#says he's just resting his eyes and then falls asleep

[endlessapples]

Summer's Paradise | 1 The Warmth

xia yizhou | caleb x reader

synopsis:

Waking up in a different world where you have to pretend you have amnesia to get by is one thing. Waking up in a different world where you're married to a complete stranger and have to pretend you have amnesia is another. Yet, this stranger seems to know you well. Too well. And with everything this world seems to be hiding from you, he's the only one you can bring yourself to trust. But when distrust wedges itself between you and your newfound connection with this stranger-turned-husband, you begin to doubt if you can ever find a way to leave this world and return back to yours.

tags: eventual smut, amnesia, eventual forced imprisonment, transmigration, yandere!caleb, dark!caleb, domestic fluff (weirdly enough), manipulation, themes of forceful confinement, slight angst, married!au

word count: 5.1k

When you wake up in the hospital, blearing white light fills up your vision. And when it clears, your gaze settles on a stranger sleeping on your small cot.

He’s entirely too big for the room. You can see that from the uncomfortable position he’s in, on his knees and bent over so that he can keep his head propped up on your bed. His hat, black to match the uniform he’s in and broad-capped, rests next to his feet.

And then you look down and realize that he’s clutching your hand tightly in his. Even though he’s asleep, you notice almost aimlessly that his grip is so tight that you’re almost certain blood isn’t even properly flowing to your fingers anymore. You try to wiggle your fingers. Yup, an hour more and you’d probably lose that hand.

He twitches. And then he jolts up, almost knocking his head against yours. His eyes are shockingly purple—the shade of the night sky of the last sunset of summer, right after the sun dips below the horizon.

Your mouth gapes open in shock, and you almost fall back. His reflexes are quick—before your head even dips down, he’s already caught you by your waist and settled you back down on the bed. Gently. Cautiously.

“Whoa there, Pipsqueak!” he laughs. And then concern flashes through his eyes, and his hands have reached up to cup your cheeks. His touch is slightly warm. His voice softens all of a sudden. “How are you feeling?”

You flush under his intense scrutiny. He’s really a handsome man. Pause, you mentally smack yourself, this man is a stranger and he’s in your hospital room!

Wait, why are you in a hospital room?

You remember your desk at your apartment. You had been running off of no sleep and pushing towards an all-nighter, scanning through papers and spreadsheets desperately to meet your project’s deadline. And you remember setting an alarm for a 20-minute nap. And then you fell asleep...and now you were in the hospital?

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, finally finding your voice. You crane your neck to try to move out of his grip. “Um, who are you?”

He pauses. He looks hurt, concerned, sad, and weirdly enough, almost numb to your words. He withdraws his hands from your face.

“I’m Caleb.” A smile strains onto his face, almost like it was rehearsed and repeated, at the blank expression on your face. “Xia Yizhou.”

Caleb. Xia. The characters ring with familiarity in your head for a second. And then the feeling is gone.

“I’m—,” you begin to say, but before you’ve even finished saying your name, it’s already fallen off his lips.

Weird. How did he know your name? Alarm bells are ringing in your head all of a sudden. Just because he’s a good-looking guy doesn’t mean you should be okay with him being all up in your personal space. After all, he could be a killer or a weirdo. A good-looking one at that. And you’re his next bed-bound victim.

Your gaze falls down, and you begin to notice the band-aids wrapped tightly around you. One peek down the collar of your hospital pajamas has you noticing that even your chest is wrapped with white gauze. Even underneath your sleeve, you can see the band-aids. And your palms, on closer look, there’s a scab over your healing scrapes.

“Did I get hit by a car or something?” you muttered to yourself.

The stranger—Caleb, you correct yourself in your mind—shakes his head fiercely. “You got attacked by wanderers. When you were with me. I...” He stops speaking and drops his head.

Wanderers?

You stare at him even more blankly. And then your hands fly to your mouth. Your voice comes out in a hush, as your eyes dart around anxiously: “Is this like a zombie apocalypse or something? Are they surrounding the hospital right now? Are we going to die?”

A laugh of disbelief leaves his mouth before he can stop it. And then he stops, his head raising up and his eyes squinting in confusion, and then he looks even more concerned. Were there actually zombies? At that rate, you should’ve just been left for dead. Or Undead.

