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writing-for-marvel · 3 days ago

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He’s got a crooked grin and impossible eyes. Hands made for trouble. And a voice that is meant to live in your name.

Eeeep you’ve already got me hooked with this one little paragraph 🥺

He’s been your best friend since sandbox days and scraped knees. Since secrets shared under blankets and hiding from thunder in the dark. And somewhere along the way he became the sun and you became the shadow. Orbiting. Always too close to stay safe. Always too far to be seen.

Oh the way you describe this 😭😭😭😭 I love the angst so much!!! But to feel invisible to the person who means the most to you is absolutely heartbreaking

Something sharp blooms in your ribs, something that nowadays never fully heals. A bruise where no one can see it.

Somebody save my dear reader from this pain

“You didn’t eat all day.”

Noticing these things is a sign that he cares, and boy do I hope he feels the same for reader

You shake your head with a vehement sigh. “You don’t get it.”

Oh my tummy’s hurting 😭😭😭 I know this feeling and it’s awful, like you know you’re drowning but there’s nothing you can do from stopping the water filling your lungs

“Doesn’t matter,” you cut in. “Because you always end up talking to someone else. You always find some new girl to flirt with, even when it’s supposed to be just us.”

“It means I’m not stupid,” you basically whisper. “I know you. I know who you are with people. I know what your smile does and how easy it is for you to make someone feel like they matter, even if it’s just for five minutes. And it’s fine. It’s fine, okay? I just need to stop watching it happen.”

“That’s not who I am with you,” he states. And there is something different in his voice. Something wobbly. “That’s never been who I am with you.”

*With you*. Oh I’m tearing at the seams this is so painful. That tiny glimmer of hope 🥺

“You don’t have to say anything,” he continues after a little pause. “But doll, please don’t stand here and tell me I make people feel like they matter for five minutes. Not when I’ve been showing up for you every damn day since we were kids. Not when I’ve been-”

DONT STOP THERE KEEEEP GOING BUCKY

“Just so you know,” he murmurs, almost like he’s not sure he should say it but knowing that if he does, he won’t regret it. “You’ve never been five minutes. Not even close.”

My throat hurtssss what are you doing to me???? It’s the hope that I needed after all the gut wrenching pain of this fic. I hope one day they can actually say it to each other and not just imply it

Simply outstanding!!! The way you write is so beautiful, so evocative, I was an absolute mess reading this 😭😭

Powdered Sugar

Pairing: childhood best friend fuckboy!Bucky x hopeless romantic!Reader

Summary: Your friend group is having a night out at the local carnival. Bucky is his charming self and you are tired of pretending it doesn’t affect you.

Word Count: 3.1k

Warnings: friends to something-maybe-more tension; unrequited love (the perceived kind); heartbreak; unspoken feelings; light angst; emotional withdrawal; miscommunication; mentions of Bucky being a fuckboy and flirting with other girls

Author’s Note: I know this turned out to be a little longer than planned for these drabbles and I did want to end it at around 1.6k words but I felt like the conversation just needed a little more. Anyway, this is based on this request from my sweet, sweet mutual!!

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

Everywhere around you are colors. Blinking, buzzing, glowing colors. Neon reds and golden yellows. Cotton candy blues shaping the darkening sky.

The air is dense with the smell of sugar and smoke, a little burnt, a little sweet - like fireworks melting.

A thousand voices are stitched into the dark. Booths are being crowded, laughter rings out from all around you. Something about it feels like nostalgia wrapped in noise. Summer hanging off your skin.

You walk through it all in a slow dream.

Sam is saying something funny. Steve is losing his mind over who won the water gun race with Natasha. Wanda is laughing so hard she snorts.

You are smiling, but not all the way. Only with your mouth. Your head is somewhere else. Somewhere maybe not here at all.

Wanda’s arm is looped through yours, her voice warm in your ear, but you’re not hearing a word.

Because you’re in your head again.

And in your head, there’s a boy.

There’s always a boy.

He’s got a crooked grin and impossible eyes. Hands made for trouble. And a voice that is meant to live in your name.

He’s in your head because he can’t be anywhere outside of it.

It’s safer for you if he stays in here - because when you let yourself drift, you can imagine what it would be like if things were just a little different. If he was just a little different. If he looked at you the way you look at him when he’s not paying attention. If he loved you back.

You imagine him holding your hand under the glow of cotton candy lights.

You imagine his voice soft only for you.

You imagine his heart not borrowed.

And lately, you’ve been pulling back.

Not because you want to, but because you have to. Because watching him flirt with every pretty girl who captures his attention is like slowly bleeding out from the inside. And maybe that’s dramatic. Maybe you’re just being the hopeless romantic again, building castles in clouds and crying when the rain comes.

But god, you wish you didn’t feel so much.

“Hey, where’s Barnes?” Sam asks casually, looking around.

You do too. Because you just can’t help yourself. But you shouldn’t have.

And your fantasies shatter for the thousandth time.

He’s across the way, at a booth that smells like vanilla and sugar and heartbreak. He’s leaning against the counter. Smiling that easy smile. The one he gives to girls he’ll forget tomorrow. The one he doesn’t give to you.

The girl behind the counter is giggling.

Of course, she is.

She’s pretty and pink-cheeked with her long hair fastened at the back of her head, possibly with a hair clip you can’t see. Because she’s not turning around. Not turning away from Bucky.

Bucky is saying something. It’s probably something charming, something easy. And your stomach drops as if you just stepped off the edge of the Ferris wheel.

You blink too long. Swallow too hard.

Something sharp blooms in your ribs, something that nowadays never fully heals. A bruise where no one can see it.

The group keeps chatting around you but you can’t hear them anymore. The noise of the carnival dulls. It all dulls. The lights, the heat, the movement - all of it fades to background static as you stare and think, of course.

Of course, he couldn’t even make it one night.

This was supposed to be for all of you. This was supposed to be just your night as a group - no distractions, no other girls, no stupid charm shows. Just friends, food, maybe a ride or two, laughing till your face hurt.

But Bucky Barnes cannot help himself as it looks like.

And you should have known better by now.

You look away just as he gestures for more powdered sugar - a generous heap of it on top of the funnel cake. Just the way you like it. But you don’t see that part. You don’t see anything but the girl smiling at him like she’d give him her whole world for free.

“You okay?”

It’s Wanda’s voice in your ear. It sounds knowing. And you hate it. Because she knows you are not okay. Knows you haven’t been for a while. And she knows why. Because other than Bucky, everyone can see your heartbreak so plainly.

“Yeah,” you lie tersely because what are you supposed to tell her when she already knows the answer is no?

Bucky comes walking back to your group a minute later holding the funnel cake carefully in both hands. He is grinning, all proud of himself, eyes scanning the group until they land on you.

He makes a beeline for you.

The group keeps moving.

Wanda, to give you some space perhaps, walks ahead, laughing as she tugs Sam toward the spinning teacups as though they’re not entirely designed for kids under ten. Steve is shaking his head, pretending he’s not going to join in, but you all know he will. Natasha is throwing you a subtle, knowing glance before smirking at Steve.

You don’t get far.

“Here,” Bucky says, holding the funnel cake out to you, falling in step.

But you are drifting.

Your body is here, feet touching ground, but you feel like you’re moving through molasses. Everything slow. Heavy. Your heart sticky with regret or embarrassment or whatever that fucking pain is.

You glance down at his offering. The powdered sugar is already melting into the ridges. A soft, sweet mess. It smells like childhood. Like summer. Like him, as weird as it feels.

You swallow. “I’m good.”

You feel the warmth of him. That stupid comforting heat that’s always just there. Like a fire you want to lean into but know better than to trust.

“You didn’t eat all day.”

His voice beside you comes like a tug at your sleeve.

He keeps pace beside you, his stride easy like it always is but you acknowledge that there is a difference in the way he holds himself. Less swagger. Less play. He’s not performing. Not posturing.

You glance sideways. The funnel cake is still sitting in his hands.

Still warm. Still untouched.

“I’m not hungry, Buck. You can have it.” You don’t really look at him.

He doesn’t answer for a few steps, just walks with you, his eyes on you, the crowd fading behind.

The gravel crunches beneath your shoes. A moth flutters through a streetlight above. The world keeps moving, but it feels like something in your chest doesn’t.

He holds the plate out again. Firmer.

“You always eat this first,” he says, and there is something like a forced charm in his voice. Great. He doesn’t even seem to try with you. “Every year.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t take it. You keep your eyes ahead. You don’t respond.

So he steps in front of you, blocking the path, just slightly. As if trying not to be obvious about it but it still is.

It makes you halt.

“Take it, doll,” he insists. Quiet. Not demanding. Rather pleading.

Slowly, you blink up at him. His eyes are darker in the carnival lights. Blue, but tired. There’s something behind them. Something like a question. Like he’s reaching out with more than his hands and hoping you’ll meet him halfway.

Sighing, you take it, your fingers brushing his. You pretend not to feel it. He pretends not to hold on for a second longer than needed.

Picking at the corner, you tear off a soft edge. You bring it to your mouth and chew slowly. It doesn’t taste as good as it is supposed to.

It’s too sweet. Or not sweet enough. You don’t know.

You nod, just a little. “Thanks.”

Bucky doesn’t smile. Not like usual. His face is silence and shadows. There is something unreadable there.

He starts walking again after simply staring at you for a while.

You follow.

For a few minutes, you’re just walking. Side by side. Like you always have. Like nothing’s changed. You don’t even bother looking where the others are going.

You hear him bite the inside of his cheek. You know that sound. He’s deep in his thoughts. He does that when he’s trying not to say something too fast.

“Something’s up with you lately. You’ve been actin’ a little different,” he then starts after some more thoughtful moments, voice careful, deep and raspy. “And I don’t know what’s going on, but-” he sighs deeply. “I miss you, doll. Feels like you’ve been pulling back.”

You swallow another bite of funnel cake as if it’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever eaten. It sits wrong in your gut. Makes it turn. Makes it hate you. Makes you hate it.

You glance over to your best friend. His hands are in his pockets now. Shoulders tense. He’s not looking at you. But you can see the edge of something vulnerable in the line of his jaw.

“I don’t know,” you get out somehow. “I guess I just needed space.”

He nods. Slow. As if he understands. But you don’t think he does.

“If something’s going on, you can-” His tone is softened, but his voice is scratchy. Almost gravel. “You can talk to me, doll. You know that, right?”

You let the silence stretch.

You watch it reach between you and settle in your bones.

You think about all the words you could say and how none of them are enough.

You think about how much it hurts to want someone who never asked to be wanted.

You think about powdered sugar.

“It’s nothing.”

You watch a paper napkin flutter across the pavement. Someone laughs nearby, giddy and golden and loud. Somewhere, the Ferris wheel creaks.

You walk a little further. Past the game booths. Past the families and kids and the couple kissing against the light-up sign that says Tunnel of love. You pretend not to see it.

He watches you. Carefully. Trying to read a page you’ve scribbled over.

Bucky bumps his shoulder gently into yours, letting out a breath.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters, voice rough.

“At what?”

He shrugs, looks at the sky, then back to you. “Knowing when I’ve screwed up. With you.”

Your throat closes around nothing. You don’t want it to. But it does.

“You didn’t screw up,” you reply weakly.

“Then what did I do?”

And there is that question you can’t answer without giving yourself away.

“It’s not that simple, Buck,” is all you give him.

“It doesn’t have to be simple, doll,” Bucky presses, a little more desperately. It seems like this has been gnawing at him. “But you’re clearly keepin’ something. And I've got the feeling it’s got something to do with me.”

Your heart thuds. The lump in your throat is unendurable now.

“You’ve been weird,” he goes on, staring right at you. “For weeks. We’re makin’ plans, you cancel. I’m callin’ you, you don’t pick up. Don’t even call me back anymore. And you won’t tell me anything.” His jaw flexes. “Something’s not right. I’m even kinda surprised you joined us here.”

He looks at your profile as if ready to catch the truth as it falls out of you.

You slow down. He does too.

“Just tell me if I did something,” he begs. “If I crossed a line. If I hurt you.”

The carnival is alive around you, loud and bright and unaware. But this moment feels still.

“You didn’t, okay?” you declare. “Not really.”

“But kind of?” he asks, eyebrows pulling in.

You shake your head with a vehement sigh. “You don’t get it.”

“Then make me get it,” he utters with that stubborn and desperate edge. The part of him that refuses to let go. That never has.

“I’m not mad at you.“ Your voice is getting slighter higher. “I’m just-”

He is watching you so openly and you hate that you can’t lie to him properly.

“I’m not keeping score, okay?” you say suddenly. The words come out too fast. Too bitter. “I don’t sit around counting who you talk to or who you smile at or who you fucking flirt with.”

You clamp your mouth shut.

Too much. Too much too fast.

A hand stuffs funnel cake in to keep you from saying more. Your jaw works like it’s a distraction as if sugar and dough can silence what your heart just screamed.

But Bucky already stopped walking.

You take two steps before you realize. Turn.

He’s standing there in the half-light, shadows soft under his cheekbones, carnival glow flickering behind him like bad TV static.

He’s looking at you as though you just dropped a grenade at his feet.

Terrific.

He exhales carefully. Stares at you. Quiet. Maybe a little sad. Maybe a little something else.

But you cannot stop now.

“It’s just- it’s always like this,” you continue. “Every time. We make plans as a group, we do stuff, and then you see someone pretty and you’re just gone. Like the rest of us don’t matter.”

He looks stunned. He looks everything.

There’s a long stretch of silence.

“I wasn’t- I wasn’t trying to ditch you, sweetheart,” he says almost under his breath. “I went to get you some-”

“Doesn’t matter,” you cut in. “Because you always end up talking to someone else. You always find some new girl to flirt with, even when it’s supposed to be just us.”

You tear off another bite and don’t eat it.

“I didn’t flirt with her,” he says, after a beat. His voice is low. Testing. “I swear to you, I wasn’t. I just wanted to get the cake right.” A hand drags through his hair. His voice turns even softer. Dejected in a way. “You looked- I don’t know. You just didn’t look okay. Hoped it might cheer you up.”

You don’t look at him.

Because you’d crumble if you did.

You lick sugar off your lip, suddenly furious with how gentle he’s being. How cautious. As if you are something he doesn’t know how to hold anymore.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asks, same voice. “If something I was doing was bothering you - why didn’t you say something?”

“Because it wasn’t your fault,” you answer, and now your voice is breaking. “It’s mine. It’s-” You stop again. Take a breath that tastes like carnival smoke and sweetness and everything you wish you could forget. “I know who you are, Bucky. Okay? I’ve always known. You don’t owe me anything.”

He frowns. But somehow he still looks soft while doing it. “What the hell does that mean?”

You breathe in. Your fingers twitch. You stare at the funnel cake and wish it were enough to quiet the thunder in your chest.

You feel the moment your words sink into him. You can’t take them back into your mouth and swallow them down. Can’t clean them up or smooth them over.

His eyes are like the sky just before a storm.

“Is that what you think I do?” he asks incredulously. His voice isn’t accusing. Isn’t angry. But it’s pained. Tired. As if he’s been trying to piece something together for weeks and it’s only now starting to form into shape.

His voice is quiet but not soft. Not now. It’s too filled with something else that is vulnerable and profound.

“You think I go around giving pieces of myself away like candy?”

Powdered sugar sticks to your throat.

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because yeah. Maybe you do.

He runs a hand over his jaw. Still not angry. Just hurt. Disappointed. Sad. And trying not to be.

You pick at the corner of the plate.

“That’s not who I am with you,” he states. And there is something different in his voice. Something wobbly. “That’s never been who I am with you.”

Your heart stops. Just a little.

He looks at you. So deeply. As though you’re not just some girl in a crowd. As though you’re not a thing he’ll forget after five minutes. As though he’s trying to memorize the way you exist in this moment - all messy silence and half-held tears.

He steps closer.

He stops. Swallows the rest.

Your hands are shaking. The funnel cake is barely still a thing anymore, just warm sugar on torn paper, and you think you’re falling apart.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you say, barely breathing. “I just- I didn’t know how else to say it without saying too much.”

His eyes soften.

He steps in closer. Looks down at you. His hand brushes your forearm, making your fingers stop fidgeting with the paper plate.

“You can say too much around me, doll,” he insists. Soft again. Certain. “You always could.”

The lights glitter in your peripheral. The night is filled with other people’s joy, but yours feels more important.

You don’t bother to think about where your friends are.

He leans down, noses almost touching. His eyebrow twitches. His throat bobs.

“Just so you know,” he murmurs, almost like he’s not sure he should say it but knowing that if he does, he won’t regret it. “You’ve never been five minutes. Not even close.”

You blink fast. Look away. The ache in your chest shifts. It’s not gone but somehow it turns gentler.

You don’t say anything. Can’t.

But you think he hears it anyway.

The hope.

Your heart.

The maybe.

And then he walks beside you again. Like he always has. Like he always will. Even when you’re a little cracked, a little afraid. Even when you’re not saying everything.

But sometimes, just saying enough is already everything.

#fic rec #Bucky Barnes fic rec #by marvelstoriesepic #top notch

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botanicsoul · 1 day ago

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Behind the Screen

Pro Hero | Bakugou Katsuki x (fem) Blogger Reader | Aged Up

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧. 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘ 𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

—

You post it as a joke. Kind of.

It’s late, and you’re curled up in bed with your fanfic draft open and half a Twix in your mouth. Your followers are going wild in the replies, and you’re riding the high of being the “unofficial Dynamight smut queen” of the timeline. You’ve been known for your over-the-top thirst tweets, but this one? This one’s feral.

—

@/blastyourbackout

“Dynamight wouldn’t even take the suit off. He’d fuck you with the gauntlets still on, breathing heavy through gritted teeth, all ‘Shut up and take it—this is what you wanted, right?’”

—

You toss your phone. That’s enough unhinged behavior for the night. Until the morning comes—and you wake up to hell.

Your tweet is trending. His name is trending. People are tagging him.

—

“this is NASTY and i love it.”

“@Dynamightofficial please read this and confirm or deny.”

“If Dynamight didn’t do this, I’d be shocked.”

“SOMEONE CHECK ON HIM”

“@Dynamightofficial thoughts??”

Then it happens.

—

@Dynamightofficial :

“Who tf is behind this account.”

“If you’re gonna talk like that, be brave enough to show your face.”

You nearly throw up. Your DMs? Melted. And sitting right at the top.

[Private Message – @Dynamightofficial]

“You write a lotta shit for someone who hides behind a screen.”

“You really think I’d leave the fuckin’ suit on?”

“Show me your face if you’re gonna say it like you know me.”

Your heart is pounding. And you shouldn’t. But you do. You send a selfie. Just a soft one. T-shirt, messy hair, bare face. You look like someone who absolutely shouldn’t be writing the filth he just read.

There’s a long pause.

He starts to finally type:

“…fuck.”

“You’re cute.”

“like super fuckin’ cute”

“You don’t look like someone who says I’d blow your back out against a fuckin’ window.”

You:

“I mean… would you?”

Him:

“You really wanna know?”

“You clearly think you know it all, writing the way you do.”

“So what—wanna let me show you what it’s really like?”

You pause. Breathless. Fingers trembling.

“Yes.”

⸻

A few days later, the meet-up actually happened.

You gave him your address—half-joking, half-panicking when he immediately replied with a thumbs up and a “Bet.”

You spent the next two days spiraling.

Cleaned every inch of your apartment. Shaved, exfoliated, moisturized places you didn’t even know needed it. Practiced how you’d open the door without looking like you were seconds from passing out. Told yourself it was just casual, just fun, just… whatever. you totally weren’t about to get fucked dumb by your fav pro that you write smut about.

Except it wasn’t. Because now. He’s at your door.

And he’s in the fucking suit.

Mask off. Jaw set. Gloves still on. That big, broad chest rising and falling.

Black and orange, thick with tension and sweat and that sharp smoky scent that clings to him after a patrol. His hair’s a mess. One gauntlet is attached, the other dangling from his hip. And he’s just standing there—broad, massive, silent—like he owns the whole building.

You freeze. Your heart slams.

“…Hi,” you manage to say.

His eyes drag over you—down your legs, over the shorts you probably could’ve made smaller and the tank top that wasn’t technically meant to be seductive, but absolutely became that under stress.

“Damn,” he mutters. “You look even better when you’re nervous.”

You try to laugh but it comes out breathless. “You really wore the suit?”

“uuuh yeah? did you think I was gonna show up here in a hoodie after all the shit you wrote about this thing?” He steps closer. “Thought I’d let you see it up close before I ruined your sheets.”

Your knees go weak.

You try to respond—something witty, something smug—but your words get caught somewhere between your throat and the fact that he’s already inside. Pushing the door shut behind him. Glancing around like he’s checking for cameras, or exits, or maybe just where he’s gonna lay you out first.

“You ready?” he asks, voice low. Rough. Already undoing the gauntlet from his wrist with one hand, tossing it aside.

You nod, dazed. “Yeah.”

He smirks—steps in closer until you’re backed up against the nearest wall, breath catching.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I’ve been losing sleep over the way you said I’d fuck you in this suit.”

You stare up at him, completely wrecked just by his presence, and whisper, “Was I right about some of this stuff I wrote?”

He dips his head down, lips brushing yours—barely.

“I’m here to fact check it.” he growls.

You shudder.

He pulls back just enough to smirk, eyes dragging down your body like he’s mentally ripping off every layer.

He hasn’t even touched you properly yet—but your back’s against your door, your legs are trembling, and Bakugou’s towering over you like he’s already won.

“That tweet got me thinkin’ about you all fuckin’ day, baby. Let’s see if you write better when you’re sore.”

His hero suit creaks with every breath. Heavy-duty gauntlets still locked around his wrists. His undersuit clings to him, black and orange and unforgiving across his chest, his thighs—everything.

“You scared?” he asks, voice low. His hand comes up—gloved fingers trailing under your jaw, thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “Or just nervous I’m actually gonna live up to that filthy little imagination of yours?”

Your breath catches.

“…both.”

He smirks. Then his mouth is on yours.

It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s everything you wrote about—demanding, rough, obsessed. He kisses like a man starved. Like he’s been reading your tweets on loop.

And god, when his hand slides down your waist—those big gloved fingers gripping your ass, hoisting you up—your back hits the wall and you let out a soft, stunned whimper.

“That the sound you make when you’re not behind a screen?” he growls, lips dragging along your neck. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re even better in person.”

You try to answer, but he’s already slipping one hand between your thighs, dragging his knuckles over your heat—still covered by your shorts.

“Wrote that I’d be mean with it,” he murmurs. “That I’d tease you. Make you beg.”

His gloved finger presses just right over the damp spot in your underwear.

“So beg.”

Your nails dig into his shoulders. You feel insane.

“P-Please.”

He groans. “That all I get after all those filthy paragraphs?”

“Dynamight—”

His eyes flash. “Katsuki.”

You pant, skin burning.

“Please, Katsuki.”

“Atta fuckin’ girl.”

He carries you to your room practically kicking the damn door down. Your back hits the mattress, but he doesn’t follow right away. He stands at the edge of the bed, breathing heavy, gaze dark and hungry.

His suit’s half-unzipped now—exposing his chest, glistening with sweat and tension—but everything else stays on. That thick black material clings to his arms and thighs like sin. The gauntlets drop to the floor with a heavy thud, but the gloves? Still on. And he flexes his fingers slow—just to watch you squirm.

“You’re fuckin’ dangerous,” he mutters, eyes dragging over your body like he’s trying to memorize it. “Sittin’ there on your little blog, makin’ people think you’ve got me figured out.”

Your thighs squeeze together. He notices. Smirks. “Lemme show you how right you were.”

He crawls over you like a storm. Muscles shifting under his suit, voice dipping low, filthy, as he shoves your shirt up, lips ghosting over your stomach.

You arch when his teeth graze your hip. “Katsuki—”

“That’s right, baby,” he mutters, pulling your shorts off slow. “Say my name when you write about this later too.”

He pushes your thighs open, and he goes down. Tongue eager. Desperate. He eats you out like he’s proving a point—like he’s got something to prove to every single tweet you’ve ever posted. Groaning into you, gripping your thighs tight like he wants to leave handprints. You’re moaning, shaking, gripping the sheets, and he’s just eating it up—literally.

He comes up with his mouth slick and eyes wild. “Not even close to done with you.” And he isn’t.

He flips you. Presses you into the mattress. One hand on your hip, the other grabbing your wrist and dragging it up the bed.

“Hold that headboard, princess.” You feel him line up—still in the damn suit—and your breath catches as he sinks in.

Slow. Deep. Bruising.

“Fuck,” he hisses, jaw clenched. “You feel like I imagined. So fuckin’ tight, so wet—shit.”

You cry out. He starts moving. Harder. Deeper.

Every stroke is a claim. His hand slides down your back, then back up to wrap around your throat—not choking, just holding. Just letting you feel it.

“Write about this next time” he growls into your ear. “Write about about me makin’ you cum multiple fuckin’ times.”

You whimper—high, breathy, wrecked.

“That’s right. Take it. You wanted this.”

“I did,” you gasp. “I wanted you—”

“You fuckin’ got me now.”

When you fall apart—completely, wildly, back-arching and moaning his name like a prayer—he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow.

Because he’s obsessed now. Addicted.

Your thighs are trembling. Your voice is hoarse. Your sheets are a mess—twisted, damp, clinging to your skin like the heat of him isn’t already enough.

He’s still going.

“One more,” he grits out, thrusts snapping into you slow and deep. “C’mon, baby—just one more for me.”

You’re barely hanging on—nails dragging helplessly down his back, vision blurry with overstimulation, body trembling under him as he rocks into you, all tight grunts and low, broken groans.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he pants, sweat dripping down his temples. “Takin’ me so good—fuck—you feel like you were made for me.”

You moan, shattered.

He growls, fucks you harder, chasing his release like a wildfire. And when he finally gets there—when you clench around him, gasping out his name in a breathless sob— He snaps.

“Knew it,” he groans, hips stuttering. “Knew I’d fill this pussy the second I saw you.” oh, and he does. Deep. Warm. Heavy. Flooding you.

He keeps moving—shallow, deep rolls—just to push it in. Just to feel it drip. Just to make it last. His head drops to your shoulder, lips brushing your skin.

You barely register him pulling out until you feel it—messy, hot, dripping down your thighs.

“fuuuck you’re beautiful” he murmurs smirking down at you. Wrecked, ruined, glowing. He lays down beside you, just looking at you like you were a fucking trophy.

He then reaches for his phone.

—

[New Tweet – @Dynamightofficial]

“Just fact-checked one of your little fantasy tweets. 11/10 accuracy. Would reread. Would re-enact.”

—

You see what’s he doing and it snaps you out your daze, your eyes go wide. “You didn’t—!”

“Too late,” he shrugs. “Let ‘em guess which one it was.”

You grabbed your phone just as quick to quote it.

—

[New Tweet – @blastyourbackout]

“Just know the gloves stayed on.”

—

The internet breaks.

You can barely feel your legs.

And Katsuki Bakugou? THE pro hero Dynamight?

He’s already rolling over, tugging you to his chest, muttering in your ear, “Hope you’re not tired, princess. I’ve got a lot more tweets to prove right.”

393 notes · View notes

luvvrgl · 3 days ago

Text

Magically Attached (Please Help)

Pairing: Dante x GN!Reader

Summary: You are a grumpy apothecary who hates loud, flashy hunters like Dante—until he becomes your most frequent (and irritating) customer, constantly busting through your door with injuries.

Authors Notes: This is my first attempt writing, so please bear with me 💔 Please give me some tips and feel free to give some criticism

The apothecary preferred silence. The kind that hummed between glass bottles and bloomed in the scent of crushed sage. So when the front door slammed open with all the grace of a hurricane—nearly snapping off for the third time that week—and a bleeding man staggered in with a shit-eating grin, you were tempted to throw an entire jar of ghost pepper salve at him.

“You again,” you spoke up flatly, not bothering to look up to see who just came in. You already knew who it was with how they opened the damn door.

“Miss me?” Said the injured devil hunter, Dante. His voice rang out through the room, sounding far too casual for someone whose arm was currently bleeding.

You looked up from the potion you were working on, eyes slightly narrowing as your gaze landed on Dante. “That’s the fourth door this week, and I just reinforced it. You owe me a new hinge.”

Dante swaggered in, leaving muddy boot prints all over the carefully swept floor. “I’ll add it to my tab.”

You held your tongue when you saw Dante leave foot prints on the floor that you had just cleaned minutes ago. “You mean the one you haven’t paid in three months?”

He grinned. “That’s the one.”

With a sigh, you motioned him to sit on the exam stool—well, it was originally meant for calm tea-sipping clients, not devil hunters bleeding onto the rug..but this was your life now.

You watched as Dante settled onto the stool with a wince as he dramatically groaned, shrugging his tattered coat off and letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. You winced as the dirty fabric hit the floorboards, unfortunately giving you more to clean up later.

“Bleeding on the rug and shredding like a stray mutt.. You’re really out to test me these days, aren’t you?”

Dante leaned back as he casually rested one boot on the edge of your carefully organized desk with arranged healing salves and herbs, earning a silent death glare from you.

“Come on, Doc.. Don’t act like you never miss me when I’m gone. I bet this place gets real boring without me.

You rolled your eyes as you grabbed a rag and tossed it at Dante’s head, “I make sure to cherish every moment of silence when you’re not here to visit.”

Dante swiftly caught the rag before it could hit his head and pressed the fabric over his wound, letting out a small chuckle at your words. You watched as the white rag got stained red with the hunter’s blood before you went to get some medicine to heal his wounds.

You put on some latex gloves before you walked over to the cabinet from across the room, carefully grabbing a vial there with some sort of magic purple liquid in it. You went to go behind your desk and grab some moonflower dust from the drawer beneath there, sprinkling some of that into the vial.

You then came over to Dante who was still wiping his blood off him and held your hand out. “Give me your arm.”

Dante blinked at you for a moment before he held out his uninjured arm.

“Other arm.”

His lips formed into a small “O” in realization before he held out his injured arm.

Your grip on Dante’s wrist was gentle but firm as you put the vial down onto the table and inspected the wound, “You know, if you didn’t leap face-first into every demon that blinked at you funny, you might actually stay in one piece.”

Dante winced as you prodded at his arm, smirk slightly faltering. “Where’s the fun in that?”

You raised an eyebrow as you reached for the vial. “You call this fun?”

Dante winked, “I call you fun.”

You poured the liquid from the vial into the wound with no warning as you glared down at him.

“Ack— You damn sadist!” Dante hissed, though there was no clear hate in his tone.

“Brat.” You murmured, more to yourself..

The potion fizzed on contact with Dante’s wound, glowing faintly with violet light. It smelled faintly of crushed herbs and something sweet, like sugar. You didn’t flinch at the sound of his pained groan, continuing to pour the liquid onto the wound until the vial was empty.

“You know,” Dante muttered through clenched teeth, “normal doctors use bandages.”

“I am not a doctor,” you replied dryly. “Now stop squirming or I’ll pour some more straight into your mouth.”

Dante dramatically sighed at your words, head falling back as if you had just stabbed him. “You wound me, Y/N. More than a demon does, honestly.”

