Red Bull down the front of her. The nice football player offered his shirt to her, but she politely declined. She’d remained in the sticky clothes for the rest of the day. And as soon as she got home, she jumped in the shower.

Conveniently, her roommate, Lando Norris, forgot to tell her that he invited a bunch of his friends over. So a quarter of the way through her shower, the shared apartment became filled with boys.

“What is taking her so long? I have to piss,” Keegan complained. Lando just shrugged. “Oh!” Carlos exclaimed, like a lightbulb just went off in his head. “Let’s play a prank on her.” He suggested. “Like turn off the lights?” Max Fewtrell asked. “Or turn off her music.” Ginge grumbled. The pop music was blasting, filling the apartment with the vocals of various pop girls.

“I was thinking more like take her clothes,” Carlos said, a mischievous tone about his voice. Lando laughed. “Just say you want to see my roommate naked, mate.”

Oscar thought they should leave her be, but he wasn’t friends with everyone in the room. Only Lando. And he didn’t want to be labeled as a kill joy, so he stayed silent.

“It’s not just me, I think everyone wants a piece of her.” Carlos defended himself, glancing at the others in the room who hesitantly nodded along—well, except for Oscar. “You’ve got your share already, haven’t you?”

Lando shook his head. “Nope, she sees me as a ‘friend’.” He shared, unamused. The room winced at the fact he’d been friendzoned. Carlos got up from the couch, and headed down the hallway where the bathroom was located.

Y/N heard the door open and groaned. “Lando how many times do I have to tell you, you have to knock before coming in.” You scolded, but instead of the usual sassy response you’d receive, it was silence. The door clicked closed, and you peaked your head out, not noticing anything different immediately.

Carlos emerged from the hallway. “Got the clothes, and the towel.” He held up the items proudly. The group of them cheered. Something inside Oscar’s stomach twisted. These aren’t the people he thought he befriended.

after around fifteen minutes, the shower water turned off, and her music followed quickly after. “Lando!” She shouted but got no reply. So she stuck her head out of the door. “Lando! Give me my stuff back!” She demanded. This time, she was met with laughter. She quickly realized it wasn’t just Lando in the apartment. Panic set in.

Her roommate seeing her without clothes on was one thing. She could live with that embarrassment. He accidentally walked in on her changing once before. But by the sounds of it, there were at least five other people out there. The status of their phones—whether they would be recording or not—was completely unknown to her.

She shut the bathroom door, and began scheming. Her first thought was the shower curtains, but the rust had fused the clips of the cheap hangers together. She could use the hand towel, but that wouldn’t cover much. Toilet paper wasn’t an option, as there was so little left in the roll that it would help just about as much as the hand towel. She was left with pleading.

She stuck her head out the door again. “Lando, come on. Just give me a bath towel at least.” All she heard was laughter. “I’ll buy you take-away for a week.” She tried to bargain. Again, only laughter. She huffed. Knowing most of Lando’s friends were pining after her, she tried to bargain with, “I’ll kiss every one of you if you just give me a towel.” There was no laughter immediately, as if they were actually considering it. It gave her a little bit of hope. But it shattered moments later as they began to laugh again.

Seeing as bargaining didn’t work, she was reduced to begging. “Lando, please.” They only laughed harder, but their laughter was soon replaced with cries of disappointment. “Mate, don’t.” “Come one man don’t be a wet blanket.” “Dude she was gonna have to come out eventually.”

Her saving grace appeared at the end of the hallway, her towel in his hands. While the hallway was dimly lit, the floppy hair on his head couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else. Oscar was always her favorite out of all Lando’s friends.

He stopped in front of her. The bathroom light illuminated his face enough for her to see his small smile. “Thank you so much.” Her words came out with a sigh of gratitude. His smile widened as he nodded, his hair flopping along with his head.

She closed the door on him, and re-emerged seconds later with the towel wrapped about her. “Oscar,” she called to the man who was stood at the end of the hall. He turned to her with a raised brow as she caught up with him. She took his arm, passing the group of booing boys on the way to her bedroom.