“Wanderers. They’re monsters that roam around after coming to earth, and you are a hunter...,” he pauses, “were a hunter who hunted them down.”

You feel relief dawning on you for a second at the fact that zombies aren’t part of this new weird reality you had awakened yourself to and then horror dawns on you when you realize that perhaps, these wanderer monsters perhaps aren’t any better to deal with. Especially when it seems like it is...or it was your job to deal with them.

“Like, with weapons?” you whisper, in shock. He nods. You are sure the only weapon you ever wielded was pepper spray walking home at night from overtime. Hell, you often had to ask your neighbor to help you bring up the heavier packages from the mailroom to your place.

But true to his words, you can feel that you are stronger, more muscular and toned, despite being what looks like hospitalized and severely injured.

Okay, so everything is seeming much less than a caffeine-induced nightmare and more like a twisted version of your normal reality.

“So I’m not a...hunter anymore?” you speak carefully.

He stares at you, in silence. He looks like he was contemplating a hard decision. And then he shakes his head.

“No, not anymore.”

Sure, you are certain that this version of you on the outside is still very much capable of swinging some heavy sword. But the you on the inside is someone who finds public-speaking during your meetings terrifying. Much less having the courage that it takes to slay monsters.

But you still tentatively ask. “Why?”

His eyes crinkle all of a sudden. His left hand reaches out, and he fondly strokes the top of your head. You don’t find it repulsive or jarring. His touch is...familiar.

“You tell me, Pipsqueak. After all, you decided to quit after we got recently married.”

Married? You blubber at his response. Your index finger reaches out to point at him, and then back at you, and then back at him.

And then your vision goes black.

🍏🍎

When you wake up, you are hopeful that what will meet your gaze would be the black screen of your overworked laptop and a drool-covered notepad with smudged ink. But instead, you can hear hushed whispers speaking with each other.

“Amnesia...Might be long-term...Recovery unknown...”

You peek an eye open. Damn, you are still in the hospital room.

Caleb somehow immediately senses that you had awakened, and in a flash, he’s by your side with the doctor—an aging man with a couple of gray hairs in his otherwise black hair—next to him. He reaches out and pats your cheek lightly, drawing your attention up to his face.

“Look, Pipsqueak, the doctor said that I can bring you home starting next week. It looks like most of your injuries are close to being fully recovered and being home will be good for your psychological well-being and might help you remember anything.” He flashes a confident smile.

The doctor beside him nods before adding. “These cases are rare, and we don’t know if there’s a cure, but taking some time to rest more will help stabilize your body and your mind. We’ll release you once it looks like you can fly, and I can refer you to a neurologist for support.”

Caleb’s smile temporarily strains before it relaxes. You feel like it was a trick of your eyes with how subtle and quick it is. He speaks, not to you but to the doctor. “But no pressure, right? She’ll need to take it slow and then we’ll reach out to one in Skyhaven once she’s all adjusted.”

His gaze slides down to you. “Right, Pipsqueak?”

Well, until you return to your normal reality, it seems like you are stuck here. And Caleb knows you—hell, he’s married to this version of you. And the doctor doesn’t seem to question your relationship either.

You nod. Or try your best to with the stiff muscles in your neck.

It looks like you’ll just have to enjoy being married to a hot guy while you still can. Not that that will be hard. But it seems like everything else in this world will be difficult to deal with...

🍏🍎

You can’t sleep well that night in the hospital. It’s almost funny—it looks like the you of this universe has caught up with her sleep debt from her coma. Instead, you lay on your back on your bed.

Your gaze falls onto the table next to the bed. You spot a phone. Your phone.

Caleb had dropped it off by your side before he had left. “Fully charged,” he had grinned down at you. It seems like you had a phone addiction even here. He looked like he didn’t want to leave, really, but you had squinted at him earlier as he had begun to slide a chair to your bedside and gone: “Have you even changed your clothes since you’ve come here? Slept in a proper bed?” He had shamelessly averted his gaze.