You rolled your eyes again—it was starting to feel like they’d fall out of your skull if Dante kept this up. “Then maybe next time I’ll just let you bleed out in the alley.”

“Now that’s the grumpy bastard I know and love.” Dante smirked.

You paused, just for a second, before brushing it off like a speck of dust on your apron. “You’re lucky I have a professional obligation to keep you alive..”

“Ah, so it’s just business, then?”

You stayed quiet as usual. You just wrapped a bandage around Dante’s arm a bit too snugly for comfort.

“Ah, there’s the affection.” Dante said as he flexed his fingers. “Tight wrap. You trying to cut my arm off or get me to stay longer?”

“Neither. I’m trying to keep you from bleeding all over my floorboards.”

Dante settled back against the stool as if he owned it. “Y’know, I come here for the customer service.”

“And I keep wondering why you don’t stay dead.” You muttered.

“Maybe I like the company.” Dante spoke, his voice quieter now. Still teasing, but the edges had dulled.

You stepped back, peeling your gloves off. “There. Don’t use that arm for the next two days. Which means no fights, no lifting anything heavy, and absolutely no breaking down any more of my doors.”

“Awh, come on! I just got invited to a big nest-clearing near the city walls. Easy job. Two hours tops.”

You shot him a look sharp enough to curdle blood.

“Okay, okay. No fighting. Just resting.. got it.” Dante said, reaching for his coat, wincing a bit.

“You’re pushing harder than usual.” You suddenly spoke up.

Dante raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, pretending not to understand. “Demons don’t kill themselves, Y/N.”

You paused, not looking up just yet. “They don’t need to. Not when you’re this damn determined to do their job for them.”

For once, Dante didn’t have a snappy comeback.

Silence lingered between them, rare and strangely heavy.

You walked over to a small wooden shelf in the corner. You grabbed a small glass jar with blue powder inside and returned to Dante’s side, unscrewing the lid carefully.

“This will numb the pain and speed up the healing,” you explained, more quietly this time. “It’ll sting like hell for a second.”

“Already stinging, Doc.”

“Not a doctor.” You muttered again, then gently smeared the powder across the wound. A sizzling hiss filled the air, followed by Dante swearing under his breath.

“Yup. Definitely a sadist.”

“Keep talking and I’ll stitch your loudmouth shut with your shoelaces.”

Dante let out a breathless laugh, the tension in his frame easing slightly. “Bet you say that to all your favorite patients.”

“I say that to all the idiots who won’t stop wrecking my door every damn week and staining my floorboards with their blood everyday.” You corrected.

A beat passed.

“Same thing,” Dante said with a half smile, watching you work. “You just don’t wanna admit that you’d miss me if I just suddenly stopped showing up one day.”

You didn’t look at him, sprinkling the last of the powder onto the wound.

“Maybe I would,” you said softly. “But not for the reasons you think.”

Dante blinked.

Then you stood up straight and turned away swiftly, already reaching for your broom to deal with the mess Dante made on the floor. “Now get off my stool before you bleed on something else. And fix the damn door on your way out.”

“..Sure thing, Y/N.” Dante said, a little more quietly this time, his eyes lingering on your back before he slowly pushed himself up.

Dante paused at the threshold of the store, stopping in the middle of the doorway, watching you clean up the remains of yet another chaotic visit. The broom swished rhythmically against the wood, as if you were trying to sweep him out too, like he was some persistent pest who kept bothering you.

“Y’know,” Dante leaned against the doorframe, “for someone who pretends to hate me, you patch me up with a lot of care.”

You didn’t even look up. “That’s because if you die in here, I’ll have to clean that mess too.”

Dante smirked. “You sure it’s not because you like me?”

You paused at the hunter’s words, stopping your sweeping.

You stood there for a moment, broom in one hand, gaze stuck on a spot on the floor like it held the secrets of the universe. Then, very slowly, you looked up until your gaze landed on Dante.

“I like quiet.” You slowly spoke, “I like organized shelves. I like not getting half of my store covered with some guy’s blood mixed with chunks of demon ichor.”

You set the broom aside.

“But..” You crossed your arms and leaned against the counter, tilting your head at Dante, “I don’t hate the way this place doesn’t feel… dead anymore.”

Dante blinked.

“Not dead, huh?”

You shrugged, eyes narrowing just slightly. “It used to be quiet because no one really came in everyday, until you came..”

Dante blinked yet again, watching you like he wasn’t sure if he really heard that last line or if he had imagined it. You, as usual, didn’t wait for him to catch up, you just turned back towards the cabinet, rummaging through a drawer for something as glass and wood gently clattered against each other.

“What about now?” Dante prompted, stepping in again, a hint of curiosity in his usual smirk.

“Now it’s quiet between the noise,” You muttered. You pulled out a wrapped bundle of dried herbs and set them down on the counter, keeping your back turned. “That’s different.”

Dante folded his arms, his teasing grin widening. “Y/N…is that your poetic way of saying you enjoy my company?”

“It’s my very restrained way of saying I’ve gotten used to your stupid face showing up at random times,” You muttered, gently biting your tongue before you spoke any further. There wasn’t any heat in your voice—just that tired fondness that slipped in when you forgot to watch your tone.

Dante chuckled, taking another step inside and letting the door creak shut behind him, gentle this time. “Careful, Y/N. If you get any softer, I might actually think you care.”

You turned around to finally face Dante, gave him a deadpan stare, and shoved a small paper pouch into his chest. “Here, this will help for the fever you’re definitely going to pretend you don’t have in about two hours.”

Dante blinked in surprise.

“Boil them in water. Drink it. Go sleep, maybe somewhere that isn’t my shop.”

Dante looked down at the pouch in surprise, then back up at you. “..You made this already, didn’t you?” His smirk grew.

You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Of course I did. I’ve known you long enough to know when you’re about to be a stubborn idiot.”

Dante held the pouch against his chest like it was something rare and unobtainable. Maybe it was.

“Y/N,” his voice was quieter now, “you’re kind of a miracle, you know that?”

Your mouth stayed shut.

But the tips of your ears turned the faintest shade of red as you grabbed your broom again and muttered, “Get out of my shop, Dante.”

“You’ll miss me tomorrow.”

“I’ll miss the peace.”

Dante opened the door carefully this time, leaning against the frame before leaving. “Try not to miss me too much, Y/N.”

You huffed and turned back to the counter. “Don’t make me to lock you out next time.”

“Like that would stop me.”

You muttered something unintelligible under your breath—but waited until the door shut (gently, for once) before you allowed the faintest smile to pull at your lips.

“Idiot..” you murmured,

“Don’t die out there.”

#dmc #devil may cry #dmc dante #dante sparda #dmc dante x you #dante x reader #dante x you #dmc dante x reader #fluff #a oneshot probably??

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aquarius-johnny · 21 hours ago

Text

“totally platonic” | johnny suh

𝜗𝜚 genre: smut | wc: 6.6k | au: friends to lovers 𝜗𝜚 pairing: bestfriend! johnny x afab! reader 𝜗𝜚 warnings: soft dom johnny, virgin reader, banter, hickies, oral (m + f receiving), dirty talk, cum play, cervix kissing, p in v, checking in, unprotected sex, praising, pulling out, multiple orgasms, creampie, aftercare, confessions, missionary, doggy, other names included for writing purposes, other members mentioned (mark, doyoung) 𝜗𝜚 summary: you’re nearing your thirties and still a virgin. johnny, your best friend and only person who knows about your secret, offers to take your virginity seeing how much its bothering you — but it’s all platonic, duh! 𝜗𝜚 aimee's thoughts 💭 : no thoughts, just a horny smut. added a bonus scene for some fluff at the end. requested by anonymous 𐙚

check out my other work here! → m.list navi

── FRIDAY, 10:38 PM

A familiar text tone designated to your best friend is heard as you sulk in bed.

Johnny🌻: I’m outside, open the door. You: Use the spare key I gave you. I’m in my room.

In less than a minute, your bedroom door slowly opens and your room’s overhead lights turn on, temporarily blinding you for a second before you throw your blanket over your head. The brightness abruptly dims before the only light source comes from your side table lamp.

“You didn’t make it to the monthly dinner,” Johnny lets out as you feel a dip in your mattress. “Everyone was worried and wondered if you were okay.”

You uncover your head from your blanket. Looking up at the man sitting on your bed, you wrinkle your nose in slight disgust. “Ew, you’re on my bed with outside clothes,” you roll your eyes before softly giggling at him.

Johnny laughs, lowering his head in defeat. He stands up and strips himself from his beige sweater and jeans, leaving him in nothing but his white t-shirt and gray underwear. He lays on your bed, turning his body to face you. He slides a pillow under his head and his arm sandwiched between your mattress and the cold side of the pillow.

You place another pillow over his waist, helping him cover his lower half. “You could’ve left your pants on, perv.” You tease, shifting your body to mimic his position.

“Oh shut up. It’s nothing new,” he smiles. “You’ve seen me half naked before.”

You give him a small smile after hearing his words before changing the subject. “What’re you doing here?” You ask, pulling your blanket higher up your body.

“I came to make sure you’re okay.” He presses the backside of his hand against your forehead. “Are you sick? You said you weren’t feeling well.”

Shaking your head, you gently push his hand away. “I just didn’t feel like going to dinner with everyone.” You softly admit, trying to sound nonchalant.

“We both know that’s a lie. You always look forward to our monthly dinners with our friends. What’s wrong?” He looks at you with concern. “You can tell me.”

“Whenever I’m around them, I’m somehow reminded that I’m the only virgin of the group,” you sigh.

“Ah,” he nods in understanding. “I see your v-card is still bothering you.”

“I’m nearly 30, Johnny. I haven’t had sex yet and it’s starting to mess with my life plans. My virginity isn’t even something I hold close to me, sex just hasn’t happened with me.”

“You could always hook up with randos.”

“You know that I’m not into that.” You scoff. “I’ve always wanted to lose it to someone I feel safe with.”

Johnny moves his body closer to you. “There are a lot of people who are still virgins at your age.” He tries to comfort you. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me.” You sigh in defeat, covering your face with your hands in frustration. “Maybe I should just run away and become a nun.”

Johnny chuckles at your dramatic statement, gently moving your hands from your face.

“It’s not funny,” you groan before a small laugh involuntarily leaves your lips too. “Please don’t tell anyone why I didn’t come tonight.”

“Hey, I’ve kept your virginity a secret for a long time now. One more can’t hurt.” He lifts his hand to stroke your cheek with the pad of his thumb before pulling away and clearing his throat. “So you just laid here and felt sorry for yourself?”

You give him a death glare, displeased with how he worded your actions even though it really was what you did while him and your group of mutual friends were having dinner.

“Did you have fun tonight?” You ask, changing the subject.

“It’s never fun without you.” He flashes a cheeky smile at you, earning him a giggle from you in response. “It’s the same thing every month. You didn’t miss much.”

You nod your head at his words, allowing silence to fill the air for a minute.

“Hey,” he softly lets out, catching your attention once more. “You trust me, right? Like you feel safe around me?” Johnny hesitantly questions.

“Of course,” you let out a half hearted laugh. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“I don’t know, I can see how much your situation bothers you. So, I was thinking,” he pauses. “And this is just a thought.” He lightly chuckles, attempting to keep the mood light. “If you’re really upset about still being a virgin, why don’t we…” he trails off.

Your brows raise in surprise. Your lips parting upon hearing his words. “Oh, uh, you and me,” you stammer. “Having sex?” You slowly finish his thought.

“Yeah, I mean,” he shifts uncomfortably. “You said you wanted to do it with someone you feel safe with and you just said you feel safe with me, so why don’t we — why don’t I help you, so you don’t feel like this again?”

You fall quiet for a moment, thoroughly thinking through his words as you sit up in bed and pulling your knees to your chest. “Aren’t you afraid of ruining our friendship? What if it makes things awkward and weird between us?”

You watch Johnny shift his weight onto his elbow, propping up his upper body. “Yeah, there’s always a chance of ruining our friendship. There’s also a chance of ruining it if we debate which Spider-Man movie is the best,” he grins, clearly trying to lighten up the mood. “If we make it weird, then it’ll be weird.”

“Okay well, are you… clean?” An involuntary chuckle parts your lips.

He gives you a dramatic eye roll before grabbing a pillow and playfully hitting your face with it. “Yes! Of course I am! I get tested every time I hook up with someone and I always use a condom.” He hits you with the pillow again before you stick your hand out to stop it.

“Forgive me, I’m sorry.” You giggle. “I just wanted to make sure. I know you’re very experienced with this aspect of your life. It’s not like I was degrading you, I’m sorry if you felt I was.” You lay back down in your previous position.

“It’s fine,” he sighs, dramatically. “I suppose it’s normal for someone to ask.” He rolls his eyes. “People usually ask with more tact, but I’ll let it slide with you.”

You bite down on your bottom lip, giggling at his sarcastic comment.

“I’ll even give you the boyfriend experience,” he smirks. “Free of charge, of course.”

“Do you even know how to be a boyfriend?” You scoff before you hold your hands up in preparation to get hit by a pillow again.

“Contrary to your belief, I do know how to be a boyfriend.” He uses a hand to lower your wrists before hitting you with another pillow, causing you to giggle. “You’re feisty today.” He chuckles. “What’s with the sudden jabs at me? Don’t tell me being a virgin for nearly 30 years somehow gives you permission to think you’re better than everyone else.”

“You know that’s not it,” you defend, trying to grab the pillow with your hands.

“Yeah? Just deciding to be a brat then?” He hits you with the pillow again right before you finally have a grasp on it.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” You laugh. “You know I’m just kidding.”

Johnny concedes, letting out a playful huff. “Didn’t think it’d be this hard to get a virgin to agree to have sex with me.” He grins, helping you sort out your messy hair that he caused.

After moving strands of hair away from your face, he places his warm palm against your cheek.

“What do you think?” Johnny asks. “Wanna lose your virginity to your best friend? Platonically, of course.” He flashes you a grin.

You nod your head in agreement. “Are you free tomorrow night?”

── SATURDAY, 9:43 PM

“You didn’t have to take me to dinner before taking my virginity, you know that right?” You jokingly comment as you push your house key into the lock of your front door.

“See, when you put it that way I had to take you to dinner.” He chuckles, shutting the door behind him when you both enter your apartment. “It sounds bad if I just took your virginity, right?”

“No one would’ve known,” you giggle.

“Yeah, but I would’ve and that doesn’t sit right with me.” Johnny takes your jacket when you strip it off, hanging it on the coat rack with his. “Contrary to your belief, I am capable of treating women well.”

“So you take every hookup to a fancy dinner before fucking them?”

“Well no,” he pauses. “But that’s not what hookups expect and before you say it, I’ve already told you this isn't a hookup.”

“What would you call it?”

“Being a good friend.” He flashes you a wicked grin before he cups your cheeks with his hands, tilting your head up to look at him. “I know you’re nervous, but I promise I’ll take care of you.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Yes. You’re talking a lot,” he giggles. “You’re also being a little brat, again.” He scrunches his nose before a smile appears.

“Sorry,” you sigh in defeat, slowly pulling his hands down from your cheeks. “I don’t know how to go about this.”

“Let’s start off by going to your room and we’ll see where to go from there.” He gently grabs your hand before leading you to your bedroom.

You both climb onto your bed with your backs against the headboard. Your heart thumps against your chest and you’re fully convinced Johnny could hear it. Biting down on your bottom lip, your mind races at the thought of having sex with your best friend — seeing each other completely naked for the first time, questioning if it’ll ruin the friendship, the idea that he’s probably going to have the worst time because of your lack of experience.

You’re suddenly pulled out of your frantic thoughts when Johnny gently takes a hold of your chin and turns your head towards him with his lips centimeters away from yours.

“You’re overthinking,” he whispers before placing a soft kiss against your lips.

You slowly move your lips with his, feeling his large hand glide up your thigh and under the short wine colored silk dress you wore to dinner. Shifting your body, a tiny hum is heard from Johnny before he deepens the kiss further. Parting his lips slightly, you take the opportunity to run your tongue over his bottom lip before he slowly pulls away.

Johnny gently tugs on your arm, pulling you onto his lap. Your short dress rides up your thighs as you place a knee on either side of him.

A large hand grips the back of your neck, pulling your lips back onto his, while the other safely rests on your hip, unmoved. Your hand presses against his clothed chest, feeling the buttons of his long sleeved dress shirt press against the palm of your hand.

Your heart races as his lips move with yours. Electricity runs through your veins and your face flushes with heat. Your fingers slowly undo the buttons of his shirt and with his lack of objection, you remind yourself that he’s okay with it.

His hand moves from your hip to the small of your back, pulling your body closer into his. Gently running over your tongue with his, his grip on the back of your neck tightens slightly, needing to keep you in place.

When you reach the last button, your cold hands rest against his toned stomach and send shivers down his spine. You gently remove his grasp on your neck before pushing the fabric down his shoulders. It’s not too long until the white fabric meets your bedroom floor. Your hands cup his cheeks, pulling him closer.

His hands meet your waist, using them to push your dress up your body. Pulling back, you raise your arms to let Johnny pull it over your head and let the silk fabric slip onto the floor and on top of his shirt.

You gently push your palm against his chest, forcing him to rest against the pillows behind him. Placing a kiss on his cheek, you trail your lips down his jaw, then give him another kiss on his neck. His hand rests on the back of your head, softly pushing you into the crook of his neck and silently urging you to leave your mark on his body. Your lips part, taking his tender skin between your lips and sucking on it — hard. You feel his chest move up and down beneath your breasts.

Breathless moans part his lips, feeling his calloused hands rub over your back. Pulling away, you admire the red mark that contrasts his pale skin. You continue to trail kisses down Johnny’s chest until you reach the waistband of his pants, undoing his belt and button that’s holding his pants together. Johnny lifts his hips and you tug on the material, removing it from his body.

His erection springs up. You position yourself so Johnny’s leg rests between your thighs. When you pause, he senses your hesitation and lifts your chin to look at him.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you embarrassingly admit.

Johnny gives you a small laugh and a kind smile. “As long as you don’t bite it off, anything you do is fine.” He uses the pad of his thumb to run over your bottom lip. “It’s just licking and sucking, like a popsicle. Can’t promise it’ll taste like one, though.”

You smile at his attempt to ease your mind. Carefully taking a hold of his shaft, you roll your tongue over his leaking tip before wrapping your lips around it. You sink his shaft into your mouth, slowly bobbing your head up and down.

“There you go, just like that.” Johnny whispers, throwing his head back against your headboard from the warmth of your mouth and letting out a groan.

You feel his cock harden even more as you bob your head, allowing your saliva to coat his member fully before slicking your hand up and down simultaneously with your mouth.

“Fuck,” Johnny mutters breathlessly. His brows knit together and his jaw slacks open, speechless at the sight and feeling of your lips wrapped around him.

You flatten your tongue against his length, licking a strip from the base of his cock to his tip before engulfing him fully into your mouth and allowing his tip to hit your throat. You gag around his cock and the tears brimming your waterline blurs your line of vision. You pull away, catching your breath as you slick your wrist up and down his shaft.

Johnny’s hand grip the sheets under him, biting down on his bottom lip before a shaky moan escapes from between his lips. His chest moves up and down, a slight red tint slowly painting over his chest. He sits up, shifting his weight onto the palm of his hand while the other tilts your head up to look at him before his grasp on your chin pulls your lips to his.

“Was that okay?” You shyly ask as you break the kiss.

“More than okay,” he chuckles.

You weren’t fully convinced of his words, but don’t have time to dwell on it when Johnny kisses you again. He slowly leans back, having you following him without breaking the kiss. When you straddle his lap again, you feel his hard member press against your covered slit. Your mind runs wild with sinful thoughts of him being inside of you.

In one quick and swift movement, Johnny is hovering over you with his knee separating your thighs. You can’t help but giggle at how smooth he is with his moves.

“Something funny?” He smiles, moving a strand of hair away from your eye.

You shake your head. “For what it’s worth,” you let out, your eyes softening at his gaze and lifting your hand to stroke his cheek. “I’m glad I’m losing my virginity to you.” You pull him down to your lips, giving him an endearing kiss.

“Thank you for trusting me,” he whispers in the space between your lips. His hands glide up your waist and to your breasts, pushing them together before his tongue laps over your perky nipples and kissing your supple skin.

Johnny pecks kisses down your sternum and abdomen before stopping at the waistband of your underwear. He looks up at you. “May I?” He grins, fingers hooked onto the waistband, ready to remove them.

You nod, lifting your hips to allow him room to pull it down your thighs and legs before haphazardly throwing it behind him.

Johnny widens your spread legs, using his long, slender fingers to stroke your excited slit. Collecting your arousal against his fingers, he parts your puffy lips before using the tip of his tongue to circle around your clit.

A soft moan leaves your lips as Johnny continues to circle and lap his tongue over your clit. His large hand massages your breasts, rolling your nipple between his fingers causing a sensation of bliss course through your body.

“You taste so fucking good,” Johnny mutters against your folds.

Your fingers gather a fist full of his hair, keeping him close. You hear Johnny groan as you tug on it, the pads of his fingers digging into your skin.

As his tongue skillfully moves against your pussy, your moans grow louder. A fire in the pit of your stomach ignites and tingles course through your veins. A familiar feeling creeps up and you close your eyes, focusing on the way Johnny sucks on your clit.

You bite down on your bottom lip and your climax hits you, hard, causing you to cry out Johnny’s name while he pins your lower body down to stop you from squirming away from him. You push his head back and see a mischievous smirk pull from the corner of his mouth.

As you pull yourself up to look at him, you see him use the back of his hand to wipe your slick from his chin. Your hands press against his cheeks, roughly pulling him to your lips, causing him to giggle. Your lips move urgently before lowering yourself onto your back and having Johnny follow you.

His long, slender fingers circle your sensitive clit and your body shudders under his touch. He eases off on the pressure, lightly rubbing your nub at a steady pace as he swallows the moans you let out against his mouth.

“Fuck, you’re so hot,” he softly and breathlessly lets out, groaning as your lips begin attacking his neck with open mouth kisses before giving him a gentle bite. “Your lips on my neck,” his voice hitches. “Are driving me crazy.”

You smile as you hear his composure slowly crumble. Continuing your movements, you feel pleasure building up in the area he’s circling.

His precise and calculated movements fill your mind with haze, halting your kisses to breathe against his skin and focus on the pleasure.

“I’m close,” you whimper, attempting to continue your movements only to stop a few seconds later, muffling your sounds in the crook of his neck. “I’m cum-“ you softly cry out before you’re cut off by a gasp that desperately part your lips.

He watches as your thighs begin to tremble and involuntarily closing in an attempt to stop his movements.

“Keep them open,” he orders, voice low and dominant.

You comply, opening up once more before gripping his wrist to slow his movements. “T-too much,” you whine.

His movements come to a stop, crashing his lips into yours. “Wanna stop here?” He sharply inhales before pulling away from your lips. “We can do something else if you change your mind.”

You shake your head, catching your breath. “At this rate, if I don’t lose it now, I’m dying a virgin.” Your dramatic statement causes your best friend to chuckle.

“Last chance to be able to join a nunnery.” Johnny whispers, teasingly.

You giggle at his words. “Shut up.” You smash your lips onto his, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and your fingers stroking the back of his head.

He breaks your kiss before making his way over to grab his pants you tossed to the side. He fishes for the pack of condoms in the back pocket of his pants. A frantic look washes over him when he isn’t able to find it.

“Shit,” he groans in frustration. “I think I left the condoms in my car.”

You both glance over to your bedroom window, watching big raindrops roll down the glass.

“You said you've been tested and that you’re clean, right?” You ask, looking up at him.

He nods before catching on.

“There's no way you wanna do it raw.” He shakes his head. “I’ll just run downstairs and grab it.”

“It’s downpouring,” you frown. “I’m okay with it, really. I’m on birth control.”

“You are?” He looks at you, shocked.

“Yeah,” you bashfully smile. “Since graduation.”

“You’ve never told me that,” he chuckles, closing the distance between you two.

“Was I supposed to?” You looked at him amused. “Would it have made you ask to take my virginity sooner if I had told you?” You look up at him, innocently, batting your eyelashes at him.

“There you go again with your sassy remarks. Always hurting my ego with your words.” He smirks.

“You love me.” You grin, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth. “Why else would you put up with it?”

All he does is give you a smile before bending down to kiss you. He quickly positions his hips between your thighs.

Adjusting your body, you watch as he slicks the tip of his cock over your slit, allowing his pre-cum to mix with your wetness. “Tell me if it’s too much, okay?” He instructs, lifting your chin so you’re looking directly into his eyes.

You nod in response.

He slowly pushes into you until his tip disappears inside of you. Johnny continues to slowly sink deeper, with short strokes pumping into you, until he’s fully hidden in your cunt. He freezes for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his size.

The sting you feel makes you flinch when he thrusts into you for the first time and you let out a small whimper. Your nails dig into Johnny’s forearms before he circles your clit with his thumb, helping you relax.

“Is this okay?” He checks in and you nod, biting down on your bottom lip. He leans forward, giving you a soft, warm kiss. He moves as if he’s afraid he’s going to break you as his cock splits you open.

Discomfort slowly turns into pleasure and your mind focuses on how full you feel with Johnny inside of you.

“Faster,” you softly beg.

Following your command, his hips pick up its pace. Your cheeks burn with heat as Johnny’s thumb continues to rub circles onto your swollen clit. The lewd noises fill the room as your soaking cunt collides with the base of Johnny’s cock.

“Harder,” you instruct again as your hands grip onto his waist.

“You sure?” He questions. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

“You won’t,” you reassure, rubbing your thumbs over his bare skin. “I’ll be okay.”

He nods and bucks his hips into your needy cunt. Your jaw drops when you feel how deep he is inside of you, his tip kissing your cervix with every harsh thrust.

Your skin slaps against his, adding to the lewd sounds you’re both making from pleasure. Your heart races and you feel yourself inching closer to another climax as Johnny’s cock hits your g-spot inside of you when you tilt your hips up for him.

“God, you’re so pretty,” he softly chuckles as he looks down at you and a warm feeling runs under your skin. “So fucking pretty.”

You giggle at his words, covering your face in embarrassment.

“No, don’t hide, baby.” He softly coos. “I wanna see you.” He interlocks his fingers with yours, pinning your hands into the mattress.

You wrap your legs around his waist, keeping him close causing him to deeply groan at your movements.

His hips snap into you harder, causing you to jerk up your mattress. He releases your hands from his grip and buries his head into the crook of your neck.

Your moans fill his ears as he continues to thrust into you. When you feel your skin begin to tingle, you drag your nails against Johnny’s back, leaving red lines behind before sinking your nails into his body, too distracted by the pleasure he’s giving you.

He feels your walls pulse against him and his deep, throaty groan is muffled against your skin.

You choke out a warning before the tension in your stomach snaps. You feel your body tense up as you allow complete bliss to wash over you.

Johnny takes it upon himself to help you through it, maintaining his pace as your warm and wet walls tighten against his shaft before relaxing. Your body goes limp as you bask in the pleasure.

“Are you okay?” He checks in, peppering soft kisses against your cheeks and halting his movements.

You bashfully nod, eyes glazed over and a tiny giggle leaves your lips. “I’m sorry if I scratched your back a little too hard,” you say, lightly rubbing your palms against his bare skin.

Johnny chuckles, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it, it was pretty hot,” he smirks. “Hearing you moaning was hot too.”

You let out a tired laugh, lifting your head to capture his lips with yours.

Johnny thrusts into you again, making you gasp at his actions. He smirks against your lips, enjoying your reaction.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders and place open mouth kisses against his neck.

Johnny sharply inhales and a shaky moan parts his lips. “Keep doing that,” he encourages. “Mark me up. Show everyone I’m yours.”

His words ignite a fire in your stomach, turning you on. You fully comply with what he says, sucking on his skin and leaving red marks against his neck.

He penetrates deeper into you, clearly turned on with the way you glide your tongue against his neck. Grabbing your waist, he keeps you in place from squirming away from him as he pounds into you.

“Oh fuck,” he stammers. “I’m gonna c-“

He quickly pulls himself out of you, frantically stroking his shaft over your stomach and painting his cum over your soft skin.

You smile at the sight, touching the warm substance with your middle finger before using it to rub your swollen clit.

“Oh god,” he pants. “Are you using my cum as lube right now?” He gives you an amused chuckle and a lopsided grin.

You look at his erection in his hand. “You’re still hard?” You question in disbelief.

He looks down to where your gaze falls. “It happens when I’m really turned on.” His cheeks blush a pink hue.

Your brows shoot up in shock and you use the palm of our hand to slowly rub over his cock’s head. Looking up at him, you bite on your bottom lip.

“You’re gonna continue fucking me, right?” You ask, using your other hand to continue circling your clit with his cum.

“Yeah,” he breathlessly replies. “You want me to?” His jaw drops open, etching the sight of you into his mind.

You silently nod in reply.

“Turn over,” he growls. He moves away from you to give you space to change positions. “Get on all fours.”

You follow his instructions and feel him align with your entrance. Taking a hold on your waist, he slowly sinks into you. He watches as your dripping cunt swallows him fully and with ease. Your jaw drops, enjoying how he fills you up perfectly, like he was made for you.

His cock plunges into you with no remorse. The sound of smacking flesh bounces off your walls and his deep, low, and gravelly grunts accompany the way he’s pulling your cunt onto his shaft.

Your arms give in, making you collapse onto the pillows in front of you, muffling your sobs as his cock rams into you.

Johnny holds your hips up and your back arches to his liking. Your finger gathers more of his release from your stomach before sliding it up and down your slit.

“Keep going, please,” you beg, your voice muffled by your pillows.

“Only if you keep touching yourself like that,” he pants. “Make yourself cum on my cock, baby.”

He feels your walls tighten around his shaft and before you can warn him, your body trembles as you allow your orgasm to wash over you.

You attempt to shift your weight back onto your hands before settling on using your headboard to keep you up.

He places a hand over yours while his other hand grips your shoulder, simultaneously pulling you down his length when he thrusts into you, helping fuck you through your orgasm.

Your eyes involuntarily cross before rolling to the back of your head. Your mind goes fuzzy, too engrossed in your orgasm to notice how much of a mess you are. You’re sobbing Johnny’s name that’s mixed with your favorite curse words and sounds of moans that he absolutely loves to hear.

He pulls your back to his warm chest, holding you up with his strong arms. His hips recklessly pound up into you, leaving you cockdrunk and speechless.

“I’m gonna cum,” he gasps.

You push your ass into him while your hands grip onto his hips, keeping him from pulling out.

“If you don’t move,” he grunts. “I’m cumming inside you,” he warns, feeling your hips grind against him.

“Do it. Fill me up,” you giggle, feeling lightheaded and dizzy.

Your words are enough to push Johnny to the edge and he empties his entire load inside of you with a loud groan that he muffles against your shoulder.

His chest heaves against your back and you feel him pepper kisses against your neck, trailing them up and behind your ear. Lifting his hand, he gently takes a hold of your chin and turns your head to face him — placing tender kisses against your swollen lips.