She brought Oscar into her room and locked the door behind them. “Oh, no. I didn’t do that to get anything in return.” He quickly said, his eyes wide. He did not want her to feel like she was obligated to give him something.

“Trust me, I know.” She smiled. “You’ve always been my favorite out of all of Lando’s friends. You’re the only polite one.” She shared while digging through her dresser for new pajamas. Carlos was still holding her other ones hostage.

“Oh, uhm, thanks.” He scratched the back of his neck. He was looking everywhere except at her. “Turn around for me.” She requested, and he quickly listened.

His cheeks went red when he heard her towel drop. He wanted to take a peak. Like the other boys, he did think you were very attractive. But unlike the other boys would have, he didn’t try to steal a glance at you. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re very good looking?” She asked.

“My grandma called me handsome once.” He shared. Her laughter rang out, the angelic sound floating right to his ears and making his head feel a little lighter. “Funny, good looking, and polite. It’s a wonder you haven’t been locked down yet.” She laughed again.

Oscar didn’t know what to say to that, so he just laughed awkwardly. “I’m sorry, I’m probably making this really weird. I just wanted to thank you.” She apologized, her voice sincere. Oscar shook his head quickly. “It’s not weird, and you don’t need to thank me.” She heard in his voice how nervous he was, and smiled softly at him. “You can turn around now, by the way.” He did, and bit back a laugh at the set of hot-pink pug pajamas she’d put on. “Don’t laugh. They’re all I have clean.” She sighed.

“‘M not laughing.” He stated, though his voice was very clearly on the verge of breaking into hysterics. He couldn’t help it, and after a few seconds let out a little chuckle. “Yeah, alright. You can get back to your friends now. Sorry for keeping you.”

“Eh,” Oscar stammered. “I’m a bit afraid to go back out there, if I’m honest.” He confessed with a nervous glance toward the door. She shrugged. “You could stay here with me. I don’t mind. I was just going to watch a few episodes of Brooklyn 99 before going to sleep.”

He hesitated. “If you truly don’t mind.” She shook her head and scooted over to make room for him in the bed next to her.

Morning arrived, and when Oscar stretched his limbs, he found himself unable to move a great part of the left side of his body. Glancing down to investigate the problem, he found y/n at it’s source. He realized he never left her room last night, and as a result, they fell asleep together.

Slowly, he sunk back into the mattress, doing his best to keep her from waking. She looks inexplicably tranquil beside him. A small smile graced her lips as her head laid on his chest. An arm of hers was draped across his torso, and she had a leg laying cross his, disabling his ability to move them freely. He didn’t mind, though. In fact, he found himself at peace.

Despite his attempt at not disturbing her, she began to stir. She blinked repeatedly, trying to wake herself up. She let out a sigh before lifting her eyelids. She looked up at Oscar through her lashes. “Oh,” she muttered, lazily pulling herself away from him. “Sorry about that.” She apologized. Oscar found her groggy voice somewhat endearing. “I suppose you should get going, then.” She stood, stretching her arms toward the sky.

Oscar nodded. “Only if you let me take you out tonight.” He didn’t know where the confidence came from, and as soon as he got the words out, he began apologizing. “I’m so sorry. I’m not normally- I didn’t mean-“

“Yes, I’ll go on a date with you.” She interrupted his fumbling, smiling warmly at him. “I’ll walk you out.”

On their way out, they passed Lando, who was toasting pop tarts. “Have a fun night?” He asked bitterly.

“Calm down, we didn’t fuck.” She rolled her eyes before adding, “If we did, you definitely would’ve heard.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He waved her off. “All the guys aren’t too fond of you now.” He told Oscar, who shrugged. “They’re not the kind of blokes I care to be friends with, anyway.” Y/n smiled up at him.

“Oh!” She hummed, facing Lando. “and you’re going to have to cook your own food tonight. We’re going out.”

Lando rolled his eyes as the toaster popped from behind him.