You had shaken your head at him in an almost maternal disappointment and crossed your arms in front of you, grimacing. “Okay, from your uniform, it looks like you’re financially secure. Get a hotel room for the night. Take a shower. Get a change of clothes. And sleep not on the floor with my already small bed as a pillow but on an actual bed with actual pillows and an actual blanket. I don’t want even the idea of a whiff of stinky man near me for the rest of the night.”

He had looked like a kicked puppy then, and you swore you could see drooping ears and a tail on him. And even more so when he had left. He had lingered by the door, staring back at you with pitiful eyes. You had a feeling you would have given in if you looked at him any longer, so instead, you turned so your back was facing him. “Go!” you spoke fiercely. And then your voice softened. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“I’ll see you in the morning? Good night then, Pipsqueak.” He whispered, gently. And then the door closed.

Hours later, you are still awake, and your phone is taunting you from the bedside table. It looks like an exact carbon copy of your phone back in your universe. It has a cute phone case with little apple designs and an attached wallet where you had tucked in the cards you needed.

You turn it on, and it recognizes your face, letting you in. The search engines look different to the ones in your Universe, but with some exploration, you are able to take yourself to what resembles closest to the search engine you usually used.

You pause before typing in.

Wanderer.

Images of wanderers pop up, and a wiki page categorizing their types is the first link. You squint. Okay, they are scary. And dangerous. But weirdly enough, less scary than the zombies in the tv shows you sometimes watch.

You then try another search.

Hunter.

You see a link to the official Hunters Association page show up. You click on it, and the page opens up to a simple emblem. There’s a description that you quickly read, and then you close out of the page. Next, news articles about the heroic deeds of hunters pop up and you read through them.

A woman in a gray uniform pops up. Jenna, is her name. She looks familiar. Really familiar. Is she your former boss? And then you scroll down even more and even more before stopping when a title popped up out at you, dating three years back.

Meet this year’s newest hunter admits.

You see a picture of you in the crowd. It is you, but it feels different somehow. This you, dressed in what you had identified as the hunter uniform, smiles at the camera with a confident ease. She feels almost alien, even though she wears the same skin as you. Or you’re wearing the same skin as her. You immediately exit the page.

You try one more search.

Waking up in another world with a husband you don’t even know about meaning?

Nothing relevant pops up. Except for some transmigration novels recommendations you spot. Glad to know those exist here too.

 You turn off your phone in defeat and roll onto your side. Staring outside at the sliver of the night sky that your blinds don’t fully cover, you let out a sigh and close your eyes. Maybe when you wake up next, you won’t even need to worry about wanderers and hunters and broad-shouldered men in uniform with puppy-like purple eyes who look at you in ways you can’t really decipher.

🍏🍎

Caleb doesn’t leave your side for the entire week, even though you’re certain from his uniform that he’s definitely in a higher-up position in one of the however many government organizations existing here—Farspace Fleet, you confirm when you eavesdrop on him during one of the many  times he’s in the hallway grumbling on the phone with someone.

It’s almost abnormally normal how much ease you feel letting this random stranger into your life. He knows you—or this version of you—well. Every detail, from the temperature you like in your room to the type of shows that you’d like to watch on the tv to your food dislikes and likes.

When you try to discreetly pick out the veggies you don’t like for a dish, he catches you and insists you finish them. “Just because you don’t like them doesn’t mean you can avoid them. You won’t get all better without them.”

When you pretend not to hear him, he lets out a long sigh and plucks the spoon out of your own hand. “Ahh,” he hums.

You puff out your cheeks, annoyed all of a sudden. “I’m not two-years-old, Caleb. I’ll eat my veggies by myself." When you try to yank the utensil back, he leans back just out of reach.

“Uh-uh,” he tsks, poking at your cheek with a playful smile on his face, “I know what you’ll do. You’ll eat them and then try to spit them out into the napkin when I’m not noticing. Now open up.”

Yikes, how did he know?

Unfortunately for you, Caleb’s grip on the spoon is much stronger than yours, and unless you want to rely on your hands to eat your food, which seems like a bigger pain for the butt, you’ll have to settle on this approach. So you reluctantly oblige. But you notice with a pointed look the small pile of cilantro he has nudged aside on his own plate. He pretends to ignore your look and pokes the spoon to your lips.