“Are you okay?” He whispers. “It got a little rough towards the end there.”

“Mm,” you hum. “I might feel it tomorrow but I’ll be okay.”

You’re both pulled out of the intimate moment when a loud clap of thunder is heard.

Johnny slowly releases his hold on you and you carefully lift your body off him, feeling his creamy release leak out of you. You lay on your back, attempting to catch your breath.

Johnny places himself next to you, inviting you to rest your head on his chest. He wraps his arm around you — his fingers lightly tapping against your waist.

“Are you okay?” You ask, looking up at him.

“I’m perfectly fine,” he chuckles, placing a soft kiss on your forehead. “Are you cold?” He reaches over to grab your blanket, pulling it over your body and his.

You both sit there in silence, basking in his warmth. You nuzzle your face into his neck before whispering his name, catching his attention.

“Do you remember when we were younger,” you gulp. “There was this asshole kid who kept making fun of me during recess?” You say the kid’s name, causing Johnny to laugh.

“Yeah, I remember.” He shakes his head. “Why?”

“Have I ever told you that when you told him to stop, I developed this huge crush on you?” You bury your face further into his neck, embarrassed at your sudden confession.

“You did?” He asks, surprise dripping from his words.

“Is that weird?” You giggle, nervously biting down on your bottom lip. “If it is, it’s a total and complete lie, for sure. I never had a crush on you.” You reply sarcastically, having him pull you in tighter followed by a laugh that leaves his lips.

“Remember when my best friend took you to senior prom?” He asks, pushing his hair back by his roots only for it to fall into the same position.

You nod. “Yeah, how can I forget,” you chuckle. “He was my first kiss.”

“Yeah,” he playfully rolls his eyes. “Don’t remind me, he would not shut up about it and I was pissed.”

“Why?” You lift your head, leaning your body weight against your elbow.

“I had this plan to ask you.” He lifts his hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. “When he asked you and you said yes, I felt my heart physically break.” He laughs to himself. “I liked you so much, then finding out my best friend beat me to it, the biggest betrayal I ever felt.”

“Well, if it means anything now,” you cup his cheek. “I was hoping you’d ask.”

He places a tender kiss on the palm of your hand.

“So,” you drawl. “When did you stop?”

“Stop what?”

“Liking me,” you giggle. “Romantically, I mean.”

He sits up, throwing his legs over the side of your bed — his back facing you. “Who says I stopped?” He softly laughs. You see him slightly turn his head to the side. Standing up and grabbing his underwear from your bedroom floor, clearly avoiding eye contact with you.

“Are you leaving?” You ask, watching his every move.

“No, unless you want me to?” He questions, turning to look at you.

You hear another clap of thunder and the sound of rain hits your glass window, harder.

“No,” you shake your head. “I want you to stay.” You pat the empty space next to you. “Plus, you promised me the boyfriend experience.”

He softly sighs, a smile pulling the corner of his mouth. He resumes his position next to you and you rest your head against his chest again.

“When did you stop liking me?” He softly questions and you hear his heartbeat accelerate, nervous to hear your response.

“I didn’t,” you whisper, looking up at him and scrunching your nose, knowing he loves when you do that.

Your response makes him lightly laugh, placing a hand on top of your head before stroking the back of your hair. “Yeah,” he sighs, pulling your body into his even more. “Tonight definitely was not platonic, huh?”

“Yeah, definitely not,” you grin. “At all.”

── BONUS SCENE: FRIDAY, 10:03 PM

“I’m gonna pay for tonight, I’ll meet you guys outside.” Johnny lets out, pulling his phone out and preparing his payment method.

You and your group of friends thank the hostess before walking out the front doors.

“We missed you last month,” your friend, Mei, smiles as she places a hand on your arm. “We were worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” you giggle. “Just wasn’t feeling well that night.”

“You seem better now,” Mark chimes in. “Happier, even.”

You smile and nod your head. “Yeah, I mean, I always look forward to seeing you guys, so…” you trail off, rubbing your arms with the palms of your hands as a gust of wind hits you.

“Do you need a ride home or is an Uber coming to get you?” Mei asks, throwing on her cardigan. “I can take you home.”

You shake your head. “My boyfriend is actually taking me home,” you softly let out, trying to ease your way into telling them you and Johnny are now a couple.

Your friends look at you in shock. “Boyfriend?!” They say in unison. Their overlapping voices cause you to laugh and you make out a few of their questions before shaking your head and shushing them.

“Boyfriend?” Mark laughs. “Why didn’t you tell us during dinner?”

“It didn’t really come up,” you shrug.

“Is he coming now?” Doyoung questions. “We’ll wait with you until he gets here.”

You check your phone, seeing a text from Johnny who lets you know that they’re taking a while to get the total amount for dinner.

“Yeah,” you nod. “He’ll be here in a bit.”

“Wait, how’d you meet?” Mei’s twin sister, Maya, asks you, running her fingers through her hair before crossing her arms across her chest, attempting to keep herself warm.

“I’ve known him for a long time now,” you smile, staying as vague as possible — a little shy to tell them who your boyfriend actually is.

“Does Johnny know?” Mark questions, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jean jacket. “Him being your best friend and all.”

“Yeah, he does.” You nod, watching Mark’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise — assuming he knows how much Johnny actually liked you.

“What’s his name?” Doyoung asks.

They all keep their eyes on the parking lot, waiting and searching for a car to pull up in front of you.

Before you could drop the surprise, Johnny joins the five of you. He gently wraps his jacket over your shoulders before you take a hold of his arm.

“Ready to go home?” He asks, unaware that you still have yet to tell them.

“Yeah,” you smile up at him. “But I haven’t-”

The four of them turn to look at you, eyeing the way you’re clinging onto Johnny’s arm.

“Wait,” Mei lets out, pointing at Johnny but looking at you. “You said your boyfriend is taking you h-”

“Surprise?” You grin, slightly tightening your grip on his arm.

Your friends’ jaws drop, overlapping their questions once more as Johnny throws an arm over your shoulders and pulls you into his side as if he’s protecting you from their rapid questions.

He takes the time to answer their questions as your body warms up from both excitement and nervousness. You suddenly feel tiny raindrops beginning to fall from above you.

“We better get going,” you warn everyone. “Don’t wanna get caught in the rain.”

Everyone agrees and says their goodbyes, congratulating you both on your new relationship.

The rain picks up and bigger, heavier raindrops begin to fall. Johnny lifts his jacket over the both of you and you both quickly make your way over to his car. You grab his keys from the pocket of his jeans, unlocking the passenger’s side door.

Johnny quickly appears in the driver’s seat, throwing his damp jacket in the backseat.

“That went well, huh?” He smiles, quickly turning on his car and the heater, knowing your hands are cold.

“Yeah,” you giggle. “Thank you for answering their questions, by the way. It was a little…”

“Overwhelming?” He grins, taking a hold of your hand and bringing it to his soft lips.

“Exactly,” you sigh. You quickly buckle yourself in and Johnny does the same. “You’re staying the night, right?”

“Of course.” He pets the back of your head before driving back to your place.

As you’re both laying in bed, you have a rerun of your favorite show playing in the background. Johnny draws circles against your back as you lay your head against his chest, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Johnny?” You sleepily call out.

He hums, pausing his movements.

“Do you think you could you read me to sleep?” You yawn. “I’ve been reading a chapter of that book every night before bed.” You point to the novel on your nightstand.

“Yeah, I definitely can.” He shuts off your tv and shifts in bed to grab the book. He opens the novel to the page you stuck your makeshift bookmark in as you make yourself comfortable.

He begins to read aloud and you focus on his voice. By the time he finishes reading the chapter, you’re fast asleep.

After carefully placing the book back on the nightstand, Johnny gently pulls your blanket up your body.

“Good night baby,” he softly whispers before placing a gentle kiss on the top of your head. “Sweet dreams. I love you.”

#j*#nct johnny #nct johnny suh #nct #nct 127 #johnny suh #johnny suh smut #johnny seo #nct 127 johnny #nct johnny seo #nct scenarios #johnny seo smut #nct smut #nct 127 smut #nct x reader #nct 127 x reader #js: smut

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greenwitchfromthewoods · 2 days ago

Note

Could you write something where Tess is jealous with how protective Joel is over you? Please and thank you 😊

thank you for this request. i hope you like it. have a great sunday, sweetie!

warnings: Tess is not nice to you, smuggling, talks of leaving QZ, Joel doesn't play much of a role in it

[my masterlist]

"Are you okay?"

You straightened up and adjusted the backpack that was weighing you down. "I'm fine." You mumbled.

A snort behind you made you turn around. Tess rolled her eyes. "She'll kill us eventually." she said.

"Really?" you replied. "That board would have collapsed under you too."

"I wouldn't have stepped on it."

"Right, your fucking sixth sense."

Tess opened her mouth to say something, but Joel raised a hand, silencing you both. You listened for a moment, but the building was quiet.

"We should go now." Joel finally spoke. "Let's go back. We have enough goods to trade."

You and Tess exchanged a quick glance, but neither of you said anything more. The tension between you was palpable. Tess had seemed irritated by your presence for a while now, and it was starting to tire you out. Like her and Joel, you were involved in smuggling and other work at Boston QZ. They needed someone to do a job, so you joined their team.

It wasn't immediately noticeable. It started with eye rolls, then verbal sarcasm. You felt like it happened every time you spoke to Joel or he made any kind of friendly gesture towards you.

Joel never mentioned whether there was anything more between him and Tess, and you hadn't tried anything more with him. It was just work. Yes, he was handsome, and you weren't used to anyone caring about you, even in the slightest. But that was Joel, wasn't it? He was grumpy and seemed distant from people. You could even say he didn't like people. But he tolerated you, unlike Tess.

It was late when you returned to QZ. It wasn't until the next day that you showed up at the apartment Tess and Joel shared. The woman was alone, but she watched with interest as you pulled more and more goods from your backpack. The loot had to be divided and exchanged for reasonable goods. Each of you wanted to gain something from it.

“Are you looking for a car battery?” you asked, sitting down at the table and watching Tess’s skillful hands sort through what you had brought.

She looked at you with curiosity and irritation. "Where did that idea come from?"

You shrugged. "Joel mentioned something." You replied and immediately noticed that the woman snorted. "I know someone who can help you."

She looked at you. "And you'll do it for free? Because you like me?"

You crossed your arms over your chest, ready for a verbal argument with her. “Do you want this or not? I don’t know why you’re so hard on me. I didn’t do anything to you.”

“Yes, Miss Perfect.” Tess snorted. “You don’t want anything in return because you expect him to be grateful.”

“Fuck!” you hissed. “Who would I want to please?”

“Joel, of course!”

Your mouth fell open in surprise. You were sure Tess was joking, but she was looking at you completely seriously. Your eyes went straight to the bedroom door. “He left,” Tess replied. “He had something to do.”

You leaned in towards her. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but me and Joel…”

“I know that.” Tess waved her hand. “But that doesn’t change the fact that it drives me crazy when I see the way he looks at you. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed! He’s always more caring and protective of you.”

“When it comes to you, he’s also…”

“He’s changed since he met you. He’s a hard ass, but I’ve known him for a long time.” Tess plopped down in the chair across from you and pushed her hair out of her face. “I have nothing against you, you’re strong and smart. You saved my life too, so…” she sighed. “We want to get out of QZ. Joel has a brother he wants to find. You could be useful.”

You looked at her like you didn't believe her words. Just yesterday you were ready to throw yourself at each other, and now Tess was offering you an escape from Boston. Madness.

Finally, you spoke up. "I can help you with the battery."

“I’ll go there myself. Thanks,” she said. “And you? Will you come with us? Joel will definitely ask you. He wouldn’t want to leave you here.”

"We're just friends." you assured her again, but the corners of her mouth turned up.

"For now."

You wanted to say something, but the door opened and you noticed that Joel was back. You quickly stood up from your chair. “I have to go back.”

“You don’t have to,” Joel replied, looking uncertainly at Tess, as if she was the reason you wanted to leave this place quickly.

However, you had already thrown your bag over your shoulder and passed him.

“Thanks for everything!” Tess quickly called out to you. You nodded and a second later you were gone.

Joel stared at the closed door for a moment longer, then glanced at the woman sitting at the table. “Did you say something to her again? Do you have to be so fucking mean to her?”

“Your little bird found us a battery,” Tess said, and was pleased to see the change in Joel’s face. “If we can figure this out, we can get out of here.”

Joel nodded. Tess smiled, then stood up and began clearing the table. “You should talk to her. She could be useful to us outside of Boston. She’s good.”

“I know she is.” Joel swallowed. “But is she…”

“Fuck, Joel!” Tess groaned. “You’re a grown man. Just go to her and do it.”

He nodded and glanced at the door, as if he had expected you to come in. Tess was right, she always had been. You could be useful outside of Boston, and he couldn't imagine you being left here alone. Yes, he would talk to you. You would leave this place together.

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #the last of us

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stylesispunk · 1 day ago

Text

"Blind faith" part vii

priest!Joel Miller x dancer!reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

summary: Joel and you are heartbroken because of each other. You crave his touch and he craves yours. w.c: 6,7k warnings: age gap (joel is in his late 40 and reader late 30s), angst, violence, a broken finger, mentions of death, manipulation, mentions of politics, mentions of exile. Reader is latina and english is not my first language and i'm stupid. a/n: I know I said I wouldn't make Joel suffer anymore because i'm still grieving and crying for him. But this story has angst and i'm sorry. Everything will be better soon. Thank you for all your love and I hope you enjoy it somehow.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

"Yes, and two cups of coffee, please"

His voice this close to your ears felt like a punch to your gut. It disgusted you, the thought of being this close to him, to smell the reeking scent of his cologne, it made you want to vomit.

the waitress wrote down the order while asking directly at you, "something else?"

Gabriel lifted his gaze, locking eyes with you, “waffles? Do you love them”

"I don't want anything, thank you." you replied, in a monotonous voice, fidgeting with your fingers under the table. Your hands were still stained with Joel’s blood and your heart constricted.

“Bring them anyway” he said to the waitress. You could hear the sound of the pen writing down the order in the paper, but really nothing mattered to you right now.

You sat in a booth by the window, pale morning light spilling over the table, highlighting the dried, still darkening stains on your hands. No matter how many times you’d scrubbed them raw in that cracked porcelain sink, it clung to you, under your nails, in the creases of your skin.

Gabriel sat across from you, posture too casual for what he'd done, for what you’d both lived through. His jacket hung from the back of the seat, his sleeves rolled up, his hands pristine.

"Stop with that face and that fucking attitude. The priest didn’t die.” He said, “Besides, you made me look like a monster."

You finally raised your eyes to him, a dull, dead stare. “You are.”

His jaw clenched. “No. I’m not.”

“What you do makes you one.”

“I risked my own life for—”

“How many people have you killed, Gabriel?” your voice cut through the air like glass. “How many have you tortured these last months? How many more because someone told you to? Because you wore that damn soldier uniform and it let you believe you were untouchable?”

He opened his mouth, a retort rising in his throat. “You’re a—”

“Am I what?” you interrupted, pushing him to his own limits, your voice breaking, raw and unsteady. “A fucking burden? A communist? What am I to you, Gabriel?”

Gabriel’s mouth snapped shut, his jaw flexing, words hovering unsaid on his tongue like they’d burn him if he spoke them aloud. His gaze darkened, something mean and ugly flickering behind his eyes — and for the first time in months, you weren’t afraid of it. You were too tired, too hollow, too scraped clean of anything but rage and grief. Grieving a life, you couldn’t go back to.

He looked away then, out the window where the pale morning light spilled over empty streets, over a town that wasn’t home to either of you. His hand gripped the edge of the table, knuckles pale.

“You were… the only thing that made any of this bearable,” he muttered. “And you ruined it.”

A humorless, bitter laugh clawed out of your throat. “I ruined it? You ruined it. You ruined the moment you lied to me. When you used me. You sold me out to the same people who murdered my friends, who would’ve killed my family, and you’re sitting here, in this fucking café, drinking coffee like any of that can be undone.”

The waitress passed by, hesitating for a second at the tension thickening the air around your table, but neither of you noticed.

“I risked my life to get you out,” Gabriel snapped.

“For what?” you fired back. “So you could drag me back in again? So, you could play savior one day and executioner the next?”

He leaned in, voice low and tight. “I was trying to save you from yourself.”

“No, Gabriel,” you said, finally meeting his eyes again. “You were trying to save your place. Your pride and ease the guilt you must feel every damn night.”

And for a split second — just one — you saw it crack in him. The anger. The guilt. The truth of it all. And you hated that a part of you still recognized the boy you’d once loved in that face.

“I want to kill you.” He spoke.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t even blink.

“I know,” you whispered, voice steady in a way that surprised even you. “And some days, I wish you would’ve done it that day.”

The words hung there between you like smoke, choking, heavy, impossible to take back. His expression faltered, something bleak and tired flashing through his eyes, and for a moment he looked like a man who’d lost every war he’d ever fought, including the one inside himself.

“I wake up every fucking day wanting to forget you,” Gabriel said, his voice rough, frayed at the edges. “But I can’t. You haunt me.”

“Good,” you murmured. “I hope I do.”

Your heart pounding in your ears, stomach twisted into something tight and ugly.

“I moved names for you,” he said, softer now, like it mattered. Like it would made you less frigthened “I bought your family’s freedom. Paid for it with my life, my rank. You’ll never know what that cost me.”

“I didn’t ask you to.” You replied, “You knew what kind of person I was and I am. You were aware of my beliefs and my values.”

Gabriel’s jaw tensed, his hand curling into a fist on the table between the untouched cups of coffee. The silence stretched — thick, suffocating — before he finally spoke again, his voice low, bitter.

“I knew,” he admitted. “I knew you were fire and danger and a thousand things that could ruin me. And I didn’t care. I just… I wanted you. Even if it meant burning for it.”

You shook your head, a broken, hollow laugh catching in your throat. “That’s not love, Gabriel. That’s possession. You wanted me like people want land, or power — to claim, to own. Not to protect.”

He looked at you then, really looked — and for the first time, you saw it: the wreckage of a man he’d become. A soldier stripped of his command, a traitor in his own uniform, carrying ghosts in his chest that no war could bury.

“You’re right,” he murmured. “I ruined everything.”

A lump formed in your throat, your eyes stinging with tears you refused to let fall. “You didn’t ruin me,” you said quietly. “I’m still here. Despite you. Because of me.”

You pushed your chair back, the legs scraping against the worn floor. “I don’t owe you gratitude, Gabriel. Not for saving what you tried to destroy.”

“Will you ever forgive me?”

For a moment you forget the man in front of you was the same one who lured you into a fairy tale love story. Through lies he had braided himself because he knew you. He knew what you thought, what you did, what you love and what you hate. He knew your name and what you fought for, and as if you were a witch he tried to hunt you.

But he fell in love with you.

You paused, a breath hitching in your chest, before shaking your head without meeting his gaze. "For what? For killing my friends? For sending your soldiers friends to follow me? or do you want me to forgive you because you are the reason I'm exiled from my home?"

“I wanted to kill you,” he admitted, bitter and broken. “Every day since you ran. I told myself I would, when I found you. That I’d put a bullet in your head between those soft eyes of you and I would bury every part of me you ever touched.”

Your throat felt tight, a war raging in your chest between anger and the ache of remembering the boy he used to be, the one who had lured you, before you met the man in the uniform, before the orders, before blood stained both of his hands.

“But I couldn’t,” Gabriel said, quieter now. “Even with the gun in my hand last night when you looked at me like I was a monster. I couldn’t fucking do it.”

You swallowed hard, blinking fast, heart pounding in your ears.

“You were my ruin,” he breathed. “You still are.”

And for a long, terrible moment, the silence stretched between you like a wire pulled taut.

Gabriel let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the kind of sound scraped raw from a man unraveling. He leaned back in his seat, eyes dark, exhausted, something hollow flickering in them.

“What am I going to do to you now?” he repeated, voice like splintered glass. “I should drag you back. Deliver you like they wanted. Let them finish what I couldn’t.”

Your fingers tightened on the edge of the table, pulse hammering. You forced yourself not to flinch.

“But I won’t,” he said, quieter now. “I don’t even know if it’s mercy or cowardice. Maybe both. Maybe I’m more afraid of what would happen to me if I stop knowing you existed.”

You stared at him then — really stared. At the man you once thought you came close to love. The boy who’d once sworn he’d never become one of them. And yet here he was, uniform or not, lost in a war of his own making.

“I don’t want your mercy,” you told him, voice low but unyielding, like a cut that didn’t bleed right away but hurt all the same. “And I don’t want your guilt. I don’t need your ghosts following me around to feel the weight of what’s already been taken.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched, the flicker of something — grief, fury, longing, maybe all of it tangled together — crossing his face before he looked down at the table, fingers curling into fists.

“You were my ruin,” he murmured again, as though the words themselves might explain away the things he’d done. “I wake up every day wanting to hate you, and I can’t. I wanted to kill you… I still want to. But more than that, I want to disappear inside you. And that’s the worst thing, isn’t it?”

Your throat tightened. The room felt smaller, the air thick with everything unsaid, everything shattered between you.

“Then disappear, Gabriel,” you said, looking away, the rays of sunshine filtering through the window felt like the hand you should take to in order to escape. “But do it far from me.”

“And letting you to go back to that priest that easily?” he asked, making you freeze.

The words hit you like a stone to the chest, sharp, sudden, heavy. You froze, hand still on the edge of the table, the brittle morning light spilling in around you. Your heart twisted at the mention of Joel; at the blood you’d scrubbed from your hands but still felt beneath your nails.

Slowly, you turned, meeting Gabriel’s gaze. His face was a ruin of its own now, anger and bitterness, some frayed thread of old love barely hanging on.

“He has nothing to do with this.” you said, though your voice betrayed you, cracking at the edges. “Don’t bring him into this.”

Gabriel huffed a humorless breath, leaning back like he needed the distance or he might reach for you. “Isn’t it?” he asked. “It seems to me like he is the one thing you don’t want me to touch now, but he still betrayed you.”

Gabriel stared at you, and for the first time, he looked tired. So fucking tired. “Did you seduce him with lap dances? I mean, the priest?”

Your fingers curled into your palms, nails biting into skin as you fought the heat behind your eyes.

“I don’t have to dance for someone to care about me, Gabriel,” you said, your voice low, steady despite the crack threading through it. “Not everyone sees me as a fucking possession or a fucking prize.”

His jaw clenched, something flickering behind those dark, exhausted eyes. The veneer of anger, of bitterness, peeled back for the barest second, and you saw it — the grief beneath it. The part of him that would rather destroy you than admit he never stopped loving you.

“Don’t lie to yourself,” Gabriel said, his voice rough, unraveling at the seams. “You think he’s any different? You think he won’t leave you to rot the moment it stops being forbidden, the moment you become a liability?” He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “At least I was honest about who I was.”

You shook your head, the ache in your chest too deep, too familiar. “You were a lying coward,” you whispered.

For a moment, the world felt painfully, terribly still. The cold air from the open door brushed against your skin like a warning, like a promise you hadn’t made yet.

Gabriel swallowed, his throat working around words he didn’t say. And then, finally, he managed “I should kill you.”

The words should’ve made you flinch. But they didn’t.

You held his gaze, your chin high. “Then why don’t you?”

The room hung on the knife’s edge of that question. Gabriel’s stare didn’t waver, his voice a low, brutal rasp. “Because you’re already dead.”

The words didn’t land at first. Not fully. But then he added, with a cruel, quiet finality,

“Your family. They killed them.”

The air left your lungs in a single, sharp gasp, the room tilting, blurring at the edges. You staggered back a step, your fingers tightening around each other like it was the only thing keeping you upright. You searched his face, desperate for a flicker of a lie, for some crack in the story — but there was nothing. Just Gabriel, emptied out, a graveyard of a man delivering another death sentence.

And he wasn’t done.

“So, you’re lonely in a foreign country,” he went on, the words like daggers dressed in velvet, “with a forbidden lover who traded you the first chance he got. It seems to me like you’re already fucking dead, mi amor.”

He smiled then, if it could be called that. A grim, bitter thing.

“You have nothing left.”

The silence that followed was a kind of violence all its own. You couldn’t feel your hands anymore. Couldn’t hear anything past the roar in your ears.

But you wouldn’t let him see you break. Not here. Not now.

You straightened, the ache in your chest molten, teeth clenched so tight your jaw ached.

“Then bury me, Gabriel,” you said softly, venom threaded through the tremor in your voice. It was breaking but you still keep going, “but you’re too much of a coward to do it yourself.”

“But you don’t get to touch Joel,” you said, and your voice was steady now. Dangerous in its quiet. “He had nothing to do with this. With you. With the rot in your heart, you keep trying to pin on everyone else.”

Gabriel’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking there. For a moment, you almost thought he’d strike you. Or scream. Or crumble.

But instead, he laughed. A soft, empty sound.

“That’s where you’re wrong, mi amor,” he murmured, though his voice cracked on it. “The moment he touched you, the moment you looked at him like with love in your eyes, he made himself a part of this.”

You shook your head, “You’re still so desperate to make this about you,” you said desperate “What else do you want from me?” you sobbed.

His hand twitched against the table, a flicker of something — violence or grief, you couldn’t tell.

But you didn’t wait for the next venom-laced word.

“I swear to whatever gods are left, Gabriel,” you whispered as you point your finger towards him, “if you lay a single fucking finger on him—”

but you didn’t get to finish before a crack made your vision white out for a split second.

A strangled cry ripped from your throat as pain shot up your arm, blinding and immediate. Gabriel didn’t even flinch, his grip iron around your now broken finger, his face a mask of something monstrous and unrecognizable now.

“You don’t get to threaten me,” he hissed, his breath hot and sharp against your face, voice low and trembling with barely leashed fury. “Not after everything I did for you. Not when you made me like this.”

Tears stung your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. Not for him. Not for this.

“You were always like this,” you spat through the pain, your words shaking but vicious.

For a moment, something in his expression faltered, that flicker of the boy you once knew, the one who’d whispered promises against your skin in another life, in another world. But it was gone before you could name it.

He let your hand drop, your broken finger throbbing as it hung uselessly at your side. “Run, mi amor,” Gabriel murmured, almost gentle now, and it made your skin crawl. “You can run if you want but I know where you are.”

Joel's eyes fluttered open, but the world around him felt too bright, too harsh. He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of what he was seeing — sterile white walls, the faint beep of machines in the background, the scent of antiseptic heavy in the air.

For a moment, he just lay there, his mind tangled in confusion. Where was he? What had happened?

The dull ache in his head pulsed like a reminder, a warning. He shifted his body, but the pain stopped him, sharp and insistent. He groaned, wincing at the movement, his eyes darting around in a frantic search for something, anything that could give him clarity.

The beeping intensified, and a nurse came into view, her face kind but impersonal. She smiled at him. "You're awake," she said softly, though there was something about her voice that seemed distant.

"Where am I?" Joel's voice was hoarse, as if it hadn’t been used in days.

"You're in a hospital," the nurse replied, checking his IV. "You’ve been unconscious for a while, but you’re stable now."

He swallowed, trying to process her words. "What happened? Why… how am I here?"

She hesitated for a second, her eyes flickering with something unreadable.

“You were shot in the leg.” Carmen said, stepping inside the room. Her face seemed tired, full of anger, but also sadness covering her features. "You lost blood and ended up passing out. Billy and Mr. Langdon brought you here."

Joel's heart skipped a beat at the sound of Carmen's voice. His eyes flickered to her, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. His thoughts were still a jumble, but her presence brought a mix of relief and dread all at once.

"Billy and Mr. Langdon?" He repeated her words, confusion furrowing his brow. It was like his memory had been wiped clean, leaving him only with fragments of names and faces that didn’t fit together.

Carmen nodded; her face tight. "We were with you at the church."

He looked at her, his gaze searching, but her expression was guarded. She seemed distant, like there was something she wasn't saying. He wanted to ask more, about what happened, about her, about everything, but his mouth felt dry, and the weight of her gaze made his chest tighten.

"What about her?" His voice cracked, the question slipping out before he could stop it. He hated how weak it sounded.

Carmen’s eyes flickered to the side, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I don’t know where she is, father.”

The words hit him like a slap.

"What do you mean?" His pulse quickened, panic rising in his throat. "How many days…?"

Carmen shook her head slowly, her eyes avoiding his. "Five.” She breathed, “No one does where she is. There’s no sign of her. No trace.”

Joel felt his heart drop, his breath becoming shallow, like someone had knocked the wind out of him. Five days? It felt like the world was spinning out of control, slipping through his fingers. You’d been gone for five days, and he’d been lying here, helpless, trapped in his own body while you wherever you were—were out there out of his reach.

His chest tightened, the hospital room feeling smaller, suffocating. He wanted to push the covers off, to stand up, to search for you, but his leg, wrapped in bandages, screamed in protest.

"Where did he take her, Carmen? Where is she?” His voice broke, desperate, raw. His mind raced with images of her—her face, her eyes, the way she looked at him before everything had fallen apart. She couldn’t be gone, not like this.

Carmen’s gaze softened for a brief moment before she looked away, taking a step back. "I don’t know, father," she repeated, her voice quieter now, holding a weight of its own. "We’ve looked everywhere, but there's nothing. Just... nothing."

He could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears, the pulse of panic growing louder with each passing second. "I need to find her," he muttered, more to himself than to her, but Carmen was already shaking her head.

"You’re in no condition to do anything right now." Her tone was sharp, "You can barely stand. You need to rest. Let us help."

"Help?" His eyes blazed with frustration, though the pain from his leg and body was a constant reminder of his own weakness. "I was helping. I—I failed her. I need to fix this, oh my—Carmen. I have to find her."

His hands gripped the sheets tightly, and his gaze darted around the room, as if the walls themselves might give him an answer. There had to be something he could do. He couldn’t just lay here.

Carmen sighed, a long, deep exhale that carried the weight of everything she’d been holding in. She moved closer to him.

“How did Gabriel find her?” she asked, sternly.

“Do you know about him?”

She nodded, “I do, but that’s not what I asked. I asked how?”

Joel’s throat worked around the knot forming there, his pulse a jagged, uneven thing beneath his skin. He looked up at Carmen, her face hard but her eyes carrying something heavier than anger — fear.

“I—I. He came to me t one night, to my office at the church telling me he was looking out for his fiancé who ran from the wedding,” he rasped, though the words felt like a lie the second they left his mouth. His hands trembled as he dragged them through his hair. “I thought “poor guy” you know?”, for a moment he stopped, ashamed of himself,” Then he showed me the picture of the woman and it was her. I just felt so—"

Carmen didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stared at him like she could peel his words open and find the truth inside but that was enough for Joel to stop talking.

“I never knew he was a bad guy.” Joel said, his voice cracking, breaking open in a way he hated. “I was trying to help him.”

“By trading her as she was a fucking object?” Carmen asked quietly but mad enough.

Joel’s stomach twisted. A horrible, creeping thought clawed at the edges of his mind.

“Shit,” he whispered, his heart sinking.

Carmen’s eyes sharpened. “You better pray to whatever God you’ve still got left, Joel,” she said coldly. “Because if she’s dead because of you… I’ll finish what that bullet started.”

And for the first time since waking, Joel didn’t try to argue. He just closed his eyes, jaw clenched so hard it hurt, and whispered your name like a prayer.

“What do you know about this?” He asked. Heart breaking at the thought of you being in danger.

Carmen’s shoulders dropped, the weight of it pressing down on her, like she’d been waiting for this moment, for him to finally ask.

She pulled the chair closer, sitting down beside his bed. Her fingers tapped against her thigh, jaw tight, eyes distant like she was staring through the walls of that hospital room and into a past neither of them could outrun.

“I wasn’t supposed tell you this,” she said quietly. “But when you care about someone… you pay attention. You hear things you’re not meant to. See things people don’t think you’ll notice.”

Joel opened his eyes, turning his head to her, silent.

“Well, you know the part she is a ballerina dancer.” Carmen went on, voice low and steady, “She was a really good one, but she also was a really well-known activist too.” She went like she was reciting a ghost story she didn’t want to believe. “You know, things got dangerous for people like her or people who got another belief.”

Joel’s stomach twisted, his pulse roaring in his ears.

“Gabriel was a soldier, well he is.” Carmen whispered. “He was ordered to haunt her, to silence her, so he lured her somehow, but when she found out the truth, she escaped the country and she ended up here.”

Joel’s throat felt raw. “Jesus Christ…”

“And you know what’s worse?” Carmen’s voice cracked, anger bleeding through. “He didn’t just leave her with nothing. He told everyone she was dead. She’s been running ever since. Hiding in places like this, with people like us, because there’s nowhere left for her to go.”

Joel felt sick. All those moments, the way you never talked about your past, how you flinched at certain things, how sometimes your eyes went far away like you were seeing ghosts.

And him? He had just trade you over jealousy.

“She didn’t tell me all of it,” Carmen admitted. “But she didn’t have to. I could see it. And then you showed up… and I saw the way she looked at you. Like maybe… maybe you made her forget for a second.”

Joel let out a shaky breath, guilt gnawing at every part of him. “I never meant to—”

“I know,” Carmen cut him off, softer now. “But meaning doesn’t matter. Not to men like Gabriel. And if he’s got her now…”

Joel’s jaw clenched. “He won’t.”

Carmen met his eyes, a flicker of something like fragile hope in hers. “You are sinner but not for the reasons you think, Joel. You allowed your jealousy won and that doesn’t make you better than him.”

Joel winced like she’d struck him clean across the face. Because she wasn’t wrong. God, she wasn’t wrong.

The truth of it settled in his chest like hot lead, heavy and unmovable. He thought of every moment he’d let anger fester, every time he’d imagined you and Gabriel in the same room and let the bile rise in his throat instead of trusting you. How easy it’d been to believe the worst, to let jealousy twist him up until it swallowed everything else.

“I know,” he rasped, voice breaking on the words. “I know, Carmen.”

She looked away, her hand scrubbing tiredly over her face. “Then fix it,” she whispered. “You owe her that much.”

Joel nodded, jaw tight, his leg throbbing like hell but his mind already racing past the pain. Past the blood. Past the hospital walls.

“I’ll find her,” he said, more to himself than to Carmen. “I swear to God, I’ll find her.”

Carmen stood, the weight of grief and fury still clinging to her like a second skin. But there was something else too, the smallest thread of trust, like maybe, despite it all, she believed he could.

“She’s stronger than either of you deserve,” Carmen muttered, heading for the door. “She is better than any of those people in town.”

Joel’s eyes burned, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Not now. Not after everything.

“I know,” he said quietly, the words barely carrying in the stillness of the room. “I always knew.”

Carmen paused at the doorway, one hand on the frame, her shoulders tight and stiff beneath her jacket. She didn’t turn, but her voice reached him one last time.

“You’ve got one shot at this, Miller,” she said, low and rough. “If you’re gonna bleed for something, make sure it’s for her.

Then she was gone, leaving him with nothing but the steady beeping of the monitors and the unbearable weight of his own regret.

Joel leaned his head back against the pillow, his pulse hammering in his ears. He didn’t have a plan yet. Didn’t know how the hell he was gonna stand on his own leg, let alone go toe to toe with Gabriel. But none of that mattered. Not when he could still hear your voice in his head, the way you used to say his name.

He wouldn’t let it end like this. Couldn’t.

It felt like a lifetime, and somehow no time at all. You’d lost count of the hours, of how many times Gabriel’s hand had closed around your wrist, your jaw, your throat — not always in violence, but always in control. He hadn’t let you out of his sight, not even when he slept. Not even when he pretended to.

The motel room was suffocating. Peeling floral wallpaper, a humming air conditioner that barely worked, and one single window you weren’t allowed near. It wasn’t chains that kept you here, it was him — the way his presence filled every inch of the space, leaving no room to breathe.

He barely spoke unless it was to taunt, to remind you of what you lost, or of what he thought you owed him. Sometimes he’d just stare at you in silence, sitting in the chair by the window with a glass of whatever he could steal or buy, his eyes glassy and distant like a man already halfway dead.

You didn’t beg. You didn’t scream. Not after the first night.

Instead, you waited. Counting every blink, every time he closed his eyes, every time his hand went to the bottle, every time his guard dropped a fraction.

Because you knew one thing: no one — not even a monster like Gabriel — could keep this kind of storm at bay forever.

And when he did sleep, it wasn’t peaceful. He murmured things in Spanish, names you didn’t recognize, curses, threats. And sometimes… yours.

The motel TV played old static-flickering movies in the background — westerns, cheap thrillers. You’d started tuning them out. The real horror was in this room.

But no matter how much you tried to steel yourself, to lock away the softer parts of you that Gabriel hadn’t managed to carve out yet — his name still found you in the quietest moments.

Joel.

You told yourself you hated him. That you had to. That after what he’d done, after the way his jealousy had made you a pawn in Gabriel’s hand again, there shouldn’t be a single piece of you left that ached for him.

But in the dim hours before dawn, when Gabriel was passed out in the chair and the flicker of the TV cast restless shadows on the walls, it was Joel’s face you saw.

Not in the way you last saw him, bloodied and broken in the church when it all went to hell. Not in anger, not in betrayal. But in the way he looked the night he let you fall asleep with your head against his shoulder for the first time. The way his calloused hand brushed a loose strand of hair from your face like it meant something for the both of you.

Like you meant something important. And perhaps you’d been a fool.

Maybe in his weakness you made him sin and he despise you.

But you’d still clung to that warmth like a drowning thing, holding it close when the world wanted to rip it from your chest.

Even now when you should’ve wished him dead, should’ve cursed his name and vowed to forget him. It was Joel’s voice you heard in your head, rasped and rough. I got you. I swear. I love you.

And God, you didn’t know if he was okay.

Didn’t know if he was coming to save you from this.

Didn’t know if he even cared anymore.

But you still hoped. And that was the cruelest thing of all.

Because it was easier to survive when you believed no one was coming. When you told yourself you were already dead.

You pressed your face into your hands, the rough skin of your palms catching against the salt of your tears. The room stank of cheap liquor and sweat, of unwashed sheets and stale cigarette smoke, and the air felt so thick you could barely pull it into your lungs.

The sobs came in fits, shuddering, ugly things you’d tried to choke down for days. But tonight, tonight it all broke.

You cried for them. For your family.

For the mother who used to hum lullabies in the kitchen late at night, for the big brother who used to chase fireflies in the yard with you, for the father whose stern words somehow meant safety.

Dead.

They were dead and you wouldn’t get the chance to know see them or ever say goodbye.

Gabriel’s words had cut through you five days ago like a blade, and you’d pretended it hadn’t shattered something vital. Pretended you could outlast it, just like everything else. But it had festered inside you, a raw, gnawing grief that clawed its way to the surface now.

You cried for yourself too. For the girl you used to be, for the future you’d started to imagine, the one with stolen moments of peace and maybe, just maybe, love. A future that had Joel in it.

And you cried for your hand. Because somehow that stupid, broken, swollen finger felt like a final insult. Gabriel hadn’t taken you to a hospital. He hadn’t even wrapped it. Just left it to throb and pulse and turn shades of bruised purple and blue, a small, constant ache to remind you of what he could do.

The bone grated against itself when you moved it, and it made you dizzy with pain, but you clung to that pain. Because it meant you were still here.

Still alive.

And maybe that was the cruelest thing of all too.

You curled in on yourself on the edge of the bed, knees to your chest, trying to make yourself smaller than the grief, smaller than the hatred in Gabriel’s eyes, smaller than the crushing weight of being so utterly alone.

“I miss you,” you whispered into the dark. You didn’t know if it was meant for your family, or for Joel.

Maybe both. Your chest ached, the kind of ache that felt endless, like it might outlive you.

A soft, broken sound left your throat. You didn’t know if it was a laugh or a sob.It filled the stillness of the room, and you didn’t even have time to swallow it down before you heard the scrape of Gabriel’s chair against the floor.

His voice came from the corner, low and coarse. “Why are you crying, cariño?”

You didn’t answer at first. Couldn’t. Your throat felt like it had been scraped raw, and your face was wet, the tears burning your skin. You just sat there, staring down at your lap, your good hand cradling the one he’d broken days ago.

The pain had changed over the last five days. It wasn’t sharp anymore, it was a steady, deep, nauseating throb that never really left, radiating up your wrist, making your whole arm feel useless and heavy. The bruising was worse now, swollen and dark, the shape of your finger misshapen.

You lifted your hand, showing it to him without a word.

The light from the old motel lamp caught on the mangled joint. The swelling, purpling skin. Your hand shook as you held it up, but your gaze stayed on him.

For a moment, Gabriel didn’t say a thing.

He just stared at it. At you.

And something flickered there, something too tangled to name. Regret, maybe.

“That why you’re sniffling like a little girl?” he asked, voice dry, like the whole thing bored him.

He took a drink from the glass in his hand, the ice clinking against the sides.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

“Are you gonna fix it?” you asked hoarsely, your voice a scrape of gravel.

His brow twitched. He set the glass down on the nightstand with a heavy, deliberate thunk and stood. The room felt smaller as he crossed it, each step measured and unhurried.

He crouched in front of you, too close, smelling of whiskey and smoke and the sickly tang of sweat.

His hand came up, fingers brushing your wrist like a threat disguised as tenderness.

He smiled at you, “Okay, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. The words sounded like a trick, like something sharp wrapped in silk. He smiled when he said it, but it wasn’t the kind of smile people wore when they meant to help.

It was the kind predators gave right before they sank their teeth in.

“Why now?” you rasped, the words catching in your throat. You hated how small you sounded; how desperate you felt to cling to any scrap of hope and how sick it made you at the same time.

Gabriel’s smile stayed, but his eyes flickered, something colder, something careful.

“Because if I don’t,” he murmured, fingers grazing up your wrist toward your swollen hand, “you’ll lose it.” he shrugged, that easy, cruel nonchalance he wore like a second skin. “I figure you’re not much good to me all busted up like this.”

You swallowed hard, bile burning the back of your throat. It wasn’t mercy. It wasn’t guilt. It was practicality. You were his, a possession, and even a broken thing had to be kept in working order.

“Get your shoes,” he said, standing up. “We leave in five.”

You didn’t argue. Didn’t waste words. You just moved stiffly toward the corner where your worn boots sat, forcing your uninjured hand to tie them while your broken one throbbed in your lap. Every movement made your vision swim, but you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out.

Gabriel pulled on his jacket, grabbed his keys, and opened the motel room door, letting the stale night air rush in. The moon hung low and thin in the sky; the parking lot empty except for his beat-up truck he had rented.

“You try to run, I’ll break the other one,” he said casually, like it was nothing.

You didn’t reply. You just stepped out into the night, the cold hitting you like a slap, and followed him toward the truck.

But something in your chest stirred, a flicker of defiance even under all the fear and grief.

Because five days was a long time to be kept in a cage.

The hospital lights were too bright.

After five days in that cramped, suffocating motel room, they made your head pound, made your eyes sting. The antiseptic smell hit you hard, thick with bleach and something metallic underneath. You kept your gaze low, shoulders hunched, following the line of Gabriel’s shadow across the faded linoleum floors.

A nurse at the front desk gave you a curious glance, her eyes lingering on the bruises you hadn’t bothered to cover, the way your left hand hung limp and swelling. But when she met Gabriel’s stare, cold and hard like a wolf daring her to speak, she looked away.

“Broken finger,” Gabriel grunted, shoving paperwork at her. “Get it done quick.”

You barely registered the words. Your mind was a storm of noise and memory, a face, dark eyes you still dreamed about even when you tried not to, a voice that rasped your name like a promise.

I swear, I got you. I love you.

Joel.

God. Joel. You thought about him the other night at the church. About his leg and if he was okay.

You could almost feel him in the walls of this place, like a phantom. A brush of breath down your neck, a tug in your chest that you couldn’t explain. Like somewhere close by, something you’d lost was reaching back for you.

But you didn’t look.

Hope was a dangerous thing, and you couldn’t afford it anymore.

Two floors up, Joel lay in a hospital bed he hadn’t allow to leave yet. Carmen had forced him to rest, but sleep wouldn’t come, not with his mind stuck in loops of.

what if, where is she, what have I done.

The steady beeping of monitors, the faint intercom calls, the distant squeak of gurney wheels.

And for one dizzy second, he thought. He thought he caught a scent he knew better than his own

The faint trace of your perfume, buried under smoke.

He turned his head, pulse kicking hard.

Nothing there.

Just a nurse walking past.

Just a shadow at the end of the hallway.

“You’re losing it, old man,” he muttered under his breath.

But he didn’t stop staring at the door, some instinct deep in his marrow telling him that you were close.

And you were.

Less than thirty yards away.

A different wing. A different hallway.

But fate was cruel, and timing crueler.

And the storm hadn’t broken yet.

You were in a cold hallway, feeling the coldness of the air freezing on your skin, the same one that still craves the touch of the same callused palms that welcomed you to daylight the moment you were looking for it the most.

You still crave Joel’s touch on your face, his fingers wrapped around your own.

You missed his eyes finding yours across the room, sharing a secret language only both of you could understand.

And you missed him despite all.

But his cold eyes sliced your heart in half and you still waited for the moment.

Under the same moon.

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 day ago

Text

The Keys Of Heaven [Chapter 1: He Will Come Again In Glory]

A/N: I've had this idea since I saw Conclave in October, but I never imagined it would coincide with an ACTUAL papal conclave 😅 Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy "volcano fic" at long last!!! 🌋❤️

Series summary: Three years ago, Father Aemond Targaryen performed a miracle. Now he is a cardinal, a media sensation, and a frontrunner to be elected pope. You are a nun who has been brought to Vatican City to assist with the papal conclave. But when your paths cross by happenstance, you must both reckon with your decision to join the Catholic Church...and what you want from the future.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), references to abuse and violence, volcanoes, bodily injury, death, peril, scheming, pining, some drugs/alcohol/smoking, Catholic trivia you never asked to learn, kangaroos!

Word count: 6.6k

🦘 A very special thanks to my Aussie slang consultant @bearwithegg (any mistakes are mine) 🦘

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @lauraneedstochill @ecstaticactus @neithriddle

🗝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🗝️

“Are you responsible for the koi?” a man asks.

You whirl, spilling pellets of fish food across the pebble pathway, sand-colored tuff made of volcanic ash. Cardinal Targaryen is standing there, and of course you recognize him immediately. His hands are clasped behind his back, his head is tilted thoughtfully to the side. He wears a gold cross, a zucchetto upon his still-blonde hair, and a cassock, scarlet to symbolize the blood a martyr is willing to shed for the Faith; it has exactly thirty-three buttons, one for each year Christ spent on earth. You grin proudly. This is a promotion, an escape from doing the washing in a basement full of spiders. “I sure am, Your Eminence!”

“Including that one?” He points: by the edge of the pond, a large red-and-white koi is floating with dull, dead, lidless eyes.

“Oh no,” you moan, taking a closer look. “No, no, no, it’s rooted. This is not good.” You turn back to the cardinal. “Please don’t tell Sister Augustina. She already thinks I’m an idiot because I don’t know how to work a fax machine.”

Cardinal Targaryen chuckles. “A fax machine?”

“I didn’t think people still used those.”

“I didn’t either.” He’s still watching you closely. “Have we met before?”

“I don’t believe so, Your Eminence.” You saw him arriving at the Domus Sanctae Marthae this morning—rolling his luggage, handing over his phone, sequestering himself from the outside world—but it was other nuns who tended to him, not you. You had been assisting Cardinal Bogdi Marcu of Romania, who probably has first-hand experience with stegosauruses and mastodons.

“You remind me of someone, but I can’t recall who...” Cardinal Targaryen studies you for a little longer, then beams benevolently. “Well, the Lord commands us to be compassionate, and so I will help you hide the evidence and spare you from Sister Augustina’s wrath.”

You should protest—surely this is beneath him—but you are so overwhelmed with gratitude that for a moment you forget this. “Oh, bless you!”

As the cardinal scoops the deceased koi out of the pond with two large, cupped hands, you use your fingers to dig a makeshift grave under a lemon tree. It is December, and the Vatican Gardens are not dead but slumbering, the air cool and the sky grey, the soil soft and dark and damp as you burrow until you hit the impassible layer of clay beneath. Cardinal Targaryen lays the koi to rest in the trough, then together you hastily inter it. When the hollow has been filled and the dirt smoothed, he looks around the nearby flower beds for a large stone and finds one, places it atop the koi’s clandestine crypt, and stands back, admiring his work.

“Now you will escape all suspicion,” he says.

“Thank you, Your Eminence.”

“You may call me Aemond.” He bows his head in greeting, holding his hands behind his back again. His speech is formal and measured, crafted in English-taught boarding schools, just a ghost of Mediterranean inflection like the lingering pink of a sunburn. “I’m Cardinal Targaryen of Greece.”

You tap your own left cheek, indicating his scar. “I know who you are.” But you would even if it wasn’t for his mutilation, his eye that was permanently stitched shut. Three years ago when he was thirty-eight, the same age you are now, Aemond commandeered a fishing boat and saved a group of fifty tourists from a volcanic eruption on Santorini, where he was a priest at the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist. He instantly became a pop culture phenomenon—news interviews and televised sermons, statements on current events and viral memes—and was made a cardinal soon after. Miracles are so rare in the modern world; those who wield them must be elevated to prove the magic still exists.

You give him your name, and the cardinal—you cannot bring yourself to think of him as Aemond, too informal, too intimate—surmises: “You’re here for the conclave.”

That is sort of true. “It’s such an honor.”

“Hm.” He is scrutinizing you again, his remaining eye sharp and blue and fascinated. “Are you certain we haven’t met before?”

“I don’t know where we would have, I’ve never been to Greece.”

“Perhaps on one of my diplomatic missions. The Philippines, Indonesia, Colombia, Japan, China, Bangladesh.”

You smile. “Never been to any of those either.”

“You’re from Australia.” Your accent makes this apparent. He’s touching his chin, he’s determined to puzzle it out. “Which part?”

“Up north in Queensland, originally. But I’ve mostly lived in Sydney for the past fifteen years.”

He shakes his head, mystified and frustrated by it; not much eludes him. “I visited Sydney once but it was forever ago, I was just a kid.” He is still thinking. On other pathways through the gardens, red dots of cardinals are walking off their flights from six different continents, murmuring solemnly to their colleagues or lost in the solitude of prayer. “How was this arranged, you traveling to the Vatican?”

And so you tell him the most abbreviated version: Mother Maureen Ashwell of the Sisters of Charity of Australia wrote to Sister Augustina, a friend for decades, a pen pal of sorts, and asked if she could use you. When the cardinals convene each time a new pope must be elected—ten years since the last conclave, or twenty, or thirty—there is a great need for labor, and particularly the labor of women, anonymous and thankless and uncomplaining: washing, cooking, serving, scrubbing, safeguarding, the endless, ever-patient matrilineal caretaking. Sister Augustina acquiesced, and so you flew to Rome with another nun from your convent, Sister Rhaena, who is very young and very in awe of everything all the time. Whatever affection Sister Augustina has for Mother Maureen has not translated to you. She scowls, she huffs, she loathes how you fold clothes and make beds. When Rhaena playfully tried to give her the nickname of Sister Tina, she received a pair of cuffed, ringing ears in return.

As you speak, Cardinal Targaryen gazes at you fixedly; and then his jaw drops open in amazement. “Dear God,” he says, his remaining eye wide and starry. “You’re the girl from the beach.”

~~~~~~~~~~

How old must you have been? It comes back like sandbars revealed by low tide: you are around nine, and Aemond perhaps twelve, and you meet when your parents have—separately yet providentially—planned family vacations to Sydney for the same week in December, when the Northern Hemisphere is shivering and the South is in the early days of summer.

You drove ten hours south from Toowoomba, he flew over nine thousand miles east from Athens, and you fall into step together on wet sand that collapses into the shape of your footprints. And while your respective siblings are elsewhere—getting slathered with marshmallow-white sunscreen, being fished out of the rough waves—you and Aemond build sprawling sandcastles and decorate them with seashells, and make banners out of dried seaweed impaled on pieces of driftwood, and share the picnics your parents packed: you have Vegemite or tuna sandwiches, meat pies, Tim Tams, Granny Smith apples, and Illawarra plums, while Aemond contributes soft triangles of pita and a platter of accompaniments, tzatziki, hummus, other spreads made of feta cheese or eggplant or fish, the cold crisp relief of a Greek salad wet with olive oil.

You find each other each morning of that week, an infinitesimal eternity. He is the first boy you see as a man—his shadow tall, his voice patient and wise—and there is a powerful pure drive to be close to him, a phantom longing for something you don’t know exists yet. You make him smile and laugh; he loves the way you say sanger instead of sandwich, and esky instead of cooler box, and togs instead of bathing suits, and defo instead of definitely. You tell Aemond you want to move to Greece with him. He tells you he wants to marry you one day. He weaves you a ring made of seaweed greener than any emeralds, but you leave it on your nightstand before going to sleep and wake to find that your mum has thrown it away because it smelled like the ocean, salt and sun and eons of lives coming full circle in the depths.

On your last night in Sydney, the four parents arrange to have dinner together at a pizza place by the boardwalk, and you hear them chuckling as they make light, patronizing exchanges: too bad long-distance phone calls are so expensive, awfully sad for them to have to say goodbye, kids have such short memories, they’ll get over it. As Aemond leaves with his family—he’s the last one out the door, glancing back at you again and again—you watch him vanish into the inky darkness and the glare of the streetlights, and from a little black radio beside the till there is a song playing, maybe Dylan or Joel or Springsteen, one you’ve never been able to remember well enough to find again.

And when you arrive home after an impossibly long day of driving and open your suitcase, the seashells you hid in the bottom have been jostled and crushed until only the dust of them is left, and the loss hits you, sharp and deep, and you begin to sob so loudly your mum comes running, thinking you must be bleeding to death.

~~~~~~~~~~

He finds you where you are plating the antipasto to be ferried to the cardinals—cured salami and prosciutto, tomatoes, olives, pepperoncini, artichoke hearts, ribbons of fresh basil, and cubes of provolone and mozzarella glistening with olive oil—and tells you to follow him. You want to listen, and you have to anyway; in the Church all men outrank all women, and the distance between a cardinal and a nun is particularly vast, a transcontinental flight, the depth of an ocean.

You step away from the plates, looking back at your compatriots. Sister Augustina is glaring at you, bruise-blotched hands gnarled but steady, eyes like a basilisk’s. Sister Rhaena’s lineless face is alight; Tell me everything he says! she mouths, as if Cardinal Targaryen is a celebrity she’s had tacked to her bedroom wall since she was in secondary school...and actually, that might not be too far off the mark. The other three nuns you find yourself working with most often—Sister Penny from the U.K., Sister Nuru from Kenya, and Sister Helvi from Finland—watch you leave with puzzled, transfixed stares.

At first you’d found it impossible to use his given name, but now that you remember him, it’s very difficult not to. You have to remind yourself that you are not alone, not children on a beach where roos hop in the rust-fire dawn; you are in the midst of one hundred and six cardinals, plus a few who are eighty or older and therefore ineligible to vote, yet have nonetheless come to lend their wisdom to the deliberations. Some of their faces you know, many others you don’t, even after hours of research before your arrival in Vatican City.

You say as you trail Aemond uncertainly: “Cardinal Targaryen...?”

“Sit,” he orders when he reaches his table, pulling out a chair. You peer back at the nuns again. Sister Rhaena is exuberant; Sister Augustina looks like she’d enjoy burning you at the stake. You drop sheepishly into the red velvet chair and shrink under the intrigued gazes of the four cardinals who are seated with Aemond. You recognize Cardinal Orlando Almazan of the Philippines and Cardinal Luckson Louissaint of Haiti, whose large dark eyes roll to Aemond as he sips his wine and smiles to himself. Aemond tells his allies as he sits down beside you: “This is Sister Sydney.”

“Welcome, Sister Sydney!” booms a chubby man in his fifties, a warm perpetual flush in his full cheeks, salt-and-pepper hair, a short tidy beard.

You titter and bow your head, deferential. Your hands are clasped together in your lap, resting uneasily on the white wool of your habit. “Thank you, Your Eminence, but that’s not actually my name.”

“Are you from Sydney, Sister?” Cardinal Almazan asks; he is a small quiet man who is easy to lose in a crowd. He is presently doling out lollies and bikkies with labels you’ve never seen before; he must have brought them with him from the Philippines. He slides one over to you. Jelly Straws, the colorful package reads.

“We met there as children,” Aemond says. “About thirty years ago. And we hadn’t seen each other since.”

“C’est pas vrai!” Cardinal Louissaint exclaims as the others chatter incredulously. “Really? Is it possible? And now you find that you have both come to the Church by different paths? Incroyable.” He introduces himself with a broad grin and another curious glance at Aemond.

“How fortuitous for the Lord to bring you together again,” Cardinal Almazan says. He tells you his name and gestures for you to open the Jelly Straws.

“Yes,” Aemond muses, almost like it’s an afterthought, as if divine intervention hadn’t occurred to him. While you’re still hesitating, he rips open the Jelly Straws and takes a green one for himself, crystals of sugary coating snowing down on the table. “Mmm. Watermelon.”

“Aemo, give me a mango one,” the loud salt-and-pepper haired man says, holding out an open palm. And you recall abruptly, like something shattering against the floor: Did I call him that on the beach? I think I might have.

Aemond tosses him an orange Jelly Straw, and then tells you, pointing at the man: “Kazimierz Nowak of Poland.” Then he indicates to the last attendee, fluffy brown hair and round glasses, composed, bookish, mid-forties, the second-youngest cardinal here in the dining hall of the Domus Sanctae Marthae, the residence of the cardinals for the duration of the conclave. “Shane Campbell, American by birth, now serving in Mongolia.”

“Easiest assignment,” Cardinal Nowak mutters as he tears open a package of Sky Flakes, and the other men chuckle.

“Kazi, you are being rude again,” Cardinal Almazan scolds him, but he’s smiling. Unfamiliar snacks rotate around the table: Fudgee Barr, Kopiko, Super Stix, Hello Panda. Cautiously, you take a pink Jelly Straw from the package and pass the rest along. It tastes like strawberries, sweet and summery, golden sun beating down like it has in every other December you’ve ever lived through.

Cardinal Campbell tells Kazi: “I would happily die by arrows or being roasted over a gridiron if it would at last win me your esteem.”

“You could just lose four fingers like Jake,” Kazi suggests. He waves to a cardinal at a nearby table: Jacob Green, a Brit serving in Iran. You know his face; last year his capture and torture by a militant group was widely publicized, as well as his commitment to remain in Iran after the Church paid a hefty ransom and arranged for his safe release.

Cardinal Campbell holds up his hands and ponders them. “Which fingers could I spare?”

“Start with the ring fingers,” Cardinal Luckson Louissaint says. “You won’t need them.”

You all laugh, and Rhaena appears with plates of antipasto, including one for you. She cannot disguise her excitement; she is glowing with it, she is beaming, she almost drops Aemond’s serving on the floor as she goes to set it in front of him. “Thank you very much, Sister,” Cardinal Almazan murmurs as she scurries off again.

The men begin to eat. They speak with great familiarity and have nicknames for each other: Aemo, Kazi, Lucky, Lando, Cam. You pick up your fork and peer nervously around the dining hall. Many cardinals are watching you now, some amused, some fond...but others are frowning.

“Eat, Sister, eat,” Lucky urges you. He is short and round and has a gruff voice and hands calloused from the sort of work most cardinals abstain from. “You are in the right place, I promise. This is the kids’ table.”

Cardinal Orlando Almazan, Lando to his friends, appears startled. “I’m sixty.”

“That’s mid-twenties in cardinal years,” Kazi says. “Hey, Lando, did you ever watch that show I emailed you about?”

“Oh, it was awful.” He spears a chunk of salami with his fork.

“What show?” Aemond asks.

“Cribs,” Kazi says, and the others snicker.

“So wasteful!” Lando laments. “All those bedrooms, bowling alleys, movie theaters, garages for ten cars...all I could think about was the good those resources might do elsewhere.”

Kazi sighs. “You can’t look at anything without seeing orphans.”

Lando opens his hands. “And is this such a failing?”

“Well, it’s not very interesting.”

Lando grins. “Interesting men make poor cardinals. We figured that out in the 1500s when they kept murdering each other.”

“Might be a good tradition to revisit,” Lucky jokes, but in a very low voice. And he nods towards a table across the room, where several cardinals are glaring and hissing conspiratorially amongst themselves. You recognize some of them, older men with forceful fields of gravity: Bernardo Ferrari of Italy, Florent Auclair of France, and Matej Jahoda of the Czech Republic, a favorite to be elected pope.

Kazi says: “Jahoda thinks he is entitled to lead the Church because atheists killed his family.”

You are horrorstruck, a palm pressed to the white wool over your heart. “Did they really?”

“Prague Spring,” Aemond tells you, a phrase that carries with it vague connotations from Modern History in secondary school: 1960s, Eastern Bloc, Soviet invasion, self-immolations, tanks and smoke in the streets.

“It is very sad, what happened to his people,” Lando says softly.

“Yes, of course, but you cannot buy the Chair of Saint Peter with tragedies,” Lucky replies, then winks at Aemond. “Although perhaps you can earn it with miracles.”

“It wasn’t a miracle,” Aemond demurs, as he is expected to. To agree would be sanctimonious, prideful, unholy. No cardinal may campaign for himself, nor be seen to covet the papacy. It is disqualifying to be perceived as ambitious; and so those who want it most become good at pretending.

Cam leans across the table to whisper to Aemond: “Jahoda calls you The Cyclops.”

Aemond smiles as he crunches on a hunk of cucumber. “For something to be a monster, you have to be afraid of it.”

You take shy nibbles of your antipasto. On the other side of the dining hall, Cardinal Jahoda rolls his eyes and glowers at you and Aemond, then turns to say something you can just barely hear to his companions: “He will do anything for attention.”