Vegetable force-feeder aside, honestly, having Caleb around is almost like having a built-in helper robot, one that is attuned to your every need. Except instead of wires and cold metal, he’s made of hot flesh.

When you go on walks outside, he’s right behind you, watching carefully as if to make sure you won’t fall. He’s a hoverer, that’s for sure.

When you narrow your eyes at him and ask him “Do you even have enough PTO to be lurking around me like this”, he always pretends like he can’t answer the question and shamelessly changes it to a different topic.

The week passes by in a flash, with Caleb showing up the moment the sun rises and leaving back for his hotel late at night. And before you know it, you’ve become used to him. Almost too used to him.

🍏🍎

Caleb shows up early at 7am, even though he had told you the previous night that he’d be here at 8am to pick you up. You had insisted last night that he go home early—9pm sharp, in fact, instead of the usual midnight. He still looks like he hasn’t had enough sleep, and now that you’re less frazzled by your current reality, you can spot the dark circles clearly brimming underneath his eyes. Still, you mentally wolf-whistle, he’s gorgeous.

He’s back in his uniform. And before he comes near you, he tries to subtly sniff himself. Obviously, your comment about stinky men still rings loud and clear in his mind. You feel a bit sorry for him. He didn’t even stink when you had brought it up. In fact, he smelled good still. Annoyingly good.

But here you are, his supposed wife who’s not really his wife but is actually another soul who temporarily slipped into his wife’s body. But you try to assure yourself that hygiene really is the most important thing every human should prioritize.

 “Did you sleep well?” you ask. He peers up at you through his lashes, pitifully, as he helps peel the blanket off of your legs and assists you to your feet before pulling a set of clothes out of his bag. He looks like a kicked dog, and you feel a little bad at how you’ve been pushing him around.

“How can I? I’m used to you being at my side every night. And last night you didn’t even let me stay to my usual hour,” he shrugs. He unfolds the set. It’s a plain baggy t-shirt and some loose pants. When he reaches out as if he’s about to reach for the buttons of your shirt, he hesitates and drops his hands.

“You should get changed.” He takes a few steps back, until his back hits the wall of the room.

You squint at him. “Aren’t you turning your back?”

His face flushes red and then he swiftly turns around. You can see that his ears have turned a bright red. Cute. You laugh to yourself.

But he really is big. There’s not much space, and you have to keep your arms from swinging into him as you take off your pajamas and pull on the change of clothes as swiftly as possible. It’s quiet, the only sound the rustling of your clothes.

When you’re done, you poke your finger into his back. “I’m done.”

He flinches, like he’s been jolted by your touch. He turns around, and you can see that his cheeks are rosy. In the past week you’ve been with him, he hasn’t been this flustered. But maybe it’s because you’ve been in your usual baggy hospital pajamas set and messed up greasy hair. Now, you look refreshed and energized. Like a civilian instead of a sick patient.

Still, as his flush fades and he reaches to adjust the crumpled collar of your shirt, you think to yourself that it’s odd that he looks pretty comfortable touching you but not with the other way around.

You take a step back and almost wobble. It looks like despite all your perceived muscle, laying in a coma for a week without any movement has really weakened you. And your adventures out into the hospital courtyard don’t seem to be serving you that much justice in the physical movement department.

“Whoa!” you gasp out. In a flash, Caleb has swept you up onto his arm so that you’re comfortably nestled in his hold above the ground. He effortlessly holds your bag of items in the other. Unconsciously, you had reached out and wrapped your arms around his shoulders in a panic at your shift in gravity. And by the time you stabilize yourself, he’s already out of the room and in the hallway.

“You know...you’re pretty reliable and everything but uh, next time, give me a heads up?” you see the shocked expressions of the people in the hallway, including a nurse you had become familiar with in the past week, and bury your burning face into his shoulders. You knock your fist against his shoulder when he doesn’t respond, and he just laughs.

“Got it, Captain,” you can almost hear the cheeky grin in his voice, and you whack him again with your fist. But to him, it probably just feels like something barely grazing against him with the way he continues without care.

He eventually sets you down when you make it to the station. Caleb catches your look of confusion, and he provides the name. “Coelum Express. It’s not a long trip.” He then stares at your band-aids peeking out underneath your sleeves. His face twists into a frown. “I’d fly us in if I could, but security’s been tighter because of the frequency of Wanderer attacks lately. If anything starts hurting, let me know.”