“What was that, Cardinal Jahoda?” Kazi shouts across the void, and a hush ripples through the men dressed in red, the women in white or blue or black—depending upon which order they belong to—skittering soundlessly on the outskirts as they fetch water and wine and bowls of pancetta and pea risotto, the next course. Over one hundred souls wait to see what will happen next. The lines have been drawn and the frontrunners are no secret: the conservatives favor Jahoda or Leopoldo do Carmo of Portugal, the moderates are split between Jacob Green and Gideon Saati of South Sudan, and the liberals by and large are planning to vote for Aemond when the cardinals are locked in the Sistine Chapel.

Slowly, Cardinal Jahoda rises to his feet. He is an imposing man with iron-grey hair, broad shoulders, and large hands that could have gone to war if he’d chosen a different vocation. His voice is not gravelly like Lucky’s, but clear and deep and colored with a strong Czech accent. “Brothers, this is a time for reflection and solemn prayer, not fraternizing.”

Aemond stands. Enraptured gazes follow him, eyeglasses are put on; some cardinals smile, others glare, others only observe, opening their hearts to be swayed in either direction. “Cardinal Jahoda, surely you do not believe that our sisters are fit to prepare our meals but not to share them with us.”

Jahoda is dismissive, as if Aemond is a child to be shushed. “Ah, you do nothing with pure intentions. Do not pretend you care for her.”

“You are upset,” Aemond says with mock earnestness, and there are chuckles in the audience. “Perhaps you are lonely and in need of better company. Perhaps you would like to invite one of the other sisters to join your table.”

“God has ordained different roles for us. I would not presume to alter them.”

“And this is the thinking that has left our Church in such a precarious state,” Aemond says, and there is a chorus of responses: groans and objections from the conservatives, cheers and water glasses thumped on the tables from the liberals, the moderates splitting the difference. “You would not presume to question anything, and so you are content with an institution that stands still as the world keeps moving.”

“The Holy Father, may God rest his soul, was a progressive,” Jahoda counters, sparring with words like blades that clang together and slice just millimeters from the blue shadows of veins. “And for all his triumphs—serving the poor and the destitute so faithfully, welcoming with open arms migrants and refugees—he failed to strengthen the Church. Millions around the world are leaving Catholicism to become Evangelicals. The Vatican is deeply in debt. Recent press coverage of the Holy See has been marred by misinterpretations and vagueness, mixed messages, claiming to champion human rights while enabling China and Russia—”

“Concessions must be made if we are to have inroads to reach the people of these nations.”

“And so you would negotiate with tyrants.” Jahoda gives Aemond a hard, searing look, as if this is a betrayal. “Appeasement is not the solution to our problems.”

“Neither is alienation from modernity! We can choose to challenge ourselves and our Faith in order to meet the needs of the time we live in and reinvigorate the Church. We can explore the possibility of ordaining female deacons, we can extend blessings to same-sex couples, we can make celibacy optional for our priests as so many other religions have done already, we can do more to protect the climate which will in turn save countless human lives, we can allow the divorced and remarried to participate in communion!”

But this is too much: the conservatives are jeering and the moderates look startled, as if a fire alarm has just gone off. The liberals are gamely trying to drown out the opposition with cheers, applause, bangs of fists and water glasses against the tables. The nuns clutch their rosaries. You exchange a glance with Rhaena, who stands nearby carrying a bowl of risotto she’s completely forgotten about. She is mesmerized by Aemond. She mouths to you: Can you believe him?

You can, but you can’t; he’s exactly the same as the boy from the beach, he is so different, he is still watchful and clever, he is sharper and bolder and scarred.

“Brothers, brothers, please!” Cardinal Blaise Seaborn is pleading. He is the dean of the College of Cardinals, responsible for summoning them for the conclave and presiding over the proceedings. He is eternally flustered, his hair in disarray and his cassock rumpled. “We can discuss these matters in the general congregations tomorrow. Now is not the time. You’ve traveled so far and you must be exhausted. Please, I implore you, take your seats and finish your meals that the sisters have worked so diligently to prepare.”

Jahoda waves a hand flippantly as he lowers himself back into his chair. “You cannot understand, Cardinal Targaryen. But it is not your fault. You do not have the wisdom. You’re just too young.”

And as Jahoda retreats, Cardinal Auclair leaps up from the same table and strides to the center of the dining hall. He is tall and lean like Aemond, white-haired since his thirties, fiendishly quick, a fox, a peacock, a mercenary. No one would ever vote for Florent Auclair to be pope; it is well-known—yet never said aloud—that at home in Paris, there is a widow he has taken a special interest in and three children that share his aquiline nose and small, icy eyes. But this does not mean he is impartial. In your corner of the room, Lucky is drumming his knuckles heavily on the tabletop. Kazi passes you a half-eaten Choc Nut.

“Your Eminences,” Auclair begins with a sweep of his hand. Cardinal Seaborn peers around as if searching for someone to stop this, as if it isn’t his job. “The Holy Father was known for his humility and his gentleness. Let us now bring balance to the Church with a leader who is strong, and experienced, and attuned to the ancient history of our Faith. Not an idealistic youth.”

“I wonder about this fixation upon age,” Aemond says, and all eyes snap back to him. Cardinal Seaborn looks on wearily, feebly. “We believe in a Savior who redeemed the world at thirty-three, but a man at forty or fifty is not fit to lead His flock?”

Auclair is incensed. “You compare yourself to Christ?!”

“You pretend to know my mind!” Aemond thunders. “And the gifts that God has bestowed upon others. There is no greater arrogance.”

Auclair mocks venomously: “What is the saying? He who enters the conclave as pope leaves it as a cardinal.”

“And I have voiced no such aspirations.” But he has led Auclair into the trap of speaking them to life, and now they are loose in the air like fireflies and no one can forget them.

Auclair switches to Latin, and Aemond follows him seamlessly. Then Auclair pivots to French, a language that many of the cardinals have at least some proficiency in, and Aemond hesitates; you have the impression he can understand most of what is being said, but Auclair talks so swiftly—surely this is intentional—and Aemond stumbles over his words when he tries to defend himself.

Lucky surges up from the table and meets them in the middle of the dining hall, assailing Auclair with a deluge of French. Aemond gracefully retreats. As the emperors stand back, the gladiators bloody the floor. Now the cardinals are in uproar, a deafening rumble of palms and fists against the tables, an incomprehensible storm of languages. Kazi and Cam are bellowing to cheer Lucky on. Lando looks at you, smiles placidly, shrugs, takes a bite of his risotto.

“Cardinal Louissant, please!” Cardinal Seaborn begs. “Please, Brothers, let us return to our seats! This is no way to honor the memory of the Holy Father!”

The cardinals fracture away from each other, Auclair returning to one side of the room, Lucky to the other. Auclair hisses at Aemond as he withdraws: “Even your hero Saint Thomas Aquinas agreed that pride is the most reprehensible of the seven deadly sins.”

Aemond says: “And fortunately for you, Your Eminence, lust is the least.”

“Le salaud!” Auclair roars, and again the cardinals erupt into chaos. “Le crétin, la bête!”

As the dining hall is engulfed in jeers and laughter and applause, Aemond stands by his chair and sips his wine, cool, composed, too statuesque to be human. You gaze up at him and think: What happened to that boy from the beach? Cardinal Seaborn physically places himself in Auclair’s path to stop him from crossing the midpoint of the room. Sister Augustina is crossing herself.

“You still need one more miracle to be a saint, Targaryen,” Auclair seethes as Cardinal Ferrari coaxes him back to their table. “Surely that is what you dream of. No throne on earth is high enough for you.”

Aemond does not reply. He sits as if no one has said anything and eats his risotto, neat but famished forkfuls. Lucky, Kazi, Cam, and Lando give him encouraging thumps on the back. In return, Aemond flashes them a sly, crooked smirk. Then he turns to you. “Tell me about the work you’ve done with the Sisters of Charity of Australia.”

It’s a command, not a request; still, you deny him. You stand, casting a wary glance at Sister Augustina, who is lurching towards you on jolty, arthritic legs. “I really must go serve dinner with the rest of the sisters, I’m only here in Vatican City with Sister Augustina’s blessing and I fear she is dangerously close to revoking it.”

Aemond’s companions wish you goodnight, but he’s not quite done with you yet. “That’s not why I did it,” he says, indicating to the seat he led you to. “To prove a point.”

“I know, Aemond.” And you should have called him Your Eminence or Cardinal Targaryen, but you didn’t, because he’s not just a cardinal. He’s your friend.

As you depart, Aemond picks up a pack of chocolate-flavored Sky Flakes from the table and offers them to you. “Bikkies, right?”

You grin. He remembers. “Too right.” You take the Sky Flakes; you’ll share them with Rhaena tonight.

But when dinner is over and the dishes have been cleared, Aemond finds you again, this time at the threshold between the dining hall and the corridor that leads to the stairwells and the elevators. The Domus Sanctae Marthae—Latin for Saint Martha’s House—is essentially a hotel, built in 1996 by Pope John Paul II for guests to Vatican City and to house the College of Cardinals during a conclave. It can accommodate one hundred and thirty-one souls in small, spartan rooms: no televisions, no radios, no computers, no cellphones, no worldly distractions, no undue influences upon the cardinals’ meditations. They are to listen to the whispers of God, not journalists, not family or friends, not bribes or threats or pleas, not even the crowds of faithful Catholics that gather in Saint Peter’s Square with handmade signs and flickering candles.

Aemond asks, spotting the plain iron medallion hanging from your throat: “Who are you wearing?”

“Saint Agatha.”

“Bona of Pisa would have been better. The patron saint of travelers. Or perhaps Mary MacKillop, the patron saint of Australia.”

“Yes, Aemond, you’re very smart.”

He chuckles and watches you, and even when he doesn’t say anything you feel no instinct to leave; this is unfinished. His hands are clasped behind his back again, as if he is afraid of what he will do with them if they are untethered. A scarlet torrent of cardinals lumber past as they journey to their rooms. Rhaena, curious but not wanting to intrude, loiters a ways down the hall as she waits for you.

“I still remember saying goodbye to you, isn’t that mad?” you tell Aemond. “We were with our families at that pizza place, and it was dark outside, and as you left it was like you vanished into the white glow of the streetlights. And there was some song playing...I don’t know, I’ve never been able to find it again. But it was sad, and I think it had a harmonica.”

Surely he thinks you’re a bit gone for holding on to that moment from almost exactly twenty-nine years ago; maybe he’ll even think you’re making it up. But instead, Aemond gazes off into the Red Sea of cardinals—a lava flow, a bloodrush—and then after a while he comes back to you. “It’s a Bruce Springsteen song,” Aemond says quietly. “It’s called Atlantic City. If you look it up when all of this is over and we’re no longer sequestered, I think you’ll discover you recognize it.” And as you stand there, speechless and thunderstruck in your spotless white wool, he begins to leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sydney.”

“Defo,” you reply; and when Aemond blinks at you, stunned, you smile.

He smiles back, touches the gold cross that hangs from his neck, turns away from you and is lost in the gore-red current.

~~~~~~~~~~

Everyone agrees he is smart, but how far has that gotten him?

He has leapt from one island to another: born on Nisyros, educated at British boarding schools and seminaries, and finally assigned to Santorini, and it is here that he waits to become someone. The Church has been the refuge of superfluous sons for two thousand years, a throne that requires no inheritance, a ladder to material comforts, security, status, power, fame, immortality for those who climb high enough. And what is the price you must pay? A relatively painless sacrifice when one considers the rewards: you may not marry, you may not have children, you may not experience romantic love if you are still under the belief that such a thing exists.

He came to the Faith through his mother, Irish by birth and always yearning for somewhere that was cool and wet and green. But perhaps its roots cannot thrive here in the dry air and volcanic soil. Of Greece’s ten million inhabitants, only one percent are Catholic, and while that number grows with each new wave of refugees from Lebanon, Syria, or Iraq, he finds himself languishing in scenic Mediterranean irrelevance. At the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist, he ministers to sunburned tourists and dozing old people. He has a plan, but it’s happening so slowly; and patience is a virtue but he has no illusions that he possessed many of those.

It’s summer, hot and glaring and the height of tourist season, when he feels the earth shift beneath his feet as he is ruminating on his disaffection at the Old Port of Fira. Across a narrow strait of the Aegean Sea, he sees the sky change color above Nea Kameni, an uninhabited island and popular site for hiking and sightseeing. Because he was raised on Nisyros, he knows what signs foretell an eruption. Because he’s been on yachts with his boarding school friends—sons of dukes, daughters of prime ministers, bottles of vodka and MDMA pills—he knows how to sail.

It’s late in the day, nearing dusk, and so most of the tours are already back; but there is at least one group left on Nea Kameni, and he knows this because he can just barely see their boat moored to the dock and thrashing on suddenly murderous waves. And then the crater of the volcano explodes, and smoldering rubble pours down onto the dock, and the boat is crushed and they are stranded. He can almost hear their screams. He can imagine the lethal red heat of the lava that will soon be swallowing them like Jonah was wrenched into the belly of a whale.

For the very first time in his life, Aemond could almost believe in God, in divine intervention, in miracles; because in the scorching black plumes of poison rising from Nea Kameni, he sees the white of the smoke when the College of Cardinals has elected a new pope.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Should we have a cuppa?” you ask Rhaena as you place a kettle on a hotplate in the small kitchenette. A corner of the ground floor of the Domus Sanctae Marthae has been set aside for the nuns, each bedroom containing two single-sized beds; you and Rhaena are roommates.

“That’d be lovely.” She sighs as she sits down at the table and rips open the package of chocolate-flavored Sky Flakes. She looks exhausted, shoulders slumped, eyes puffy.

“You alright?”

Rhaena nods. “I’ve just been flat out since the second we got here. And I still have another load of washing to get done tonight. Did you see those spiders in the basement?”

“Oh yeah, heaps of them.”

Rhaena shudders, then perks up when she takes a bite of a Sky Flake. “These are good though.”

“I’ll help you with the washing.”

“Is he like you remember?” she says, and you know who she means. Light floods back into her face; gravity lessens in her bones. She is sitting up straighter. She is entranced. “Was he the same way as a boy? So clever and fearless and magnetic?” Then Rhaena gasps and glances worriedly at the third nun in the room, whom she had forgotten about: Sister Augustina is at the opposite end of the table, collapsed with her head resting on her forearms, her body eerily motionless. She’s always doing this.

You smile. “She’s asleep, Rhaena. She can’t hear us.”

Nonetheless, her voice drops to a whisper. “She won’t stop hitting me.”

“I’m sorry.” You pull back your sleeve to show Rhaena the discoloration of a bruise left by one of Sister Augustina’s clawlike hands. “Keep your distance as much as you can. I’ll try to distract her.”

Rhaena gives her unconscious tormenter one last mistrustful look. Despite Sister Augustina’s mortal faults, you have compassion for her. Wrath comes from pain, a vivid red like stoked flames or fresh blood, and something terrible must have happened to her: a lost loved one, a suffering nation, betrayal, rejection, abuse. But she’s still in the Church, she still has faith, and you find that beautiful. She wears a black habit and a medallion depicting Saint Zita, the patron saint of servants, housekeepers, and lost keys.

Rhaena prompts you: “Well?”

Her question still burns in your skull, low like embers: Is he like you remember? “It’s difficult to explain,” you say slowly. “Sometimes he’s just like that boy from the beach. And then in other moments he looks like a stranger.” He is cunning, he is prideful.

“He would make an extraordinary pope, don’t you think?” Rhaena says wistfully as she nibbles on her Sky Flake. “He’s so well-versed. He’s young, he’s charismatic. And he’s performed a miracle. The lava stopped when he held up his hands, that’s what the tourists he saved told the reporters. What other cardinal can say that? Who else could claim to have been chosen by God?”

Your reply is vague, and not only because you’re supposed to believe God alone will decide who the next Holy Father will be; you aren’t sure how you feel about Aemond being pope. “We’ll have to see what happens.”

“And we get to witness it...right here, where Saint Peter founded the Church two thousand years ago...” Rhaena is in awe of your good fortune, Sister Augustina and the spiders and the endless chores notwithstanding. “What was it that you said to Mother Maureen to convince her to send us to Rome?”

You haven’t told Rhaena the real reason why you’re here. It would hurt her, you think; you are like an older sister to her, or perhaps even a mother, a resurrection of the one she lost to a postpartum hemorrhage when she was a girl. Engraved on her plain iron medallion is Saint Jerome, the patron saint of orphans and abandoned children.

So you lie. “Papal conclaves are so rare, maybe once every ten or twenty years. I won’t have many more opportunities to see one. When the Holy Father passed, Mother Maureen and I were discussing it, and I mentioned how fascinated I’d always been by the process and how I would love to assist with a conclave someday. And she made a call to Sister Augustina that same night.”

Rhaena smiles warmly. “Mother Maureen is so kind.”

She really is. “We are very fortunate to have her.”

You pour boiling water into two cups with one teabag each—Yorkshire Tea, of course, brought in your luggage—and let them steep. Then you turn to contemplate Sister Augustina, still sleeping.

“Don’t,” Rhaena pleads.

You smirk guiltily. You can’t bring yourself to exclude her. It’s not the right thing to do. “Sister Augustina, would you like some tea?” you ask loudly. She doesn’t stir.

“Leave her alone,” Rhaena begs you. “She’ll just find something to snap at us about!”

You try again: “Sister Augustina!”

She still doesn’t move. Now you and Rhaena are perplexed; it’s never been this difficult to rouse her before. You go to Sister Augustina and prod her shoulder, then scream as she spills bonelessly across the floor.

She’s dead.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond x you #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen fanfiction #conclave au

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pb5luvr · 1 day ago

Text

in sickness and in health

a/n: sorry for my hiatus i was gonna write on thursday night but i fell asleep at like 8 pm and this weekend i’ve been busy but im back now!! also sorry this is so short im tired (btw i took inspo from someone on this but i forgot who im sorry 😔)

3rd POV

azzi was dying. well, not actually but it sure felt like it. with just her luck, she caught a bad cold at the same time she got her period —so practically dying. one thing about azzi, though, is that she hates being sick, so being sick and on her period felt like a damn near death sentence.

that’s how she ended up, curled up in her bed, surrounded by blankets, with a heating pad resting on her stomach. paige —determined to rid her girlfriend of her struggles— stumbled in the room, seconds later, trying to balance a bowl of soup, a mug of hot tea, and advil on a tray without giving herself third degree burns. she set the tray on the bedside table before leaning down to azzi’s level to brush a curl out of her face and give her a soft kiss on the forehead.

“do you wanna try eating some soup? or drinking some tea?” paige asked in more of a “you will” tone.

reluctantly, azzi sat up, “some tea,” she croaked out.

paige picked the tea up off the tray and blew on it before handing it to azzi. azzi took a small sip and couldn’t tell if it was her throat or the temperature of the tea that made her throat burn, so she handed it back to paige.

“no more,” she said, “it makes my throat hurt”

paige gave her a sympathetic look before placing the mug back on the tray.

“do you want me to get you anything else instead?” she asked azzi

azzi just gave her a pouty look, her lips slightly puffed out and her eyes glassy. paige could read her girlfriend like no other and could tell something was bothering her.

“what’s wrong beautiful?” she asked softly as she sat down next to azzi.

suddenly, azzi’s bottom lip began to tremble, “i hate feeling like this”

“i know princess, i’m sorry you feel like shit” paige brushed a few curls behind azzi’s ear.

“i just want to feel better and not be bleeding out of my uterus” azzi said, breaking eye-contact with paige.

paige gave a soft chuckle, “you have to try to make yourself feel better if you actually want to get better,” she said, now moving her hand to azzi’s thigh and rubbing her thumb against it, “can you at least try to drink some more of your tea?”

azzi was silent for a moment before she finally spoke up, “can we please just cuddle for a bit?” she asked softly

“only if you promise to drink the tea after” paige raised an eyebrow at her

azzi went silent again.

“azzi-” paige started.

“fine,” azzi cut her off, “i’ll drink the stupid tea after”

paige responded with a smile as she moved towards the middle of the bed and slid under the covers, opening her arms for azzi to lay in. azzi gladly accepted the offer and layer her head on paige’s chest, throwing an arm over her waist. paige closed her arms around her girlfriend and started to drag her fingertips up and down azzi’s back.

it was silent for a while, not awkward, just comfortable, before azzi spoke softly, “thank you for taking care of me”

“i’d do anything for you az” paige replied, meaning every word.

azzi smiled sleepily, paige’s fingers lulling her to sleep, “i love you”

“i love you azzi,” paige said, “and you better drink that tea when you wake up”

azzi’s smile widened just a little more knowing damn well she wasn’t drinking that tea when she woke up.

#paige bueckers #paige #paige x azzi #azzi fudd #paige buckets #pazzi #pazzi fics #pazzi crumbs #azzi35

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cbeargyu · 1 day ago

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hi! can i request a story with nct Mark like the movie Flipped, I just love the "she fell first, he fell harder" trope. Y/n is so persistent about showing Mark how much she likes him. Since everyone knows her crush on Mark, the others tease him, which annoys him at some point & told y/n off. Hurt, Y/n kind of distanced herself for a while. During those times she got closer to another member (maybe jeno or haechan), which then makes Mark even more annoyed, not realizing he's actually jealous. Angst slow burn w/ a happy ending. I'm sorry if it's too detailed 😅 -☕️ anon

the years that I loved you

summary: you've been secretly in love with mark for years, but he's always kept his distance, even though you've grown closer over time. after a failed attempt to move on with jeno, you realize you can’t forget mark. slowly, mark starts to notice his own feelings for you.

pairing: mark x fem!reader

genre: childhood friends to lovers, slow burn romance, angst, one-sided love, fluff, college au, drama, confessions of love, she fell first but he fell harder trope.

warnings: mentions of unrequited love, emotional tension and angst, heartbreak, love triangle, public embarrassment/confessions, self-discovery and emotional growth.

wc: 12,9k

notes: anon, did you read my drafts or what? because i had this exact idea written down, even with jeno as the romantic interest omg hahaha but i never finished it because i got lazy lol, i'm not really into watching movies, so when i searched for the one you mentioned, i thought i’d have to research it to be able to write about it, but then i remembered i watched it about two years ago haha, looking for inspiration exactly, what a nice coincidence anon, i hope you like what i write <3

you were thirteen when you realized mark lee wasn’t just your brother’s best friend.

he was the boy with soft eyes who always greeted your mom with a polite smile, the one who helped your dad carry groceries without being asked, the one who laughed with jaemin until their stomachs hurt and then turned to you—quiet, awkward you—and asked if you wanted to join them at the convenience store.

he noticed you. always.

and god, that was dangerous.

you kept your secret like it was sacred. folded it between pages of your diary, whispered it into the pillow late at night when your chest hurt with the weight of wanting someone who would never be yours. he was two years older. already shining, already so good.

you thought maybe—just maybe—he was too good to break your heart.

you waited until his last day of middle school. you had written the letter three times, burned one, hid another. the final version trembled in your hands as you gave it to him behind the school gate.

“please don’t read it here,” you said, not meeting his eyes.

“i won’t,” he promised, gentle as ever. “don’t worry, okay?”

and you believed him. you always believed him.

but the next afternoon, he asked to meet you behind the gym.

it was quiet. too quiet.

you remember the way he scratched the back of his neck, the way he couldn’t quite look at you when he said, “you’re really important to me. like a little sister, you know?”

you smiled, because you didn’t know what else to do. you smiled as your eyes blurred.

and then you cried—ugly, shaking, childlike sobs you couldn’t hold back.

he tried to hug you, but it made it worse.

he said, “i’m sorry.”

he said, “i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

he said everything right.

but it didn’t matter.

because you were thirteen, and he was mark lee, and you had just learned that love doesn’t always mean something back.

high school didn’t make it easier. if anything, it made everything worse.

you tried. god, you really tried to move on—swallowed the ache, buried it deep under textbooks, sketchbooks, extracurriculars. you learned to walk past him in the hallways without letting your gaze linger too long, learned to smile politely when he said “hi” like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t held your broken heart in his hands behind the gym that day and handed it back to you gently, still cracked.

but the problem was: mark never changed.

he was still that boy—soft-spoken, warm, radiant. the kind of person who made you want to be better just by existing near him. and worse, he was always there.

your house, once a quiet place of safety, had become a second home for jaemin’s band of loud, chaotic friends. most days, the living room was full of snacks, game controllers, and laughter. renjun’s sarcasm echoing through the hall, haechan draped across the couch like he owned the place, chenle’s laugh piercing through every door, jisung awkwardly trailing behind them with his phone glued to his hand. and of course, mark. always mark.

sometimes he’d be in the backyard with your brother, their laughter drifting through the window while you did homework at the kitchen table, pencil trembling slightly every time he called your name to offer you a slice of pizza or a bottle of soda. sometimes he’d walk past you in the hallway and lightly ruffle your hair like he used to when you were twelve, before he knew how deeply you felt for him. before you knew what it meant to love someone who couldn’t love you back.

he still smiled at you like you were made of sunlight. still hugged you during holidays, still handed you wrapped presents on your birthday with that same soft voice: “happy birthday. i hope you like it.”

you hated how much you always did.

you hated how his scent lingered on the gifts long after you’d hidden them at the back of your closet. you hated how you still looked forward to seeing him, how your chest still fluttered when he said your name, how you felt thirteen and stupid every single time he was near.

but the worst was that he didn’t seem affected at all.

to him, nothing had changed. to you, everything had.

one rainy afternoon, you came home early to find the living room empty for once—blissfully silent. you kicked off your shoes, soaked to the ankle, hair damp and cheeks flushed from running back from school before the storm broke harder. you turned the corner to grab a towel from the laundry room when you saw him.

mark was there.

he stood by the window, alone, watching the rain. his hands were in the pockets of his black hoodie, hair slightly messy, lips parted in thought. he looked older. softer. like the kind of boy who belonged in a novel, not real life.

he turned when he heard your footsteps and smiled without hesitation. “hey,” he said, like it didn’t hurt, like your heart didn’t still beat for him in every goddamn way.

“hi,” you managed, holding the towel tighter against your chest.

“you’re drenched,” he said, walking toward you. “you’ll catch a cold.”

he was too close. you could smell the citrus of his shampoo, the faint vanilla of his cologne. when he reached out to brush a wet strand of hair from your cheek, you flinched—not visibly, just enough for him to stop, hand frozen mid-air.

“sorry,” he said, withdrawing. “force of habit.”

you shook your head, stepping back. “it’s fine.”

but it wasn’t. nothing ever was.

you escaped upstairs before your voice could betray you.

two weeks later, you found yourself sitting in the second row of the school auditorium, knees bouncing under the dim lights, your palms cold against the fabric of your skirt.

mark was playing romeo.

you’d heard about it from jaemin, of course—how their teacher insisted he was perfect for the role, how he’d been rehearsing every afternoon, how the girl playing juliet had been a little too eager during practice.

and now, here you were. watching him on stage under golden light, speaking lines you knew he barely even had to memorize—his voice calm, lyrical, achingly beautiful. his every movement was precise, full of emotion. he touched juliet’s face like it was made of glass, like she was something sacred.

you hated her.

she smiled when he held her hand. she leaned into him during the balcony scene. you saw her lips part just before the final act, the tension thick in the air as mark cupped her face. and then—slowly, tragically—he leaned in.

his lips brushed hers. soft. slow. real.

your throat closed.

your chest twisted so violently you thought you might get up and run. but your body stayed rooted in place, forced to watch as they collapsed together on the floor in a mock death, fingers intertwined, her head resting on his shoulder.

the applause was thunderous. everyone stood.

you did not.

you waited until after the show to find him. your feet carried you to the back hallway of the auditorium like they had minds of their own. your heart was a drum, wild and panicked.

he smiled when he saw you—still dressed in costume, hair tousled, sweat glistening on his brow.

“did you like it?” he asked, laughing softly. “i was so nervous.”

you looked at him. really looked.

“i still like you,” you said.

just like that.

no warning. no buildup. no sugarcoated version.

you were tired of pretending.

he froze. his smile dropped.

“i thought… i thought you were over it,” he said quietly.

“i wanted to be,” you whispered. “but i’m not. and watching you up there—watching her kiss you—i couldn’t pretend anymore.”

he looked down. exhaled slowly. ran a hand through his hair.

“you know i care about you,” he said gently, “but not like that. i’m sorry...”

same words.

same ache.

different year.

his hands lowered slowly, as if he suddenly didn’t know what to do with them. his breath grew deeper, slower. he was about to say something. you were going to let him speak. but before he could, you stepped forward, close enough that he had no choice but to truly see you, to hear you, to feel the heat of your words.

“i don’t accept it.”

mark blinked. “what?”

you were trembling on the inside, but you didn’t back down. “i won’t accept a no. not yet. i’ve been in love with you for as long as i can remember, mark. and yeah, maybe you’ll never see me the way i see you. maybe you’ll never feel the same. but i’m not giving up. because i can’t. even if you ignore me, even if you keep looking at me like i’m just jaemin’s little sister… my feelings for you aren’t going anywhere.”

the silence was a wall between you. thick. breathless. mark didn’t know where to look. his jaw clenched slightly. but you saw it—how hard he swallowed, the way his throat bobbed like your words had tied a knot in it. and then… that little flush, that faint blush coloring his cheeks.

he didn’t respond. he just dropped his eyes and muttered something you couldn’t quite catch before saying he had to get back to the guys.

you stayed behind, again. but this time, something was different.

you weren’t broken.

you were alive.

the days after that were… strange.

you didn’t hide anymore. you didn’t avoid looking at him, didn’t steer away when he came into your house, didn’t pretend it didn’t still ache. if you saw him, you greeted him with a soft smile. if he made a comment, you replied with one slightly sweeter. if you were near, you allowed yourself to lean in ever so slightly, as if pulled by something invisible.

mark said nothing.

but he noticed.

and everyone else did too.

renjun was the first to ask—just a casual afternoon in the backyard, you laying on a blanket with a book, the boys talking nonsense as usual. it happened right after mark came back from the kitchen and handed you a water bottle without you asking, like he already knew you’d need it.

“are you guys, like… a thing?” renjun asked, half-joking, half-serious.

mark laughed awkwardly. “what? no. of course not.”

but you looked up from your book, calm, almost proud.

“i like mark,” you said. not shy, not hesitant.

the silence was immediate.

haechan stopped chewing his gum. jisung stared at you like you’d grown horns. chenle let out a choked “wait—seriously?” and jaemin… jaemin looked at you like he’d just uncovered a secret that had always been in plain sight.

mark tensed. his hand around the empty bottle clenched slightly. he didn’t look at you. but you looked at him.

“i like him,” you repeated, voice steady. “i don’t know if that’ll ever change. for now, it hasn’t.”

the air shifted, thick with something unspoken. jaemin cleared his throat.

“wow… okay, didn’t see that coming.”

mark let out a nervous chuckle. “seriously, there’s nothing going on.”

you smiled softly. “not yet.”

and that was that.

they tried to go back to talking about something else, but the topic hung in the air like perfume—sweet, heavy, impossible to ignore.

after that day, the looks between you and mark carried weight. not just because of what you felt, but because now everyone knew. his behavior became more cautious, measured, like every move might be misread, like every glance might be taken the wrong way.

but he still looked at you.

he still smiled.

sometimes, he still sought you out without realizing it.

and you…

you kept loving him, even when it wasn’t a secret anymore.

valentine’s day hit the school like a storm.

the halls were dripping in pink and red, balloons bumping against lockers, the air thick with the scent of cheap chocolate and desperation. you weren’t immune to it—if anything, you were worse.

you had spent the night before in your kitchen, standing over a counter covered in baking disasters, painstakingly melting chocolate, shaping little hearts by hand, writing stupid tiny notes on colorful slips of paper. you stayed up until almost three in the morning, ignoring your mother’s concerned looks, all for one boy.

mark lee.

you didn’t half-ass it either. no. you went full force.

you woke up at five a.m. on valentine’s day, backpack bursting with gifts, heart pounding with something between excitement and fear. the moment you got to school, you made a beeline for his locker. you stuffed it full—letter after letter, pink and red envelopes practically exploding out of the sides. every letter started the same way, "dear mark, i really really like you," and got progressively more unhinged as you got sleepier. one of them ended with a doodle of you two riding off into the sunset on a giant gummy bear. you didn’t even regret it.

and then, the chocolates. you had them in a heart-shaped box you decorated yourself, glitter peeling off the sides. you snuck into his classroom early, your hands shaking, and dumped them right on top of his desk—pile after pile of messy, misshapen chocolate hearts, each one lovingly wrapped in plastic and tied with curly red ribbon.

it wasn’t subtle. it wasn’t graceful.

but it was you.

when mark walked into class later, you watched from behind the doorframe like some kind of deranged cupid. he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the mountain of candy and cards like it might explode. his friends started laughing—haechan howling loud enough to draw attention from other classrooms, renjun pretending to cry from how beautiful it was, jisung muttering “bro’s got a stalker” under his breath while chenle recorded everything on his phone.

mark didn’t get mad.

he didn’t yell.

he just... looked so painfully polite about the whole thing, his bright smile twitching at the corners, his ears turning an adorable shade of pink. he stood there, awkward, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes scanning for an escape route.

you chose that exact moment to spring.

you practically bounced up to him, heart hammering, face on fire, and blurted out in front of everyone, “mark! i like you! a lot! like, a lot a lot! like, marry-me-under-a-rainbow kind of a lot!”

you didn’t know where that last part came from. you regretted it immediately.

mark laughed. this soft, helpless little sound that made your chest ache. he looked at you—really looked at you—and for a second, you could almost believe he was touched. or maybe just very, very overwhelmed.

"thank you," he said gently, voice a little strained. "you’re really sweet. but—uh—i think... we should just stay friends, yeah?"

you nodded furiously, tears pricking at the back of your eyes, but you smiled through it because you were determined not to make it worse.

"friends! sure! but, like, if you change your mind... i'm available. permanently."

haechan choked. chenle dropped his phone from laughing too hard. renjun whispered “oh my god, she’s serious,” like he was witnessing a car crash in slow motion.

mark gave you a look, half grateful, half pleading, like he was begging the universe to save him from this situation without hurting you. he patted your head—your actual head, like you were a golden retriever—and hurried to clean up the mess you’d left.

the rest of the day, every time you crossed paths, you beamed at him and chirped "i like you!" like it was a greeting. he’d flinch slightly every time, force that damn brilliant smile, and respond with a tiny nod or a mumbled "thank you..." before speed-walking away like his life depended on it.

it became a running joke. teachers started asking him about his “secret admirer.” students left fake valentines in his locker just to mess with him. he took it all in stride, patient and painfully kind, but you knew deep down it was wearing him out.

still, you couldn’t help it. you were in too deep.

when the final bell rang, and you caught him stuffing all your letters into his bag like he was trying to hide contraband, you grinned so wide your cheeks hurt.

maybe, you thought, love didn’t have to be perfect to be real.

even if it was one-sided. even if it was a little ridiculous.

your heart still beat for him. and for now, that was enough.

you followed him to university without a second thought.

not because you were obsessed. not because you were desperate.

maybe it sounded crazier when you said it out loud, like some reckless teenage daydream you should have outgrown by now, but in your heart, it had always been simple. wherever mark went, you wanted to go too. so when he decided to major in literature at a university two cities away, you didn’t hesitate—you applied to the same program, you studied harder than you ever had in your life, and when that acceptance letter came, you clutched it to your chest and cried, thinking it was fate smiling at you.

you convinced yourself that it was a new beginning, that maybe, somehow, away from the crowded hallways of high school and the well-worn patterns of rejection and affection, things could be different. you could be different. you could be the kind of girl he might actually look at twice.

but reality wasn’t a fairytale, and no amount of shared classes or accidental brushings of hands across desks could change the fact that mark had drawn a line in the sand years ago—and he wasn’t about to cross it.

still, you stayed close, orbiting him like a stubborn, quiet moon, your love for him woven into every choice you made, every dream you dared to have.

he was still kind. still soft-spoken and careful with your heart. he’d pull out chairs for you in lecture halls, lend you his notes when you were sick, laugh at your dry jokes when no one else did. he still bought you birthday gifts—carefully wrapped, always with a little handwritten note in his neat handwriting. still hugged you every christmas. still remembered your favorite snacks and left them on your desk when you were cramming.

but he never crossed the line.

mark lee was a boy of boundaries. polite, good, respectful. especially with you.

especially because of jaemin.

the others —haechan, chenle, renjun, even jisung—had started making comments. light teasing when mark waited for you outside your dorm. when your fingers brushed as you passed him a pen. when he remembered things you said in passing and brought them up weeks later.

“just date already.”

“you’d make such a cute couple.”

“jaemin would murder you, but worth it.”

but jaemin never laughed. he’d stare straight ahead, jaw clenched, eyes hard.

“it’s not happening,” he’d say flatly. “drop it.”

and mark—mark would just smile and shake his head.

“we’re just friends.”

always the same line. always gentle. always final.

and still, you stayed. because a piece of you still hoped. still wondered if maybe, maybe, something would shift.

until summer.

that was when everything changed.

it started small.

mark smiling at his phone when he thought no one was looking. mark turning down movie nights, saying he was “tired” or “busy.” mark humming under his breath as he walked across campus, like he couldn’t help it.

he looked… lighter.

brighter.

and he wasn’t looking at you.

you found out by accident.

a lazy sunday. mark had left his phone on the coffee table in the shared dorm lounge while he went to grab snacks. a message popped up, screen lighting briefly.

“can’t wait to see you again 💛” from: yerim 🍒

kim yerim.

a girl from another department. bright, confident, everything you weren’t.

you blinked at the message like it was written in another language. your throat tightened. your hands went cold. you couldn’t look away.

when mark came back into the room, smiling like he always did, you could barely breathe. he didn’t notice the way your gaze dropped. or maybe he did, but he didn’t say anything. just offered you a packet of chips like nothing had changed.

but everything had.

by the time the others found out, mark and yerim had been quietly seeing each other for nearly two months.

the teasing stopped.

no more jokes. no more comments. just a strange, heavy silence.

even haechan kept quiet. only once, after a long night out, he said it in a low voice—when mark had gone off to call her, when everyone else was half-asleep on the floor.

“you’d be better for him.”

you looked up. your eyes were wet. you hadn’t even noticed.

haechan’s gaze softened. “but he’s not ready to see that, huh?”

you didn’t answer.

because what was there to say?

you’d loved mark for so long it had become a part of your identity. it was in the way you walked, the way you chose your classes, the way your heart lit up every time you saw him laugh.

but he was never yours.

and now, there was someone else who made him laugh. someone he looked at like that. and the worst part?

he looked happy.

genuinely, radiantly happy. the kind of happy that couldn’t be faked.

so you smiled too. you congratulated him. you listened to him talk about yerim with soft eyes and careful words.

and when you were alone, you cried into your pillow, biting down hard to keep the sound in.

because this wasn’t betrayal. this wasn’t a lie. this was just love—one-sided, unchanging, and devastating.

you didn’t blame him.

you just didn’t know how to stop loving him.

you weren’t sure when yerim began to notice.

maybe it was the way you went quiet whenever mark entered the room. maybe it was how your eyes never quite met his anymore. or maybe it was something deeper—something only another woman could sense. a kind of residual ache, the ghost of something that used to be almost something.

she never confronted you. never threw it in your face.

but her gaze lingered.

a little longer than necessary. a little too perceptive. especially when mark spoke your name.

and mark—he started choosing his words more carefully. his laughter dimmed around you, like he didn’t know how to act anymore. like being near you was stepping into a room still filled with the scent of a fire long gone out.

you weren’t mad. you were exhausted.

your chest carried the weight of every second you’d spent wishing for something that never existed outside your imagination. you’d painted a fantasy in your mind and clung to it like a lifeline, and for what? he never promised you anything. never kissed you. never called you “mine.”

he was just… kind. and you were just stupid.

so when you met lee jeno, it was like inhaling after drowning.

he was part of the sports science department—tall, tan, always wearing that damned sleeveless hoodie like he knew the effect it had on people. he had this cocky little smile and a voice that made you pause. and god, he was smooth. but not in a sleazy way.

jeno was bright in a way mark never was. he didn’t hesitate. he didn’t overthink.

he noticed you from the first time you sat across from him in a shared elective. you were sketching half-distractedly, and he leaned over with that grin that stretched from ear to ear.

"you always draw like the world’s ending tomorrow?"

you blinked up at him, startled. "excuse me?"

he just laughed. “you’re good. i like intense girls.”

you rolled your eyes. but he didn’t stop talking to you after that. he’d walk you to class, show up with energy drinks during finals, and compliment the color of your nails like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

and one day, without drama or overthinking, he just asked:

“go out with me.”

no hidden meanings. no caution. just jeno, smiling, offering you something real.

you hesitated.

you thought of mark. of his careful hands, his lingering warmth, the smile he used to give you before it all got awkward. but that was the thing—it had gotten awkward. broken. distant. he belonged to someone else now. he never belonged to you.

so you said yes.

after weeks of holding onto a secret that was slowly tearing you apart, you finally decided to give jeno a chance. you couldn’t keep pretending like mark didn’t already have your heart in his hands, even if he didn’t want it. you couldn’t keep letting your feelings for him dictate everything, so when jeno, the charming and confident guy from your physical education class, asked you out one day, you hesitated.

you hesitated for a long time, thinking of how many times mark had walked right past you, never once acknowledging your heart, never once looking at you in a way that made you feel more than just his friend’s younger sister.

but this time, it was different. jeno was persistent, and there was a spark in his smile that made you feel like maybe, just maybe, you could move on. so, after a long conversation with yourself and an even longer discussion with your heart, you said yes. but you weren’t going to drag jeno into something he wasn’t prepared for, so before you agreed to anything, you told him the truth.

“i’ve been in love with someone else for so long,” you admitted, your voice soft, vulnerable. “and i don’t know if i can just let go of that... but i want to try. i want to try with you.”

jeno smiled at you, and his eyes softened, like he understood. “i know,” he said, his voice steady. “i’ve seen it. but i’ll do my best to make you forget about him. i’ll do everything i can so that you only look at me the way you looked at him.”

it wasn’t a promise of forever, but it was a promise to try. and for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you could start anew. so you accepted, feeling a little lighter, but still carrying the weight of what had once been.

the first few days were like walking on air. jeno was easy to be around—funny, charming, the kind of guy who made you feel like you mattered. when you walked around campus together, everyone noticed. people were happy for you, the long-lost couple that everyone was rooting for. but mark? mark looked like he had swallowed something bitter.

mark had never been good at hiding his feelings, and even if he tried, yerim saw right through him. it had been a few weeks since you and jeno started dating, and mark’s behavior was becoming more noticeable by the day. his lingering stares, the way he would look at you and jeno when you walked into a room together—yerim had seen enough. she had been patient with him, but there was only so much a person could tolerate.

you caught him looking at you and jeno one too many times, his eyes narrowed and his lips set in a firm line. it made you uncomfortable, the way he would glance at you, then at jeno, like he was calculating something, weighing something in his mind. but you didn’t think much of it until the day he pulled you aside after a class, his face clouded with something unreadable.

“hey,” he started, his voice softer than usual, though there was still a bite to it. “i don’t think jeno is good for you.”

you blinked, startled. “what do you mean?” you asked, confused, but also feeling a knot tighten in your chest. why was he saying this now? after all this time?

mark rubbed the back of his neck, looking uneasy. “i mean... you’re my friend, and i care about you. i just don’t think he’s the right person for you. you deserve better than him.”

you could feel your heart racing. “what do you know about what’s good for me or not?” you replied, your tone sharp. “you’re not my... you’re not my anything, mark. i don’t need you to tell me what’s best for me.”

he frowned, a flicker of guilt crossing his face, but he didn’t apologize. instead, he sighed. “i’m just looking out for you, okay? you’re... important to me.”

the words stung more than they should have. important to him. you let out a bitter laugh. “important to you? you’ve barely noticed me for years, mark. don’t try to pull that with me now.”

his face shifted, caught somewhere between frustration and something else that you couldn’t quite place. “i’m serious, okay? just... be careful with jeno.”

before you could respond, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing there, feeling more confused than ever.

but things didn’t stop there.

it wasn’t just that mark had said what he said—it was the way he started acting afterward. jeno was around, and whenever jeno was around, mark seemed to get this look in his eyes, like he was watching you two, trying to figure out something that wasn’t adding up. he started showing up more, always offering you little things, always asking if you needed anything. he would bring you your favorite coffee between classes, or linger a little longer than usual when he saw you and jeno walking together.

you noticed it. everyone noticed it. especially yerim.

it was one afternoon in the student lounge when yerim couldn’t hold it in any longer. “mark,” she said, voice tight, “you’re doing it again. you’ve been acting like this... like you’re in love with her.”

mark froze, caught in the act of watching you laugh with jeno. he opened his mouth to deny it, but yerim didn’t let him. “don’t even try to deny it,” she continued. “you’re constantly around her, always looking at her like you want something more. you’re jealous every time jeno is near her.”

mark looked at her, eyes wide with shock. “i’m not—i mean, no, that’s not it.”

“really?” yerim’s voice was sharp now. “because it looks like it. you’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

the words hung in the air like a weight neither of them could lift. mark’s face went pale. he opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out at first. then, slowly, he shook his head, almost as if to convince himself.

“no,” he muttered. “i’m not.”

yerim stared at him for a long moment, her expression a mix of disbelief and something more profound. “mark... you can’t just keep pretending you don’t care about her. you’ve been doing it for years, and now you’re pushing jeno away like this. stop lying to yourself.”

he didn’t say anything. he just stood there, looking at you as you laughed with jeno, the smile on your face not quite reaching his eyes anymore.

it was the last straw when mark once again casually mentioned your name while they were eating lunch together, and yerim couldn’t hold her tongue any longer.

“mark,” yerim began, her voice quiet but firm. “i can’t keep doing this.”

mark looked up from his phone, confused. “what do you mean?” he asked, trying to mask the tension in his voice.

“this,” she motioned between the two of them, the table between them feeling like a chasm. “your obsession with her. it’s becoming impossible to ignore, and frankly, i’m tired of it.”

he blinked, shocked by her bluntness. “what are you talking about? i’m not obsessed with anyone.”

“oh, really?” yerim’s eyes narrowed, her tone ice-cold now. “because every time i bring something up, you somehow find a way to tie it back to her. last week, we were talking about your plans for the summer, and you—” she paused, shaking her head as if in disbelief, “you brought her up. again. you’re not fooling me, mark. it’s always about her. i’m starting to think you’re not really here with me.”

mark opened his mouth to argue, but yerim held up her hand, stopping him mid-sentence. “no. don’t try to lie to me. you’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

the words hit him like a punch to the gut. he looked away, unable to meet her gaze. a flash of memories flashed in his mind—those moments when your name slipped out of his mouth without even thinking, how he’d catch himself whenever he accidentally mentioned you during their time together.

he remembered the time they were having a casual dinner at a restaurant and he had jokingly said, “y/n would love this dish.” yerim had paused, her fork mid-air, her eyes narrowing. but mark quickly covered it up, offering a distracted smile, as if it didn’t mean anything. another time, they were walking through the campus, and he had said, “this place reminds me of something y/n and i used to do.” yerim had looked at him, confusion and hurt crossing her face, but mark had just shrugged it off. it wasn’t anything, he assured her. just memories of a friendship.

but yerim wasn’t stupid. and she was done pretending she didn’t see it.

“you’ve been so distracted, mark. and i’m over it,” yerim’s voice grew stronger now, the anger finally coming through. “you don’t have the right to string me along while you’re still hung up on someone else.”

mark’s heart raced in his chest, the weight of her words sinking in. he couldn’t deny it anymore. yerim wasn’t wrong, and he hated himself for it. “i didn’t mean for it to be like this,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “it’s just... y/n... i never meant to hurt you.”

but yerim wasn’t having it. she was proud, and she recognized her worth. her eyes flashed with frustration as she stood up from the table, throwing her napkin down with a sharp motion. “it doesn’t matter what you meant, mark. what matters is that you’ve been leading me on, and i’m done. i’m not going to sit here and pretend everything’s fine when you clearly can’t even give me your full attention.”

mark stood up too, his voice soft, almost pleading. “yerim, please don’t—”

“no, mark. i’ve had enough. i need someone who’s here for me, not for someone else.” she turned to leave, but stopped at the door, her back still to him. “think about it, mark. because if you’re not careful, you’re going to lose both of us.”

the door slammed shut behind her, and mark stood there in silence, feeling the weight of her words settle in. but before he could process what had just happened, his phone buzzed in his pocket. he pulled it out, and there it was again—your name, flashing on the screen.

a flood of memories hit him all at once—the late-night talks with you, the way he had always put you on a pedestal, and how, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. he couldn’t stop caring about you. yerim had been right. it had been you, always you.

but that wasn’t all. as he sat there, the memories of his time with yerim also came flooding back. the times she’d gotten upset with him for talking about you too much. he had brushed it off, saying it was nothing, just casual references. but deep down, he knew he was never really there for her. not the way she deserved.

a sharp pain twisted in his chest, and he realized something—yerim had always been more than just a girlfriend to him. she was a distraction, a way to cover up the hole in his heart that he refused to acknowledge. but now, everything felt different.