You don’t like worrying him. In fact, you never liked worrying anyone. Back in your other world, when you had been sick and about to pass out, it was only your neighbor that took care of you because he had spotted you half-conscious in the stairwell. Other than that, you even refused to let your family know that you weren’t feeling well.

You wonder if a version of him exists here. He had moved in a few years back and rarely spoke to anyone. And he always wore a black mask. You couldn’t really remember if you had ever seen his face, oddly enough, but if he resembled anyone, it would have to be the big puppy of a man next to you.

You realize that Caleb is still looking at you. You shake your head free from your thoughts. “I’ll be fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

“Really,” you nudge him. “I’m a grown adult. I can handle myself. And what, it’s only a few hours?”

He reaches out and ruffles your hair. You try to duck and bat away his hands, and when you focus back on him, you can see that the smile on his face is almost rueful. “Even when you forget all about me, you don’t seem to forget that you don’t need me.”

You don’t like how bitter he looks. Something takes over you, and you run a tentative hand across his chest. Your fingers bump the silver chain around his neck—dog tags, with a small apple charm. When U Come Back. Those words sound familiar in your head again. But like with everything else about this world, the moment you try to grab onto it, it’s already dissolved.

“Caleb, I need you,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

You won’t tell him that you’re a stranger possessing the body of his wife, that the person you are in your other world is someone entirely different from the person he knows here. But it’s true. He’s the only one you know in this unfamiliar world. And you need him.

He’s staring at you in that way again. Like he’s trying to read your mind, while helplessly offering to you something you might want to read from his mind. Vulnerable, in a trance where you’re the person leading him into it and you’re also the only person who can lead him out of it.

And you know he’s seeing someone else through you.

Silver glints in your field of vision again, and you step back. You offer him an awkward smile, averting your gaze. “Come on, let’s not miss the train.”

🍏🍎

The train ride is, as Caleb says, quick. Clouds pass by you in a flash, and you stay with your face pressed up against the glass in aware. The world here, as familiar as it is in some ways, is much more high-tech than yours in other ways. Caleb doesn’t say much to you during the ride. He sits there, watching you.

Before long, the two of you are back at his place. Our place, you correct in your mind. This is the home of Caleb and the version of you that he’s married to.

It’s cozy and decorated exactly to your taste. You can see some peeks of Caleb through it—the airplane diagrams on the wall, the models neatly organized on the black shelves, and some large books with bugs on the front. Everything else though feels familiar and comfortable to you. Like Caleb, this place is catered to your every liking and taste.

He’s setting your bags down behind you as you begin to roam around. You peruse through the framed pictures set around. There’s a picture of you in a pretty white dress smiling at the camera at him. And another of the two of you with your fingers up in peace signs at the camera. You move on from the frames.

“Are you hungry? I can make something for lunch.” He throws the comment at you as you’re burying your head in the pile of throw pillows on the sofa. You peek up at him and nod your head eagerly.

He’s about to leave into the kitchen when you glance at your finger. Your ring finger.

“Hey, Caleb,” you call out. He stops in his tracks. “We’re married right? Where’s my ring?”

You’ve seen the ring on his finger. It’s a silver band with a small airplane embedded on it. And it made sense that the hospital probably took the ring off of your finger after the incident. But Caleb hadn’t even made a mention of it.

You can’t see his face when he responds, his back turned to you. “It’s getting repaired at the shop. It got damaged during the wanderer attack. It’ll be back, good as new.”

You open your mouth, about to ask something else, when the phone in his pocket beeps. Before you can say anything, he’s already turned to give you an apologetic smile as he picks up the phone and heads off into the kitchen.

When he comes out, he’s already heading to a different room. You watch him with curious eyes as he comes out, his hat in his hand.

“Shoot, it’s something urgent at the Fleet.” He walks over to you and reaches down to pat your head. “I’ll order some food to the door, and I’ll be back tonight. If you need me, call me. My number’s in your phone.”

And then he’s gone.

With Caleb away from your side during the day instead of the night, you’re once again left with your thoughts. Here you are, married, in the home of newlyweds, when the you of your world has only had your job to worry about and a practically nonexistent love life to shoo away from your mind.