it was supposed to be a day of fun, something to make you forget. jeno had planned a trip to the amusement park, hoping that the laughter, the rides, and the sweet cotton candy would distract you from everything that had been weighing heavily on your heart. he was always there for you, attentive and sweet, trying his best to make you feel special. his hand never left yours, and he had a way of making you feel like everything was going to be okay, even though you weren't sure it ever would be.

but as the day went on, the fun rides, the silly carnival games, and even jeno’s bright smile couldn’t keep your thoughts from drifting back to mark. you tried so hard to push them away, to focus on the moment, on the person beside you who was giving you his all. jeno was perfect. he was patient, kind, charming in ways that made you laugh without even trying. but no matter how much he tried to pull you out of the hole you’d fallen into, mark was still there, lingering in your heart like a shadow you couldn’t escape.

it wasn’t until you were sitting on a bench near the Ferris wheel, looking out at the glowing lights of the park, that the dam finally broke. tears blurred your vision, and for the first time in a long while, you let them fall. jeno’s hand gently cupped your face, his thumb wiping away the first tear, and then another, as his soft voice reached your ears.

“hey,” he murmured, his eyes filled with concern and something deeper, like he already knew what was happening. “what’s going on?”

you shook your head, struggling to find the right words. “i... i’m so sorry, jeno. i thought i could... but i can’t. i can’t stop thinking about him.” your voice cracked, and the sobs you had been holding back spilled out. “it’s not fair to you. i feel like i’m using you, but i can’t... i can’t let go of mark.”

jeno stayed quiet for a moment, his hand still resting on your cheek, tender and warm. he didn’t look hurt, not the way you expected him to. instead, his eyes were filled with understanding, the kind of understanding that made your chest ache even more.

“you don’t have to apologize,” he said softly, his voice steady and calm. “you can’t force yourself to move on, y/n. you can’t just push those feelings aside because you want them to go away. i know that. i won’t ask you to stop thinking about him, or to stop loving him. but you need to realize that you’re only hurting yourself by holding onto something that might never be.” he paused, giving you a moment to absorb his words, his thumb tracing your cheek slowly. “if you’re not ready for this, if you’re not ready for me, then it’s okay. we can stop here.”

his words cut deeper than you expected. you looked at him, and in his eyes, you saw nothing but kindness, the kind of person who would never push you, who would never force you to be someone you weren’t. but that only made it harder to bear. jeno was giving you his everything, and yet, your heart was somewhere else.

“jeno...” you whispered, your voice shaking, “i’m so sorry. i wish i could just... let go. but i’m not ready for this. for us. i thought maybe... maybe i could love you. but i can’t stop thinking about him. and it’s not fair to you. you deserve someone who can love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

jeno smiled at you, but it wasn’t the smile of someone who was happy. it was a smile tinged with sadness, a resignation that seemed to come from a place of understanding rather than disappointment. he took your hand in his and held it firmly, as if to reassure you that it was okay.

“i knew,” he said quietly, his voice soft but sure. “i knew this wasn’t going to be easy. and i’m not mad at you, y/n. i’m just... i’m just glad you’re being honest with me.” he gave your hand a squeeze. “you don’t have to force anything. if you want to keep holding onto mark, then do it. if that’s what you need to do to move on, then i won’t stop you. i want you to be happy, even if it’s not with me.”

you blinked back more tears, unable to find the right words. jeno’s face was full of hurt, but also full of understanding, and you hated yourself for not being able to give him what he deserved. you loved jeno, you really did, but your heart was still anchored to mark, and nothing was going to change that just because you wanted it to.

“i don’t deserve you,” you said through a broken sob, the guilt overwhelming. “i’m sorry, jeno. i’m so sorry.”

“don’t apologize,” he said again, his voice steady and soothing, despite the sadness that lingered there. “just think about it, okay? take your time. but don’t stay in this place forever. don’t let yourself be stuck on someone who can’t give you the love you deserve.”

you nodded, unable to speak, and jeno, ever patient and kind, pulled you into a gentle embrace. his warmth was comforting, but it also reminded you of the hole in your heart that mark had left behind.

you could feel the weight of his words, the truth in them sinking deeper than anything you had ever felt. he wasn’t going to hold you to something that wasn’t real, and you hated the fact that it took you this long to realize it. jeno wasn’t just someone you could use to fill the gap mark had left. he was someone who deserved to be loved completely, and you weren’t capable of giving him that.

as you pulled away, you could see the understanding in jeno’s eyes, and it was that very understanding that made the pain in your chest grow even stronger. jeno wasn’t going to hold onto something that wasn’t meant to be. and maybe, just maybe, that was the hardest thing for you to accept.

“i’m sorry,” you whispered again, your voice small, broken. “but i think i need to try with mark. maybe... maybe he’s the one i’m meant to be with.”

jeno smiled again, but this time, it was bittersweet. “then go for it, y/n. do what you need to do. i’m not going anywhere.”

and just like that, you knew. you had your answer. but the question now was whether mark would ever feel the same way.

the days at university dragged on, each one more suffocating than the last. you had your friends around you, and yet, you felt like you were drowning in the same sea of unresolved feelings. it was a strange comfort to be surrounded by people, but their presence didn’t erase the emptiness you felt inside. mark’s presence lingered everywhere, like a ghost. even in the cafeteria, you couldn’t escape the feeling that something was missing. his silence, his avoidance, it was all becoming too much to bear.

one morning, as you sat at a table with your friends, a subtle shift in the atmosphere caught your attention. mark had arrived late, as usual, and took a seat at the opposite end of the table, his gaze distant, his face blank. the usual chatter buzzed around you, but there was an unmistakable tension in the air. the others seemed to sense it too, noticing how quiet everything had become since the both of you had entered the room.

haechan, always the one to try and lighten the mood, leaned back in his chair, his grin wide and teasing. “so guys, what’s going on here? someone want to spill the tea?” his tone was playful, but there was an edge to it that made it clear he wasn’t fully joking.

you felt your stomach twist, but before you could respond, mark shifted in his seat, his fork tapping against his plate. the room grew unnaturally quiet, the teasing atmosphere fading into something more uncomfortable. mark’s voice broke through the silence, his tone so flat it was almost impossible to read.

“yerim… she broke up with me,” mark said, the words coming out without any emotion, almost like he was just stating a fact. it wasn’t a confession or a cry for sympathy, just an acknowledgment of something that had happened.

the table fell completely silent. everyone, even haechan, froze, unsure of what to say. it was as if the air had thickened, and no one dared to move or speak for a moment. you kept your eyes fixed on your tray, unable to meet anyone’s gaze, though you couldn’t help but sneak a glance at mark from the corner of your eye.

he was eating his breakfast now, like it was just another normal morning, his face emotionless. but you could see the small, almost imperceptible signs of tension in his posture. his shoulders were a little more rigid, and his hand gripped his fork a little tighter than usual. but he said nothing more, and the others didn’t press him for details.

renjun, ever the curious one, broke the silence by shifting in his seat and looking directly at you. “what about jeno?” he asked, his voice soft but probing.

the question hit you harder than expected. it was like everyone had just been waiting for you to talk about it, to explain what had happened between you and jeno. you hesitated, biting your lip as you considered how to respond.

“i… i ended things with jeno,” you said finally, your voice quieter than you intended.

chenle raised an eyebrow, clearly confused. what? you were just starting to get into it. why would you stop now?”

you shrugged, feeling a lump form in your throat. “i wasn’t prepared for what he needed.”

another silence filled the room, heavier this time. you could feel their eyes on you, but you didn’t dare look up. the tension in the air was suffocating, and you could feel it building up around you like a thick fog. it wasn’t just the conversation that was uncomfortable—it was everything that had been left unsaid. the way mark kept his distance, the way you couldn’t stop thinking about him, the way you couldn’t shake the feeling that things were never going to be as simple as they once were.

you stole another glance at mark, your heart tightening at the sight of him. he was still eating, his movements slow and deliberate, but you could tell he was aware of the conversation. the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his eyes flicked toward you for a fraction of a second—it all spoke volumes. but he said nothing more. he wasn’t going to make this easy for you. he wasn’t going to chase you or beg for your attention. it was always like this with him, wasn’t it? he had this way of making you feel like you were the only one who cared, while he remained distant, unreachable.

as you sat there, feeling the weight of the silence press down on you, you realized that maybe you weren’t the only one who had been avoiding the truth. maybe mark was doing the same thing. maybe he, too, had been holding back, pretending that everything was fine when it wasn’t.

and then, as if on cue, mark glanced up at you. his eyes met yours for just a moment, and for the briefest of seconds, you saw something in them—something raw, something vulnerable. but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the same mask of indifference he wore so often.

you couldn’t stop yourself from feeling the ache in your chest, the pain of wanting something that wasn’t yours to have. you didn’t know what this meant, what the silence between the two of you meant. but it hurt. it hurt in ways you couldn’t explain.

suddenly, mark stood up, his chair scraping against the floor, and without a word, he grabbed his tray and walked away, leaving the table in stunned silence once again. you didn’t know if it was his way of shutting everyone out or if he was simply tired of pretending that everything was fine.

haechan glanced at you, his expression a mixture of concern and confusion. “well, that was... something,” he muttered.

but you didn’t respond. you couldn’t. all you could do was sit there, surrounded by your friends, but feeling more alone than ever before. you didn’t know what would happen next.

but you did know one thing: nothing was going to be the same again.

mark never liked to admit it, but the words yerim had said earlier echoed in his mind like a loud, unwanted reminder. "you're in love with her, aren't you?" he couldn't shake it. the way she confronted him, the certainty in her voice, it felt like she was peeling back layers of something he didn’t even know he was hiding. he tried to brush it off, told himself he wasn’t like that—he couldn’t be. you were his friend, his best friend’s sister, and he had always kept a distance for a reason.

but the more he thought about it, the more it hit him. the way his heart reacted when you gave him those letters, when you filled his locker with chocolates you’d made yourself, and when you said "i like you" so casually, so boldly, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. mark could still feel the warmth in his chest when he read your letters. he could still picture the way you’d smile at him, your eyes shining with a hope that made him feel both uneasy and... strangely content. it made him feel things he couldn’t quite name.

he had always kept his distance, tried to maintain the line between friendship and something else, because he knew it was wrong. but what if it wasn’t? what if everything he’d told himself about not crossing that line was just an excuse to avoid the truth? there were moments, fleeting but intense, when he felt your gaze on him, when he felt you watching him more than anyone else, and it made him ache in ways he didn’t understand. it was subtle, but it was there—your attention, your small gestures that spoke louder than words.

and mark... mark had never been one to ignore someone he cared about. he would remember the smallest things about you—your favorite color, how you liked your coffee, the way you hated the cold but still insisted on walking with him outside when it was freezing, just because you liked the fresh air. he noticed these things, even when he told himself it was just concern, just the instincts of a friend. but now, in the silence of his own thoughts, it became clear: he was lying to himself.

it had never been just friendship. he was always there when you needed him, always paying attention to the little things that mattered to you. he didn’t know when it started, but somewhere along the way, those small acts of kindness had shifted into something deeper, something more complicated. and now that yerim had pointed it out, it was impossible to ignore.

the worst part? he didn’t want to. he didn’t want to admit that he was falling for you, that the thought of seeing you with someone else—a guy like jeno, someone who actually understood you in ways he never could—made him feel this... discomfort, this jealousy that gnawed at him, something he hadn’t ever expected to feel. it wasn’t like he hated jeno—no, he didn’t. he was a good guy. but the idea of him being close to you, of him holding your hand, of him kissing you... it made mark want to break something, even if he didn’t understand why.

he remembered the first time you told him you liked him. it had been so simple, so direct, and yet, it had left him shaken. "i like you, mark," you had said, and his chest had tightened. it wasn’t the confession itself—it was the way you said it, the sincerity in your eyes, the lack of hesitation. you made it sound so effortless, like it was no big deal. but to him, it felt like the world was shifting beneath his feet. he had tried to laugh it off, tried to brush it aside, but he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

and now, as he sat there, the realization hit him full force. yerim had been right. he was in love with you. and it scared the hell out of him.

he had always tried to convince himself that it wasn’t anything more than friendship, but the truth was staring him in the face now. this—his attention to you, the way he always found a reason to be near you, the way he knew things about you that no one else did—it wasn’t friendship. it was something else. and as much as he hated to admit it, it was something he couldn’t control anymore.

mark let out a slow breath, closing his eyes for a moment. he didn’t know what to do with this feeling. he didn’t know how to face you, knowing this now. he had tried so hard to keep things uncomplicated, to keep the walls up, but somewhere along the way, they had crumbled without him even realizing it.

and then he thought about the way you’d looked at him this morning, about the way you’d still found time to check in on him, even though you were moving on with jeno. he hated it. he hated how much it hurt to see you with him, how it felt like he was losing you to someone else. but what could he do? he couldn’t just throw away the bond he’d spent years building with you. and yet, now that he had started to realize the truth—that he, maybe, maybe... loved you—it felt like everything he did was too little, too late.

mark ran a hand through his hair, frustration rising in his chest. he was an idiot. he always had been. and now... now you were slipping away from him. and maybe it was for the best. maybe he didn’t deserve you.

but god, did he wish he could change everything.

the professor of your writing class, a serious man with a gaze that seemed to read the minds of his students, made an unexpected announcement at the start of the class. there was a new activity, a group project where you had to work with a "superior," as he called it, to learn more about the challenges and demands that came with quality writing. as if it wasn’t enough, the professor began mentioning names, and when he got to yours, it wasn’t just any name.

"y/n," he said, his eyes locking with yours for a moment. "i know you all know mark lee. so, he'll be your partner for this task. i’m sure you'll learn a lot from him."

the entire class turned to look at you, and the blush immediately crept up your neck. they all knew you liked mark. it was obvious to everyone. a murmur spread across the tables, and a small ripple of laughter echoed in the air. your heart raced, and you could feel the tension building. you froze for a moment before quickly trying to compose yourself.

"after this class, i’ll be heading to mark’s group. so, i’ll let him know," the professor added, barely noticing your discomfort. it was as if he had done this before, pairing you two without a second thought.

the rest of the day felt like it was dragging, and even though you tried to distract yourself with the usual distractions of university life, everything felt off. your thoughts were heavy with mark. you had been in the same place so many times before, but now, it felt different. this wasn’t just any task; this was going to force you and mark into the same space, the same moments, and you didn’t know how to handle it.

later, as you met him in the university library, the tension was palpable. everything felt too familiar yet too strange. you hadn't been so close in so long, and now you were working on something that required your attention.

at first, there were small, careful interactions. you would look at him briefly, and he’d turn away, pretending to focus on the task. but soon, those little moments started to build.

one evening, you were sitting together at a table in the library. you were writing, trying to focus on the task in front of you, but mark was watching you, the air around you both charged. the quiet hum of the library didn’t help the feeling building between the two of you.

without realizing it, your hand brushed his as you reached for the same book. your heart jumped in your chest, and you both froze. he looked at you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort. when none came, he slowly took your hand into his, his fingers curling gently around yours. you didn’t pull away.

you continued to write, trying to act like nothing had changed, but every single brush of his fingers against yours made your heart race. mark, in his usual composed way, didn’t say a word. he just adjusted in his seat, took a deep breath, and continued flipping through a book with his free hand.

but you couldn’t ignore the feeling. your heart was pounding, and every moment felt too intense.

mark’s touch, his attention, was starting to feel different. the physical closeness, the subtle interactions, they were all making you feel things you didn’t know how to process.

one night, as you worked late on an essay, you were sitting in the university’s shared house, with mark next to you. the house was quiet, but the air between you two was anything but.

as you wrote the final paragraphs of your essay, mark casually placed his hand over yours, like it was the most natural thing in the world. you froze for a second, then continued writing with your other hand. he didn’t let go of your hand, though. he just sat there, quietly turning the pages of his book, but his attention was completely on you.

you could feel the warmth of his hand, his fingers lightly tracing the back of yours. you were trying to focus, but everything inside you was screaming.

what was happening between you two?

the moment felt like it would last forever. your heart raced, and your stomach twisted with nerves. the way his hand felt against yours, the way you couldn’t stop thinking about him—it was all becoming too real. slowly, as if testing the waters, mark squeezed your hand gently, a silent acknowledgment that you were still there, together.

you tried to act normal, but the intensity of the moment was almost too much. you didn’t know what this was, but it felt like it was something more than you’d ever expected.

and as the days went by, you found that you were no longer just working with mark. you were starting to feel something again, something that wasn’t just based on your past feelings, but something that was growing stronger every time he smiled at you, every time he reached for your hand, every time his voice got just a little bit softer when he spoke to you.

you were starting to realize that you were falling for him all over again.

mark sat alone in his room that night, the moonlight spilling through the window as he stared at the pages of his book without really seeing them. his mind kept drifting back to the moments he had shared with you—those small touches, those fleeting glances that made his heart skip a beat. it was impossible to ignore the feelings that were starting to bubble up inside him.

why does it feel like this? he thought. this wasn’t supposed to happen.

he remembered when you first started writing him those letters, how you didn’t care that others saw, how you openly told him you liked him. at first, it made him uncomfortable, and he didn’t know how to react. but now, looking back, he realized it had always been more than just a casual thing for him. you had always been more.

mark sighed as he recalled those moments when he would catch himself thinking about you in class, or how his eyes would follow you around the room. it’s not just concern, is it? he thought. i care about you more than i ever wanted to admit.

he thought about how he would remember the little things—like how you always smelled like lavender, how you would always bite your lip when you were concentrating, how you’d laugh at the smallest jokes. he knew you so well. but why hadn’t he realized it before?

mark leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. it’s not just worry... it’s something more. his heart ached as he realized the truth, and it was almost too much to bear.

he was falling for you.

the days passed in a soft, almost imperceptible way, but mark could feel the change. it wasn’t loud or obvious, but it was there, lingering between you two like a quiet hum. at first, the moments were small — a brush of your fingers as you passed him the pen, a shared smile when the professor made an awkward joke, the way he always seemed to look for you in the crowded hallways. you had grown so accustomed to each other's presence that it felt almost natural to be together, even in silence. but there was a difference now.

he was aware.

mark noticed the way you would glance at him when you thought he wasn’t looking, the soft curl of your smile when he said something funny, or the way you always tried to be near him. he noticed the little things, things that before he might have brushed aside. it was easy to pretend that it was nothing, but deep down, he couldn’t ignore it anymore. you were changing something inside him, something he wasn’t sure how to handle.

they started to get closer, working together more than the project required, as if there was something magnetic pulling them together. late nights in the library, sharing the quiet, with nothing but the sound of papers shuffling and soft footsteps on the floor. the way mark would sneak glances at you when you weren’t paying attention, the way his hand would linger near yours when you passed the pencil over to him. it was simple, tender. there was no rush, no hurry — just a slow, steady burn.

one evening, as you both sat at the same table in the house, the quiet between you two felt charged with something unspoken. mark had just handed you a book you’d asked for, his fingers brushing yours for a moment too long. you felt it, and so did he.

"you’ve been quiet," mark said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. "thinking about the project, or… something else?"

you glanced at him, feeling your heartbeat quicken. "maybe both," you replied, your voice soft.

mark raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "you know, it’s funny. we’ve spent all this time together, but i still don’t think i know everything about you."

you smiled, trying to play it cool, but inside, you were nervous. "what do you want to know?"

he didn’t answer immediately. instead, he leaned back in his chair, a small smile playing on his lips. "i guess… i just want to know how you see the world. the little things that make you… well, you."

you blinked, taken aback by the question. it felt oddly intimate, like he was asking to know you on a deeper level, not just as a classmate or a friend, but as something more.

"that’s… a lot to ask," you murmured, your cheeks flushing.

mark smiled, his gaze softening. "maybe," he said quietly. "but i think… i think you’re worth the effort."

the way his voice sounded made something tighten in your chest.

you didn’t know what it was, but you felt it — that spark, that connection.

and so it continued, these quiet, intimate moments between the two of you. each one made the feelings grow stronger, but neither of you acknowledged it outright. there was no rush. this wasn’t about forcing something, it was just about being together, in whatever way it worked. a slow, steady love building like a quiet storm.

finally, the day came for you to present your project. everyone had gathered in the lecture hall, seniors and juniors alike. the professor was setting up the papers, his usual stern expression softened by the anticipation in the room. the seniors were all whispering among themselves, and you couldn’t help but notice how mark sat just a little too still in his chair, his eyes occasionally glancing over at you.

the professor cleared his throat, signaling that it was time. "alright, y/n, mark — it’s your turn. please come up and present."

you stood up, your heart beating a little faster as you walked up to the front, your palms sweaty. mark was beside you, his presence oddly comforting, though you could feel the tension between you two. you weren’t sure what to expect, but you knew that something was about to change.

mark didn’t speak right away. instead, he took your project, carefully setting it down on the desk in front of the class. you watched as he stood behind it, adjusting his posture and looking around at the gathered group. for a moment, he seemed lost in thought, then he cleared his throat.

"before i present this," he began, his voice steady but with a certain softness that made you pause, "i think i should talk about something else."

your stomach dropped. what was he doing?

the professor, who had been prepared to listen to a formal presentation, now looked intrigued. "mark?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

mark’s gaze shifted to you for a moment, then back to the class. he was taking his time, choosing his words carefully."this is a story about someone i came to know. at first, i didn’t think much of it. she was just someone i worked with, just another student. but as time went on, i began to notice little things. the way she always smiled, even when she was exhausted. the way she laughed at things that most people would have ignored. the way she always tried to be better, even when she didn’t have to."

mark paused, and you felt your heart race as your eyes locked with his. his voice had a strange warmth to it, and the room seemed to hold its breath as he continued.

"i don’t know when it happened, exactly. it wasn’t a moment — it wasn’t like i suddenly realized. but i know that one day, i found myself thinking about her when she wasn’t around. and when i looked at her, it felt like i was seeing something… something that was more than just a person. it felt like i was seeing a world, a life. and i wanted to know more, to be close to her, to understand who she was."

mark looked at you then, his gaze soft and steady. "this person… she’s not just anyone. she’s someone who changed the way i see things, who made me realize what it means to care about someone. and i think, somewhere along the way, i realized… i was falling for her."

you felt your breath catch in your throat.

he was talking about you.

there was a stunned silence in the room. even the professor looked taken aback for a moment, his mouth slightly agape. mark continued, the words flowing from him almost effortlessly.

"this might not be the most professional presentation," he said, his voice now more playful, "but it’s the truth. and i think… that’s the most important part of any story."

the professor, still recovering from the surprise, gave a small chuckle, but quickly regained his composure. "well, mark," he said, "that was… certainly unexpected. but if after all that, you don’t present the real work," he said, raising an eyebrow, "i’ll have no choice but to fail you. and your partner."

mark smiled, but you could see the playfulness in his eyes fade. "don’t worry," he said softly, "the real work is here." he turned, pulling the actual project from under the desk and placing it in front of you. "y/n, it’s all yours."

you couldn’t help but blush, your heart still racing from his words. the class was silent, the weight of what had just happened hanging in the air. mark’s confession had left an unexpected warmth in the room, and for a moment, it felt like everything had shifted. everything felt different.

the rest of the room buzzed with whispers, the air thick with the lingering tension. you felt the weight of the moment heavy in your chest, but you were frozen, unable to move. mark’s words had completely caught you off guard, and now, as he stood there, his usual confident demeanor had softened — there was a vulnerability in his posture, a quiet but undeniable sincerity in the way his eyes met yours.

for a second, everything felt out of place, like time had slowed down just for you two. your heart was pounding in your ears, and yet, there was a part of you that was oddly calm.

this was real.

this moment, this confession — it wasn’t just a dream.

you glanced around the room, meeting the eyes of your classmates. some of them looked just as stunned as you, others had the tiniest smirk tugging at the corners of their lips, and the professor, still slightly in shock, was scribbling something on his notepad, probably to process what had just transpired.

mark cleared his throat, his eyes still on you, waiting for a response. but you were too overwhelmed to speak. you just looked at him, taking in the moment, trying to find the words that seemed to be stuck in your throat.

the warmth from his words, the honesty in his voice, left a tingling sensation in the air. but as much as you wanted to hold it together, the words he said, the way he looked at you — it was too much. the feelings you had buried so deep, the longing you had hidden, began to spill out uncontrollably.

your hands shook as the tears began to well up. you couldn’t stop them. they fell freely, a mix of relief, sadness, and love all at once. the room fell silent, everyone staring at you. and you knew. they all knew. but now it was your turn to finally say it out loud, to let go of the fear of rejection.

"i’ve always loved you, mark," you whispered, your voice shaky, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "i’ve been in love with you for so long, thinking i was just some fool. but... i can’t hide it anymore."

you looked up, your vision blurry with tears, and there he was. mark, standing before you, a mixture of surprise and something softer in his eyes. he didn’t seem shocked, but there was something in his gaze that said he knew. it wasn’t a revelation to him — he had always known.

“i— i don’t know what to say, but... thank you,” he said, his voice low but sincere. “thank you for loving me all this time. for waiting. for staying. i... i had no idea. i didn’t want to admit it to myself.” he paused for a moment, stepping closer to you, his eyes never leaving yours. "but now... i get it. i’m starting to understand what i feel, and it’s... you. it’s always been you."

your breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, you thought you might fall apart. but mark’s steady presence kept you grounded. he was here, and he was saying things you had longed to hear for so long.

“i’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out,” he continued, his voice quiet but filled with so much emotion. "i’ve been... holding back. afraid. but now, i can’t hide it anymore. i like you. i like you so much. i’ve been trying to pretend it was something else, but it’s you. it’s always been you."

your heart raced, your chest tight, as his words sank in. this wasn’t just a confession from you anymore. it wasn’t just about what you had been feeling. mark felt the same way.

“thank you for loving me,” he whispered, his hand reaching out slowly to take yours. his fingers brushed over your skin, sending a wave of warmth through your body. “it’s my turn now, to love you back. for real.”

you blinked, a soft gasp escaping you, and the tears came again, this time in a different way. not from sadness, but from the overwhelming emotion of knowing that after all this time, mark was finally letting himself feel the same. finally.

“you don’t have to thank me,” you whispered, still trying to catch your breath, but your chest felt full, the emotions swirling inside you, making it impossible to think clearly. "i just needed you to know how i felt. i... i never thought you’d feel the same."

mark smiled softly, stepping closer until his chest was almost pressed against yours. “i do. i really do. and i’m not going anywhere. i want to be with you, if you’ll let me. no more hiding. no more pretending."

your heart soared as you looked at him, standing so close, his eyes full of honesty. you had waited so long for this, and now it was happening.

“i want that too,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "i want to be with you, mark. always."

mark nodded slowly, his hand resting gently on the side of your face, his thumb brushing away the last of your tears. "then let's not waste any more time," he said, his voice warm and soft, a promise in the words.

the world outside seemed to disappear as you stood there, together, finally on the same page. no more hiding, no more pretending. just the two of you, taking the first step toward what you both knew could be something real.

days passed, and the universe seemed to shift around you. mark and you were no longer just two people who shared silent glances and unsaid words. now, you were together, the air around you both full of something new, something beautiful. but not everyone understood it right away.

you and mark sat together in the cafeteria, just the two of you, laughing quietly. the others were around you, but it was as if the world had faded, and it was just the two of you in that small bubble. you could feel it—the connection, stronger than ever.

haechan, sitting across the table with jisung and jaemin, eyed you both with an exaggerated glance. his expression was a mix of disbelief and amusement. he leaned toward jaemin and sighed.

"i never thought i'd see mark being all... cheesy and love-struck like that," ahechan chuckled, nudging jaemin with his elbow. "i swear, he's practically glowing."

jaemin, who had been quietly observing, just shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "yeah, well, mark's always been that way when it comes to her," he muttered, already knowing what was coming. "took him long enough, though."

meanwhile, jisung, still looking grumpy about something, crossed his arms over his chest and shot a look at chenle. "you know what this means, right? i’m gonna have to give you 100,000 won now."

chenle grinned like he had won the lottery. "told you they'd get together eventually," he said with a teasing wink, clearly proud of his bet-winning skills.

jisung grumbled, staring at his half-eaten sandwich. "i hate you. i can’t believe i lost this bet."

"it’s not like you had much of a chance, anyway," chenle teased, laughing.

jaemin just sighed, shaking his head as if he already knew what was coming. "this was inevitable," he muttered under his breath. "mark was always going to fall for her. he just took his time."

you glanced at mark, your hand casually resting in his as you both shared a quiet smile. it was the kind of smile that said everything without saying a word.

renjun’s voice broke the moment. "so, when's the wedding?" he joked, but there was warmth in his eyes. "mark's acting like he's already head over heels. never thought i'd see the day."

mark’s cheeks flushed, but he squeezed your hand gently, his eyes soft. "i’m just taking my time with her," he said, his voice full of affection.

you laughed, your heart soaring. it felt right. this was real.

and though everyone around you may have teased and joked, you knew deep down that this was only the beginning. you and mark had found something special. something that, despite the slow burn, had bloomed into something beautiful and undeniable.

“so,” ahechan continued, looking at the two of you with a teasing grin, “when do we get to hear about your first official date?”

you turned to mark, your heart racing in your chest. "maybe you should wait for that one," you said with a wink, “but... it’s gonna be worth it.”

the group burst into laughter, and mark’s hand tightened around yours, his smile the brightest thing in the room. because no matter what anyone else said, you and mark had finally found each other, and nothing else mattered.

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girthgrudgefear · 2 days ago

Text

i know i write about pope having a partner who isn’t afraid of him, was never afraid of him, but imagine pope being aware that he’s making the person he likes uneasy and making a conscious effort to appear less… threatening.

how pope is instantly intrigued by this newcomer, a friend of deran’s or craig’s or j’s, who is lounging somewhere in the cody residence with good company. how he enters the room, quietly, at first, going unnoticed by nobody except them. how pope’s soon-to-be partner in question keeps talking, laughing, while everyone else is tense.

and then finally, when they notice that everyone has stopped talking, eyes locked behind where they're sitting, silently acknowledging someone they’ve obviously yet to meet.

when they turn around and see pope standing there, they audibly flinch, maybe mutter a quick, ‘jeez!’ and clutch their hand to their chest. then this earns some chuckles from deran or craig or j, who introduces them to pope.

and despite jumping about five feet in the air from fright, their smile is soft, genuine as they introduce themselves, hold their hand out for pope to shake.

which pope does not do.

and just like that their visit is cut short, and pope is lightly admonished about how he’s scared away yet another friend.

then it’s back to business as usual and they begin to discuss a job. except it’s not, because pope has this feeling that he’s been well-acquainted with since he learned of julia’s death.

it’s guilt.

pope feels guilty for scaring them away.

so the next time that the cody’s throw a party and this person shows up, pope catches them as they’re taking a beer out of the cooler. and when they turn, they immediately yelp.

and drop the beer bottle.

pope doesn’t get hurt because he’s still got his boots and jeans on, but the trajectory of the glass leaves several prominent gashes on the other person’s feet and legs.

they don’t react to the pain because they are too busy, caught between looking around for a paper towel to pick up the glass and apologizing profusely for making a mess.

“leave it. we need to take a look at your legs.” pope says with such finality that the other person’s movement slows.

“um, okay.” they hesitate, and pope hates that they hesitate, because between the broken bottle and the cuts that feeling is back, and now with this — he just wants the party to be over.

but they let pope fix them, try to pass the time by making small talk with pope, none of which pope is receptive to. only one cut needs stitches but all of them need to be cleaned, and he finds it endearing how they hiss at the first touch of peroxide to the wound before relaxing back into the bathroom counter.

“stop shaking your leg.” pope says as he’s threading the needle.

“i don’t mean to.”

“then why are you doing it?” he asks, looking up at them as he does so. and when their eyes meet, he feels it again when they immediately look away.

“because you make me nervous.”

“i don’t mean to.” he says, almost indignantly, which makes them giggle. the leg stops shaking and pope is able to finish with ease.

and it’s only when pope is walking them to their car that pope says, “i’m sorry.”

and when they ask, “for what?”

he says, “for scaring you. i know i scare people, but…” his gaze, fixed on the black pavement, meets their eyes and he’s pleased to find them staring at him. the warmth spreads all over, from the apples of their upturned cheeks to pope’s belly as if he just caught himself staring at the sun. “i didn’t mean to do it to you.”

he ends his sentence, deflates because it sounds lame. he sounds lame.

“it’s okay. just try not to do it again, okay? i’d hate to break any more beer bottles.” there’s a smile and a giggle that they don’t share, because pope just stares at them. watches them climb into their car, wave at him, and pull off.

and pope takes that shit about not scaring them to heart.

i got off topic.

but, no, seriously. imagine pope purposely making his footsteps loud when he’s entering a part of the house that his partner is hanging out in.

and how he knows his efforts have not gone unappreciated when they turn around and smile at him, give him their undivided attention as if he’s the only thing in the world that matters.

how pope is more receptive to the little things that they do, the little things that he would usually ignore. like a greeting, or small talk (which he does not, nor will he ever engage in fully). how he actually waves back when they do it first.

texting. pope actually had to find a way to keep up conversations with the person he’s interested in through text, beyond one-worded replies and leaving them on read.

or the way he spends hours in front of the mirror trying his best to appear “casual", no fists balled up at his sides, no hunching his shoulders as if he's ready for a fight at a moment's notice. until he realizes it just makes him seem more constipated and gives up altogether.

and most importantly, physical touch.

pope can tell you the shape that a fist can morph a jawbone into but he's out of his depth when it comes to handling a person in a non-threatening way. it doesn't mean that he doesn't crave it, though, crave them.

he just... doesn't know what it looks like.

and again this is where he's rewarded for the fruits of his labor. that there is some merit in learning how to be softer. it feels familiar, a dead-leaf echo to the way he became lena's safe space in the wake of her parents' passing.

the way in which his partner no longer leaves or avoids him when he shows up at the cody house, at deran's bar, or even on their own doorstep. how they almost always seem to want him around.

the way that they melt into him when they're alone together. how they'll sink beside him where he's sitting stiffly on the couch, curl into him like a cat after pressing a kiss to his cheek. do the little things like ask him about his day, if he's ate, and telling him about their day or anything that's on their mind. how something as simple as that helps him to relax after a long day of being at smurf's beck and call or hours and hours of sinking into his own head.

how they make him feel normal. and seen. and wanted and, even though they aren't there yet, may be leagues away from it, loved.

and this is where i mention that pope is still pope in a lot of the ways that make pope, pope. that sometimes his partner will look up and see andrew standing in the doorway, watching them do whatever it is that they are doing.

or how they'll turn over in bed and see that pope is laying beside them or sitting at the edge of the bed, watching over them as they rest. and how they have to get used to the fact that pope behaves like this, stands guard over the people that he loves, checks up on them in the same way a family dog walks through each room of the house before settling in for the night. how it comes from a place of safety, protection.

the way they learn not to act surprised when pope is waiting for them after work, ready to escort them back to their house where they can lavish pope with all of the affection that he's been learning to crave under their careful attention. and, yes, they are also acutely aware of the way pope is observing the way they interact with their co-workers or any other associates when they're out and about. looking for anyone who needs their ass kicked because no, pope does not play about them in any capacity and they know it.

but, no, yeah. pope is pope but sometimes pope can be persuaded into being less pope but also still pope. i think it's a nice thought.

#drabbles #animal kingdom #animal kingdom tnt #pope cody #pope cody x reader #andrew ‘pope’ cody #andrew ‘pope’ cody x reader #andrew cody

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jelloapocalypse · 2 days ago

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If I'm not mistaken (and I fully could be so please let me know if I am) but didn't you used to be much closer to 2 million subscribers? I swear I remember seeing you at like 1.98 or something.

Either way, is there a good way to support you on Youtube? Or is that something I shouldn't worry about too much? Do you know if there's a good way to promote your videos to the algorithm that will have a good effect?

I've been hovering in the 1.8-1.9M range for like ~3 years or so now. The internet as it is now only boosts consistent uploads that are 15+ minutes long or TikTok-style vertical videos that are <2 minutes long with captions.

I don't do either of those and I have no interest in pivoting my stuff in that direction, so I think it's likely I'll probably never hit 2 million. It is what it is.

Subscribers have mattered less and less over the years. I remember them feeling really valuable in like... maybe pre-2015 when your subscriptions were at the top of your homepage and they prioritized showing you the stuff you said you were actually interested in, but now the sub page is super buried and unless you sign up for individual notifications from a channel you probably won't even know they uploaded anymore.

The internet is a slave to algorithms now. Stuff gets popular pretty much entirely independent of subscription count.

Jenny Nicholson and Hbomb are two of my favorite YouTubers who make absolutely incredible marathon-length videos once or twice a year (which is the exact type of thing you'd want subscriptions for), and even though both of them have been putting out mega-viral documentary-length videos every year for the last three years or so, their sub counts haven't exploded. People write articles on the things they make, in real publications too. New York Times and HuffPost shit. Yet both of them have less subs than me. Jenny has 1.3M and Hbomb has 1.8M which is insane. They should both be at like 3M+ easily for the stuff they make, and if they had the popularity they do now back in 2012, they probably would have the equivalent to that.

By the same token, I have a streaming channel that I do fully-voiced readthroughs of games on and there are people who try to watch almost every stream that often show up late and complain about how YouTube never notifies them. They had to hear about it via a friend on Discord even though they're subscribers AND they have notifications on. Being subscribed quite literally does not do anything these days.

It's worth noting that YT subs aren't really reflective of a channel's overall "health", if you want to call it that. My streaming channel has been doing really well the last two months. We played Danganronpa for charity and had the best viewership we ever got with 1100-1600 viewers for any given episode, which is really high. That's like Top 0.1% of Twitch numbers. We also get a ton of donations and artwork from our fans and watch time is up 40% from the last month right now. Forty percent. That's crazy!

But our sub count keeps dropping. We lose about 100 subscribers a month, for whatever reason. But isn't that weird? That literally every other metric on your channel can be skyrocketing while subscribers go down? It seems like they really don't matter.

We've had over 100k subscribers for a year and a half now, but YouTube still hasn't mailed us that plaque. I doubt they ever will. I'd be surprised if anyone on their staff even checks that anymore. Today's internet is focused on keeping viewers moving to new content and showing them as many ads as possible while they do it. There isn't as much of a benefit to keeping someone watching one particular person anymore.

I appreciate you trying to support us! I think just watching our stuff when you feel like it and maybe showing your favorite videos to friends every once in awhile if you think they'll like it is the best thing you can do. If even one person ends up watching and binging all my Epithet stuff that's like 6 hours of watchtime right there.

#Jello Asks

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keen-li · 2 days ago

Text

Soft launch | jk

Summary: The one where you’ve been a solo OF creator for some time, but now your viewers are requesting to see you with a partner, but you only have...Jungkook as an option. Your closest friend.

18+ MDNI.

Jungkook x fem reader.

Friends to FWB, smut.

Warnings: filmed coitus, kissing, a down bad Jungkook?, fingering, neck kisses, implied virgin reader, penetration(protected.) sweet after care.

Note: smut practice No.1

A/n: this is just practice and i worked on it so fast there could be errors but I did try to edit it. i don’t know how to write smut so I’m working on it. If you think it’s cringe or don’t like it please don’t tell me 😊, I don’t want to know. This is just for fun and no thought.

Any positive, reply, ask or reblog is appreciated

Wc: 2.2k+

╰⊰♡⊱╮

“Really?” when you ask to clarify and he nods, you’re already getting excited. “Let me restart the video.”

You skip to the camera, making sure to end the previous one.

You’ve been doing filming for over a year now, you’re still new but it’s shocking how you’ve grown a large audience already.

Filming pays you so well that you’ve taken it up full time. And with that you’ve had to get creative.

You always did your work solo, it was comfortable and what made you feel the most confident. The people loved it. But it can get monotonous at times, and they made sure to let you know.

You’ve never minded requests; they help you alleviate the pressure of thinking of how to be creative next. So, when people start requesting you to get a partner, it made you do a double take.

Working with someone isn’t something you mind doing. But what really concerned you was your comfortability. You couldn’t walk up to a random person and ask if they could film with you. You never had friends in the industry, and only one male friend. Your female friends don’t swing that way.

So, you were stuck.

But then your thoughts went back to the only male friend you have. Jungkook. He was single and supported what you did.

So, would he help you?

You were scared to ask, but it was worth the shot. If he said no then you could pretend it was a lie. He was very open minded to things, so could he be to this? It’s definitely playing at the seams of things you’ve never thought of in your friendship.

So, it was a shock to you when he said yes, very quickly as well.

“Maybe you should hold the camera.” You tilt your head to the side, doubting what route you should go with this. “For a better angle you get?” he nods.

Cause of the job people wouldn’t believe you’ve actually never slept with anyone before. That’s the main reason you don’t have other male friends. They’d always try to sleep with you. You were never interested in that. and that’s what made Jungkook different.

He never tried to sleep with you, you’d joke flirtishly, but it was never more than that. That’s why you feel comfortable enough to do this with him.

Plus, the other guys always judged you or slut shamed you for what you did. But Jungkook never did, he’s actually the one who bought you the camera you’re using currently.

He also taught how to set up and direct yourself. And the reason he’s here tonight was to help you film a video.

“I’ll hold it.” He says walking over to grab the camera from your grip, his fingers brushing past you longer than normal.

It’s Jungkook, filming should feel easier. “it’ll feel more natural.”

You just nod. You’ve been filming most of your content by yourself and still don’t get the camera thing.

You’re glad he’s here.

“You want me to--” the gesture you make with your hands has him laughing. You pout though and he stops.

“You want to be a fluffer?” the smile from the laugh lingers.

“I’m just asking.”

He chuckles.

“I’ll be fine.”

Thanks to the video you were recording before, he’s partially there.

Watching the way, you touched yourself, how soft your breaths and moans escaped your plushie rose lips. It was a sight to see.

You know how to touch yourself but you definitely need someone to show you deeper pleasure.

“Kook, stop teasing.”

“Content. I’m sure the people like to see little desperation.”

“This video’s gonna be an hour long if you keep that up.”

“I don’t mind.” He has a cheeky smile on his face but you’re having none of it. “Fine. You’re the boss.” He’s only letting you have your way cause it for your page, and he wants to respect the request. but if it was what he wanted, that mouth would’ve been too caught up to whine.

Jungkook pulls your panties off. You have no clue how he does it so swiftly with one hand. He gets it done and now he can stare at your wetness.

“you’re staring.” You inform him like he wasn’t doing it on purpose. Again...if it was on his terms.

“Is this for me?” he runs a cold finger through your folds. You lay ass at the edge of the bed and he stands between your thighs.

You bite your lower lips the longer he traces through them. Is this what it feels like to have someone else do it.

“it’s for the camera.”

“Hard to believe when I’m the one with a finger in you.” At that a finger slips into you. Slow, but determined you fully settle in. You’ve done it yourself before, so why does it feel new with his.

“Fuck kook.” You call when another is added.

“I was supposed to eat you out but since you’re in a hurry...” they glide in and out, pulling a moan from you eat time. Jungkook grows a lopsided smile watching how you squirm just from his fingers. Sweet girl. “...we can save it for another video.”

Another video? You hadn’t though about that. Your viewers would want more, so it does make sense. But... he’s okay with doing another video.

He’s ecstatic. This would be enough. it is nice, but it wouldn’t be enough. he needs to feel you in everyway. Your weight on him, his face. The way you taste, how long would you last?

And his personal favourite.

How many times can he make you come?

All those things make him want to come back.

Not to say that he’s been thinking about this. He’s loves your friendship and loves how you get along as friends. You’ve been friends for awhile and with that comes him witnesses all the shitty guys you encounter, he’s glad you’ve never given then what they were hoping. Honestly, they wouldn’t know what to do with all this.

He wants to see you succeed and be happy, and if fucking you gets you closer to that then he’ll be here...

Right in your tight cunt...

He’s kind of hating this camera right now. Holding it and trying to touch every part of you is hard. And frustrating.

And you can sense it. “You, okay?” you sit up on your elbows and you’re met with exactly what you felt. His brows knitted and tongue poking his cheek. It’s hot when he does that. and he’s so stupid for not noticing how you drip even more after it.

“Yeah, I just need to put this somewhere.”

You knew he’d get tired of it eventually. “Let me grab the--”

“uh-uh...just lay there.” He commands and you don’t move.

He goes to grab the stand.

When he turns, he finds you on your elbows. He hopes this image of you stays on his mind forever. It’s a dangerous wish. But he’d risk it.

You can feel you mouth water when you catch the bulge clearly begging to be touched. He smacks your hand away when you reach.

“Next video I want to suck you off.” You’re not even staring at him, cause you’d see how he pokes his tongue again and his cheeks turn rosier.

Jungkook can’t deny the effect the words have on him. And now he’s getting impatient.

He loves that you’re settling into the idea. Maybe he’ll become your full-time partner. But for him fucking you is the payment; you can keep all the money you earn.

Not knowing how to respond with words he just smirks.

You want to remark how he doesn’t respond but he’s thumb on your clit shuts you up. He knew it would.

His fingers adjust to the warmth. The sounds you and your body make are ethereal. He needs to be closer. So, leaning over he latches at a nipple and your back arches immediately. You’re making sure you can be heard but unlike others, you really mean it.

He’s all over you, kissing up your chest, wet kisses on your neck. You can barely stay in one position, the pleasure of having someone else pleasure you is overwhelming. It’s a new feeling, but your body adjust quickly and you’re begging for more.

“Kiss me.”

He pauses, and when his face is in your view his eyes soften. “Really?” kissing would feel really intimate and he’s not sure if that’s what you were intending. But he doesn’t mind. Not at all.

Your nod comes out rushed and just as fast his lips capture yours. Your hands immediately move to touching anything you want. His hair, under his shirt, you tease to go lower but the pull at your lips stops you. You smile.

Your lips move simultaneously, the feeling soft but deep; proving how bad you don’t want him to stop. You need more of this feeling.

Your tongues battle for dominance, but how much of a fight is it when he’s winning. He smirks when you moan into the kiss.

And that’s all you can handle, you need more. So you pull away, confusing him.

“I need you.”

“I’m here.”

His lips are on your neck again and as much as you’d love him to keep going just like that. there’s a purpose to all of this.

“Wanna feel you.”

Immediately a hot wave of blood rushes down him. And he can only bite his lips. You really know how to shut him up.

“You’re so fucking perfect.” He says against your lips. It’s unprompted but not really. It’s just everything about you, maybe he’s doomed himself by doing this. Cause even from the little he’s had; you’ve ruined him for anyone else. Not that he was looking for anyone else.

Seeing that you were solo, birth control was not a thing for you. So, he’s quick to grabbing protection. Maybe now you’ll consider the, seeing that you’re considering more of this anyways.

You watch him slip it over, his eyes on you the whole time.

When he’s between your legs, you lift your hips, just to be an inch closer to him.

“So impatient...” he mocks. “I’m not going anywhere baby.”

You hope he doesn’t.

Grabbing himself, he inches to your core but then you stop him...

“The camera kook.’

“Oh yeah.” Forgot about it.

He points the device to where you meet. He pushes your legs apart, when you threaten to close them.

“So tight. fuck” He mumbles, inching deeper and stretching you out. You wish you could reach him, claw at his back and leave marks to remind him how good this feels.

A whimper escapes your lips when he’s in deeper. The stretch stings but soon turns to pleasure. More than you’ve ever given yourself.

“You good?” he pauses and you want to yell at him for it, but you get it. The stretch feels so new and he wouldn’t want to hurt.

“Mhm.”

“Feels good?”

The moan and gasps are enough of an answer for him.

“She’s taking me so well guys.”

Shit you forgot about the camera. Should you post this? Fuck. You have to, that was the point.

Feeling like you’re more settled Jungkook begins rocking, still holding himself for control.

“Feels so good kook.” you whimper, shutting your eyes.

“I know baby.”

He’s not even moving fast and it feel like heaven. You won’t last long...shit.

More slick dripping out aides his movement. And he begins rocking faster.

You have no clue where to hold onto or what to say. You grip your sheets spewing out who knows what...his movements get faster and you’re getting louder.

Your viewer’s will love this. How he’s slipping into your cunt. How you’re inching away but he has to pull you back with one hand. How you whimper and chant his name with curses.

The slapping of skin is melodious with your moans. With the way you twitch around him he knows you’re close. So, he rubs on your clit to intensify the pleasure and you’re seeing lights.

His name spills out your mouth continuously has you feel the pressure. The knot tightens and you’re inching closer to the feeling.

“don’t stop.” You beg.

“wasn’t going to darling.” It’s the pleasure, it’s the hand that grips your thigh and it’s the pet name and if your eyes were open it would be the way he looks and smiles down at you.

He continues you rock into you and rub your clit until the knot snaps. And it’s never snapped like this.

Your body shakes and you tighten around him, bring him closer as well.

“fuck..” He grunts as he twitches into the latex like he’s never done before in a while.

You’re stuck between time. What the fuck just happened?

Jungkook slips out of you and you internally whine and the loss. He throws the rubber in your bathroom. You flinch when you feel a damp cloth on our core.

When did he even leave the room?

“You did so good.” He kisses down your sweaty chest. It feels good. When you’re alone you have no one to reassure you. So, it feels great to hear him say that.

He’s taken by surprise when you pull him and kiss his lips.

“Now, I don’t want to post it.” You pout and he watches ever inch of your features.

“That would be a waste, wouldn’t it?” he stares into your eyes not able to move away cause you’re holding him closer so kiss him. He loves it. He leans into the kiss before you’re pulling away again.

“no.”

╰⊰♡⊱╮

#fanfic #smut practice drabble #jungkook smut #jungkook fluff #jungkook x reader #jungkook #jungkook x y/n #jeon jungguk #bts #keen li #jungkook au #jungkook fanfic #jeon jeongguk #jeon jungkook

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ckret2 · 3 days ago

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YOU FOUND PSYCHOLOGY BOOKS THAT ARE SYMPATHETIC TO NARCISSISTS???? Please, please, the holy grail!!! I've been trying to reverse engineer some shit from other Cluster Bs and my experience writing villains!

I've got one "yes" and one "maybe."

The "yes" is Unmasking Narcissism by Mark Ettensohn. The perspective is "you're friends, family, and/or coworkers with a narcissist who's stressing you the fuck out; here's what's going on in their head that makes them act that way (✨it's the trauma✨) and here's ways you can reach out to them that'll defuse the tension in a way that's honest but gels with their needs & perspective."

It's written with the assumption that the narcissist in question isn't acting with malice and isn't trying to hurt someone's feelings, and also with the assumption that the reader's relationship with the narcissist might not only be one they have to maintain (i.e., their boss), but also one they WANT to maintain (i.e., their spouse). It portrays narcissists as people you can like and who you can have reasonable conversations with. It spends like one page on "sometimes, a narcissist actually might be a mean abuser. If you've got one of those, get outta there. but we're not talking about those guys, we're talking about all the other perfectly decent narcissists with crummy social skills" and moves on.

I'm about halfway through it, but like, I don't expect its perspective to radically change in the second half.

The "maybe" is "Narcissism: Denial of the True Self" by Alexander Lowen. I picked it up because it looks promising, BUT I HAVEN'T READ IT YET, so this isn't a recommendation, it's a "this one might be worth looking into."

But just based on the blurb: the writer entertains the possibility that the reader might have picked up the book because they're a narcissist that's trying to understand themself better; it says that "contrary to popular belief" narcissism isn't rooted in excessive self love but rather in anxiety and an attempt to mask their true self; and it's geared toward advising narcissists on how to heal & improve (rather than advising "victims of narcissists").

But on the other hand: the book was first published 40 years ago. And just from the blurb it sounds like the research is at least a liiittle out of date.

But even if the info is dated, that also means it's from WAY before the most recent trend of rampant vilification of narcissists, so dated might be an asset if you're willing to take it with a grain of salt and compare any claims against more recent research.

Again, though—this is based on me literally judging a book by its (back) cover. It's possible that the blurb is misleading and the first line of the book is "Narcissists (or, as my colleagues and I call them, Satan's Manipulative Little Bitch Babies)—" So if you read it and it turns out it sucks, 1) sorry about that, and 2) let me know so I don't waste my time on it.

#anonymous #ask #(i'm sure there are more books out there that write about narcissism sympathetically)#(these two just happen to be the ones that tumbled into my local used book store)

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athenaluciscaelum · 2 days ago

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Can I have a request for DMC 5 Dante x female reader who's immortal?

Dante falls in love with a fellow demon hunter who's an immortal but the reader is afraid of losing someone or just watching her previous lovers grow old leaving her behind. Reader was afraid she'll lose Dante as well.

(I'm not sure if Dante might be immortal too despite he's half-human, any thoughts?)

Note: I am very uncomfortable with the idea of ageing and immortality, not like those people who have a fear of ageing. No. But to think about it, it leaves me in this weird spot where I am looking at centuries and centuries in a span of one play (one stage of life). It's thought provoking, with a little fear being introduced on how irrelevant everything is in respect to time. Is time even real? Anyway. My introduction to immortal characters was the Forever series and The Man from Earth.

That being said, I will still write it because, sure, why not? My writing is lower than beginner; the best I can do is explore the ideas.

Please anon, if you can in any way let me know if you liked it or not. It will be appreciated.

Once Upon a Time

!!MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

Rated: Mature

Words: 4815 words

Warning: Mature theme, Gore, Sex, Death, Aging

Disclaimer:

Feel free to leave comments, but remember to be nice and civil.

LET'S ROCK!!

You were bad at calculating when you were born? When did it all start? Living for more than 2000 years now. You couldn't exactly remember where and when you were born. All you could remember was the mighty figure that raised his sword, Devil Sword Sparda, they called it. In the air, and declared, "The human world is now under my protection. The gates to Hell are sealed, and nothing shall pass through." It echoed throughout the world.

You didn't know it was 2000 years ago, but when you read the knowledge that came to you. You understand the myth or the legend in history was 2000 years ago. So you were sure you were more than 2000 years old.

You never saw the face of the figure they called Sparda, just his shadow casting on your lifeless body as you were ripped open with your guts spilling on the ground. Demons who did this to you were now vanished or sucked back to hell. You were there, lifeless, on the cold, hard ground. Your iris moved with all the energy you could summon. It looked all blurry and hazy. But something caught your eyes. You were in agonising pain, and you hoped you would die soon. You saw a statue of divinity, so with your spilled entrails. The last breath in you asked you, 'Crawl to it.' It was less than a meter; as you drew your last breath, your bloody hand touched it.

Something happened; you can't tell. But you woke up; it was freezing, your body felt cold, and your clothes were ripped where the demon slashed you, but there was no scar. Your guts must be in now. You felt pain, but it was bearable and subsiding with each second. It was snowing.

You stood up on your feet; they were red, and you made your way to the nearest hut. That's all you remember. You tried to find your first family back, but none were alive. You do not even remember them now.

You blinked, lying in your bed, an ugly way to start your day. You got up from the bed, started to make the bed and then hopped into the shower. You were tired, as you came back to put on your barmaid dress. You loved to wear corsets; they were so perfect. You don't understand why people have to demonise them now. They were perfectly fine even for working women or demon huntresses like you throughout human history. But then you thought, no rights for women were fine throughout most of human history as well. You remembered how much fun it was to blow up administrative buildings during the suffragette movement in England. What days – 'men only understand violence, so we give them violence' – or so everyone used to say back then. In the end, you opted for 'modern' underwear.

You put on your coat and watch. You were on a day off today; you didn't want to deal with any demon. Immortality came with its own benefits; you were a damn good demon hunter, and you got all the time in the world to gain knowledge and hone your skills. You started walking towards the park; sometimes it felt all so lonely to think everyone else who walked this earth has and will perish, but you would not. It won't be long before you have to change your name and place. It was usually every ten to fifteen years. Such a little time in your life span.

You were currently new in this city called Capulet City, a hotbed of demon hunters with someone called legendary devil hunters residing here. You were intrigued. You had heard all the myths, legends, and religions, and you knew what bullocks all of them were.

You were crossing a footbridge, and a man with white hair and a red coat walked past you. You didn't notice, but something stuck out. You turned to look at him without a thought; you shouted, "Wait!" The man did – handsome – first thought, and you berated yourself internally. Yes, he is tall, broad, muscular and handsome, and by your time on earth, you were sure he was packing a lot. But no, this was not the time. He looked at you with a smirk and spoke coolly, "Saw something you like, Miss?" You were lost in thought, and Dante raised his eyebrow. You remember this face; around a century and a half back, the same face in the smoke-filled streets of London. A man with the same face, a purple Victorian long coat, a monocle and features more elegantly framed than this. You remember that person. But you do not know why? But after living for so long, you have no will to challenge fate. You frowned. Could there be another person like you walking the earth for who knows how long?

You walked up to him and scanned him up and down. Man was intrigued, he spoke, "Hello?" You looked up at him, the voice wasn't right. But how could you remember it was more than a century ago? But no, his eyes were purple, and these were icy blue.

Man was losing his patience. "Okay, babe, I'm leaving..." And he started to climb down the stairs of the footbridge. You followed him down and expressed your distaste, "No! No! We need to talk…"

Man scoffed, "Talk? I don't even know you, Babe...go away...find another man to pester…" You kept following him. You held his hand in the middle of the road and stopped him. "No...we are talking..."

The man resigned. He was out of money and food for days anyway, "Fine...buy me lunch..." You blinked, "What!?" Man shrugged, "You want my time and attention; you better buy me a lunch. There is a great pizzeria around." Man started to point in the direction of the pizzeria.

You have seen a lot throughout your life, but never anything like this, curious. Maybe that's why he stuck out in your memory after more than a century. You frowned, "What kind of man asks a woman to pay?" Men of this generation never ceased to amaze you. Man shrugged, "I don't know, one who knows his value?" You didn't have anything to do better, so you nodded, "Fine... and I do not want your attention, just answers..." Man held up both his hands. "Fine... but I should tell you I'm irresistible...."

You rolled your eyes, "Lead the way..."

You two sat in a pizzeria near the window seat. He ordered two large Chicken BBQ and Pepperoni pizzas with two pints of beer. You didn't think to dress for a date. But he wasn't so bad now, you think. Answer or not, he was a fine lay.

Man grinned at you, "Now that our food and drinks are settled, my name's Dante..." Dante held out his hand over the table. You laughed a little and shook his hand. "Made sure you got paid upfront before giving out any information? I'm Y/N." Dante chomped down on his pizza; the man had some appetite. You can't deny how everything about this man was so intriguing or arousing. You had your fair share of men over the years. Some stayed in your heart deeper than others, but you always knew they were all fleeting and never made any real attempt to forge a relationship or have kids; they were lovers at best. You had to be very careful for the longest time in history since contraception was such a new and wonderful invention.

You looked at him and calculated him, "So what do you do, Mister Dante?" Dante let out a laugh, "Mister? Seriously... I'm not used to getting so much respect from women...especially feisty ones. But I am a handyman…"

You raised your eyebrow, some food for thought, handyman, too vague, as if trying to hide something. You spoke calculated, "What sort of assignments do you take, handyman? Maybe fix the hole in my wall?" Dante sipped his beer. "Umm...nahhh...more of pest control..."

You smirked, "I'm in somewhat of a pest control business myself..." Dante smirked, "Ohho... yeah...?" You nodded, "Pesky pests are so big and reoccurring these days, right?" Dante hummed in agreement, munching on his pizza... "I got the right guns for that..." You nodded, "I believe you do...."

Before you knew it, you were on the first floor of Devil May Cry... in his room, kissing him passionately as he kisses you back... your legs wrapped around his waist. You were rutting to his bulge; it was so big, you doubted in all these years you took into such a big monstrosity. Your hands cupped his face; you appreciated the older man. Though you never aged beyond twenty-five, there was something about older men that just made you feel so wet, especially one like Dante. You can guess he was around his forties... but back to the business.

Dante laid you down on the bed, his coat off; he pulled up his Henley and off ... You admired the beautifully sculpted body – it was muscular, the skin a bit aged, but silver hair on his chest. You were drooling... your eyes looked down to his white happy trail, a little unkempt, but you appreciated old beauty. His hand started to unlace the front of your dress, the way your tits popped out. Dante smirked, "Why will you put such a beautiful pair through such torture...?" you hummed, nuzzling the pillow as he massaged them, "to look good..."

Dante smirked, "They look much better in my hands..." Dante's hands trailed down to your waist as he peeled your dress off. He likes the view; you were in quite intricate and lacy lingerie. He laughed, "Were you out there looking to get laid? You just saw what you liked in the street and stopped me?" You just shrugged, "Maybe...."

Dante found you amusing; you were confident in an interesting way. You were not trying to control, yet you were controlling everything, and he was happy enough to play your game. He didn't know exactly why you stopped him. But he knew you were human.

Dante leaned back, standing between your legs hanging from the edge of the bed; he started to kiss your neck, pecking and then biting. You moaned and pulled his head back. You clicked your tongue, "Undressing a lady and remaining dressed? What I did to deserve that?"

Dante knew you were as aroused as him; he could smell it. But the way you were patient, it was like you had all the time in the world. He will make you beg for him. You will be impatient. Dante stood up, popping open the button of his black leather pants and pulling down his fly. He wasn't wearing any underwear. You just smirked; you should have expected that. He was big and messy, his hair at the base unkempt. He was hard, you were right. You never had anyone this big.

Your eyes met his icy blue ones, and you could see how badly he wants to bury himself deep in you. You sat up on the edge of the bed. His cock dripping pre-cum. You wrapped your soft fingers around his thick cock; Dante hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. You started to stroke him slowly; he panted. You cooed at him, "Such a big boy...stay still?" You looked up at him through your lashes, his handsome face teetering at the edge of bliss. You wanted to kiss that handsome face. How his brows were knitted, so cute. You kept stroking him softly from base to tip. Your tongue flicked out to lick his slit and pre-cum; you tasted him; he was good.

You smiled up at him, the tip of your tongue flicking at his slit to lap pre-cum; he was moaning, his large fingers threading your hair. You smiled and took him in. His tip hitting the back of your throat, you moaned as his cock vibrated in your mouth.

Dante praised, his fingers gripping the back of your wet, "Shit! Y/N, so warm and wet! Fuck! You're good!" You knew you were good as you hollowed your cheeks and bobbed your hand up and down to take him to the base. Your nose nuzzling in his pubic hair, he had a musky scent, and you were getting addicted to his taste.

Was he the person you saw in Victorian London? Who knows? For now, he was quite addictive, and you needed to get in his good graces to let him open up to you, right?

Sure, sucking his dick is the best way to hasten to it. Back to work in hand, your one hand held onto his muscular thighs to stabilise yourself; hell, they were thick, and you were already drooling with how much pre-cum he was producing. Now more so, it was heaven. Your hand slides from his base to his balls, fondling them, making him throw back his head with a loud moan, "Y/N, fuck! So good." His hip bucked involuntarily, hitting the back of your throat; you pulled back. His hand was trying to pull you back. You squeezed his balls a bit more. "Patience... handyman ...or should I say legendary demon hunter?" Dante smirked; he looked divine, his face was blessed out, he was panting, there was a pink tint on his cheeks and his trademark smile, "Same as you...babe!"

Your hands gathered your tits around his cock, surrounding them, and started to massage them. Your bra created a perfect net for him to stay in. Dante needed no clue; you both were wild enough. He started to thrust his cock in the little cock sleeve you prepared for him with your sweet tits. He grunts, "Fuck! Heaven! You're full of surprises, babe..."

His hands replaced yours to squeeze your tits together around his cock. Your hands wrapped around the back of his neck to pull him into a hungry kiss, teeth clattering, tongue fighting for dominance and lips swollen...he never stopped thrusting in between your tits. His thrust now irregular and chasing his high. You looked up at him with soft eyes. He smiled down at you ...as he came all over your tits, neck and chin.

He pulled back a bit; he was still hard. He smiled down at you; you looked perfect like this, covered in his cum. He gripped your neck and travelled his hand up to cup your cheeks. You smiled at him, "Is that all you got?"

He growled and flipped you on your stomach; you moaned as his middle finger traced and prodded at your wet spot in your panties. One hand unclasped your bra and threw it away. He gripped your hip to pull you up in the air, his hand on the back of your head pushing your face into the mattress. Your hips try to buck to feel his cock, but he wasn't letting you get any. You whimpered a little annoyed, "Dante..."

Dante rubbed the back of your neck, his hand trailing down your spine, making every inch of your body burn. He spoke patiently, "Let me show you what I got..." His hand came down on your ass hard; it stung, and you yelped, "Ahaa!" Dante smirked; he got on his knee on the floor to smother his face in your panty-clad pussy, and he took a long sniff. He loved your scent. His sharp nose poking your sweet cunt. You moaned as he hooked a finger in your panties to push it aside and lick you slowly and shortly. It was like a kitten lick, your legs trembling...you cursed, "Fuck...!" You were flustered to your chest as he started to fuck your little hole with his tongue and alternated by licking broad stripes along your folds. You came on his tongue in no time.

Dante sucked on your puffy clit to draw your orgasm more; you were a whimpering and crying mess, "Dante...Dante...fuck...baby...you're so good..."

Dante stood up... Pulling down your panties to spank you more, you yelped again. He smirked; he loved the way you jolted.

He smiled, "Loving it, baby?" You nodded your head, "Yes, baby...use protection..." Dante nodded, "I intended to..."

Dante retrieved a condom from the pocket of his discarded coat. You smirked, looking back at him as he ripped the foil open and rolled it onto his cock. "You were prepared..." Dante smiled as he rubbed his cockhead slow and torturous to your entrance, "Well...when you're irresistible like me...you have to..."

You laughed but moaned as he filled you to the brim with no mercy. You were aware it might be a stretch and burn given how big he was, but fuck, he was splitting you open. Dante knew you could handle it; he gripped your hips, pulling back all the way out, just leaving his tip in and slamming back in with full force. You moaned loudly and drooled; he knew he had found your sweet spot, and he kept thrusting at the same pace, hitting the same right spot. You cried as Dante held both your wrists in one hand to arch your back, hitting deep and hard. He spoke, not even breaking a sweat. You couldn't see him, but you were sure he had that stupid grin on his face, "liking it rough, strong baby?"

You drooled, "Loving it...yes! Yes!" Dante knew you were close and slowed down...to tease you. You cried, and he set his pace back to fast again until you came all around him. Your body went limp; it was one of the best sex you had. You were satisfied, but...you felt him lifting your body up like a rag doll. He pressed your back to his chest, and he kissed your neck hard, making you cry. While one of his arms wrapped around your waist to keep you in place, his other hand was rubbing and circling your clit, two fingers parting your fold to sink you down his length, and you cried in pleasure as he used you like a rag doll, bouncing you on his cock... a pressure on your clit, and you came crashing again. You were so tired and overstimulated. You begged, "Fuck...it enough..."

Dante smirked as he deposited you on his bed and climbed over you. His hand fondling your tits, "Just one more, baby..."

You could barely protest, and he sank himself in again, pressing you into a mating press, your legs close to your tits and nails raking his back. He kept thrusting in, slow when you were close and fast when your orgasm was again building. You poor pussy was sore and abused; you were in heaven, drooling and fucked senseless. You cried, "Let me cum ...Dante." Dante kissed your lips as he buried himself deep rutting; your pussy clenched around him as you both came together.

You were limp in his sheets, your eyes shut. Dante withdrew himself, taking off the condom, tying it, and throwing it in the dustbin.

You were asleep; he didn't blame you. He maybe overdid it. He had sex again after years; he didn't mind if you stayed a bit long. He craved human warmth but thought himself too filthy to deserve it. Especially from someone as wonderful as you. But if you asked for it, he would make sure no one ever came close. He will ruin it for you forever; this is all he does, ruin everything for everybody.

Dante looked at you naked in his bed; you were soft and sweet. You tugged his heartstrings. He sat up to walk up to the bathroom and bring you a towel. He cleaned your chest and your legs and changed to the cleaned sheets. He didn't mind you staying; he was lonely after all.

Dante came downstairs to hop in for a quick shower. After a cold shower, he looked at himself in the mirror. He was ageing? Dante never knew how he would age. How much? Or how long he will live? He knew he was old. But given his quick healing and regeneration abilities, he cannot exactly slump into old age. No, even he was aware of this much biology. It needed his cell to stop dividing. But they divided and regenerated perfectly, given Vergil stabbed him just yesterday.

He remembers the little talk he and Vergil had in hell that Dante won't grow old or beyond a point. If his healing and regeneration abilities are uncompromised, he can't be old. Maybe it was just stress and depression which made Dante look older than Vergil.

Dante sighed. He changed into his Henley and sweatpants to walk out into his office. You were already on the red leather couch, wearing his t-shirt and with the pizza he ordered in your lap. You spoke with your mouth full, "Pizza again?"

He walked to you, leaned down and kissed your lips. "Yeah..." You smiled at him, "Remove your shirt..." Dante raised his eyebrow, "My! My! Demanding and hungry minx?" You smiled as he removed his shirt, and you stood up to check his back, no traces of your nails; you had just dug them in an hour ago in his back.

You sat back. Dante noticed the lack of hickeys and bite marks on your neck as well. You both looked at each other. You broke the silence, "How old are you?" Dante laughed, "Umm…let's see...near my mid-forties..." You frowned, "Be honest; I know you can heal...you don't have to hide it..."

Dante was confused. "Yeah...but I'm telling you the truth..." You spoke scoffing, "C'mon! I remember seeing you in London; it was the year 1875! My memory is clear as day!" Dante shouted; he was baffled, "What!? What are you talking about...1875!"

You nodded, "Yeah, you regenerate and heal just like me! That's why you cannot die! You're immortal, just like me!" Dante blinked. "Yeah...I do...but...I'm not like you! 1875! How old are you?"

You sank into the couch; you blew your cover, if you knew anything. It was how important it was to conceal...you blew your 2000-year-old perfect cover. Because you followed your heart, what an idiot! You looked at him, "I think I need my pills!" Dante looked at you unsure, "Pills…?" You laughed, "Yeah, pills, I have these episodes! You see, I have a medical condition...I will just take clothes and go!" You were making your way to the door, but Dante stopped you, holding your arm. "Okay, you can keep your clothes; just let me go."

By now, you can see all the Devil Arms this man has and his reputation. You were sure you were not a match for him. Of course, you won't go down without a fight. But such a man is someone you would rather not be enemies with.

Dante looked at you concerned, "You can tell me." His eyes were soft and deep, like he saw himself as a freak of nature, in the similar way you did. They were vulnerable. You let out a sigh and started, "It's a long story..."

It was morning, and Dante was beyond confused; there were so many stories, and you two were drinking. You were drunk and laughed, "Soo...the man I saw a century ago in London...." Dante nodded, "That's right, he was my father, Sparda..." You nodded in understanding, "Son of Sparda, I see...that's why sex was so good?" Dante laughed, sipping his whisky. "Hey...those were my skills; don't pull my father into this....ewww!" You laughed, "Ewww? Listen to this! I'm glad I didn't get laid with your father back then; it would have been awkward otherwise..."

Dante covered his ears, "No! No! No!" You laughed sipping your beer, you sighed and thought, "But your mother must be something...2000 years alone, and then she made sense to him..." Dante was serious now and nodded, "Yeah...she was pretty darn amazing..."

You looked at Dante with gleaming eyes, "You're amazing too..." Dante shook his head, "Not more than you, Miss 2K..." You laughed and swatted his arm, "That was so bad!" You both laughed. And now you were yearning to find what Sparda found.

With time, Dante and you paired on missions. You both can take as many hits and casualties. You both came to understand each other in ways. No one can...you can understand that Dante is immortal, just like you, unless he is killed through some extreme means. He isn't dying. If he can heal and regenerate. He isn't getting any older. Or so you wanted to believe.

No matter how deeply or conveniently you loved someone. There was always a pain in your heart, a sorrow that stayed.

If he was just like you, it removed so many issues you had; you were anyway falling for him more and more. He was too. You spoilt him rotten with gifts and paid bills; after all, you had all the money in the world.

You didn't know what to make of it. But Dante felt right; he felt perfect. Everything with him had so much potential. And for Dante, you were the biggest repellent to his biggest fear. You cannot die. No one can ever take you away from him, no matter how cursed he was.

It was a weird situation, a convenient arrangement which didn't need love, only companionship. But there was love, and being loved means being missed so terribly.

You were in bed with Dante, an opulent big bed with four posts and curtains draped; it felt like a room out of Versailles. Dante took his surroundings as you two were cuddling after sex and hummed, "Let them eat cake?" You laughed, "She wasn't the best or blameless, but she never said it..."

Dante was surprised. "So you were there?" You kissed his knuckles. "Yeah, but made it out of there in time... back to London."

Dante thought, "And where were you originally from?" You thought and shrugged, "I don't remember. I kept walking for the longest. I'm pretty sure after my first 'death', I was in Uruk... but where I was exactly born..." You shrugged... Dante nuzzled your shoulder and kissed your neck... "I see..."

Dante looked at the wall in front, a painting he couldn't recognise, but he was sure it was real and vintage. He spoke unsure, "I always thought... how my father walked upon this land for 2000 years...and now I met someone...who also did...what was it like?"

You thought, "You want to die for sure...like everyone else...but you also do not want to...it's weird, and then you just learn to pass by. After all...after so many years, nothing makes sense, and you understand nothing ever will. All those empires, people, and power, gone. Changed by something very similar...yet claiming to be different. It is just all a matter of ... time." You looked up at him with a smile and soft eyes.

Dante was looking around your duplex; he saw all the degrees on the wall… He thought, "Not much considering 2000 years." You laughed as you looked at those degrees as well, "Yeah...for the most part, I was a woman and not allowed in any universities, if that makes sense..." Dante nodded, "When you became a demon hunter?"

You kept looking at degrees, "Always was...just on the sidelines. Always the main business, but never the main business, if that makes sense..." Dante nodded, "It does..."

You walk down to the living room and think, your eyes looking at Dante, who was putting his guns back in his holster to leave. Your heart felt heavy, "Dante..."

He turned and looked at you, "Yeah?" You walked up to him and looked at his eyes. "I love you..." Dante was a little taken aback, not surprised but unsure. "I love you too, Y/N. But what does love even mean to you, though?" Dante always thought this, as he thought of all the lovers you had and what it amounted to. Maybe he was insecure or jealous, but in this life, he was never anything fully. He needed to be something.

You took a long sigh, holding both of his hands in yours. You looked into those icy blue eyes; you knew the answer, "Whatever it meant for your father to fall in love with your mother ...." Dante was quiet, so quiet, you weren't sure if you did the right thing. He just nodded; he had no doubt in his mind that his father loved his mother. He perished loving her.

You waited as Dante opened his mouth to speak but was quiet again. He thought, how did his mother knew if it was the right decision? Was there a right decision? Didn't she die? But he was sure she would do it again knowing she would die. So he took a chance too.

Dante kisses your lips. "Move in with me..." You kissed his back, "I will..."

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