You flop to your other side, grimacing a bit at the impact. You’re still bruised.

You can hear the faint ticking of a clock, but other than that, there’s nothing to stimulate your mind here. In your boredom, exhaustion creeps up on you and you fall asleep.

Your sleep is restless. You hear a loud screech echo in your ears, your feet are covered in mud as you sprint in the darkness, and you can feel the ground shaking underneath you as something behind you scrambles to catch up to you.

You’re getting tired. You know that you won’t be able to run any further before it catches up to you. And then you’re falling. Tree branches scratch at your body as you sink deeper. And then you’re in a room, confined to a chair.

Someone’s watching you. You can’t see them, but you can hear their soft breathing. You call out, demanding: “Who’s there?”

Footsteps sound in front of you. Your head whips up, and a loud gasp falls from your lips.

“Caleb?”

You jolt awake, your heart racing. A quick glance to the window next to the sofa shows that the sky is already getting dim.

The house is still silent. Caleb’s not back yet.

It isn’t until this realization that you can relax. And you feel guilt prod at you because of it.

Because this is Caleb. Familiar Caleb. Caleb who’s supposed to be your husband and has taken care of your entire need during your recovery. It’s just your mind playing tricks on you. You shake your head and get to your feet.

As you’re about to head to the front door to check on the delivery food you’re certain has already grown cold, you decide to change direction and head towards the bedrooms. It’s not until you’re in the hallway that you spot something small glinting on the floor, right in front of the large wall in the hallway.

It’s a ring. Almost identical to Caleb’s ring except it’s daintier and shaped in a way that it would fit comfortably on yours. Odd, didn’t Caleb say that this was supposed to be at the repair shop? You look closer at it, trying to figure it out even more underneath the dimming light of the setting sun.

And then you notice the faint copper on the silver.

It’s blood.

You glance up at the large wall. You reach out, just about to press your hand firmly against it, when you hear the front door open and a voice ring out.

“Where are you, Pipsqueak? You didn’t eat the delivery food?”

You quickly scoop up the ring and hide it in the pocket of your pants. Getting up, you wander back out into the living room.

Caleb’s back. He looks tired, but when he spots you, relief washes over his expression. And then his expression turns slightly cold. “What have you been doing until now?”

You can feel the weight of the ring in your pocket. But you try to forget about it, not when Caleb seems to have a sixth sense in detecting your lies, and you seem to not have that same sixth sense for detecting his lies. Even now, you can’t tell if he’s hiding something from you. You don’t like to think that he is. After all, he’s the only one you have here that you can trust.

“I fell asleep on the couch, and when I woke up just now, I tried to find the bathroom.” You shrug. “And I got lost.”

He relaxes a little. “It’s in our bedroom. The first door in the hallway. Since you didn’t eat anything today and I didn’t either, I’ll make something. It’s not good to eat delivery food left out after all.”

You nod, almost mindlessly. When you turn to find your way to the bathroom, because really you did have to go use it, you don’t even notice that he’s still standing there, his eyes not leaving you.

A/N: it's been a while since I've written fanfic for any fandom, so I hope it isn't too rusty!! Let me know your thoughts/theories about what's going on with Caleb and why you're in this new world (where's the other you/).

You can also find this published on AO3 as well under my user applesanonymous :) but both shouldddd be published at the same time!

[augustwinesworld]

𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

What if your eyes looked up and met mine one more time?

description: 

pairing: dr. michael robinavitch x female ob/gyn attending! reader

genre: hidden pregnancy…maybe? age gap (michael late 40s, reader mid 30s), female reader.

notes: i love this so much it’s insane

word count: 2.9 k

extra: moodboard | playlist | ☆:**:. 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 .:**:.☆ 

Feel free to #𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 (◕‿◕✿) *:･ﾟ✧ if you have any scenarios in mind! I might not write everything but I’ll respond to everyone.

series masterlist: 𝐢 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐞𝐨𝐩𝐥𝐞'𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐬

ten years ago…

The city was still asleep when he closed the door behind him.

No one saw him leave—not the landlord, not the neighbor who always smoked on her balcony, not the woman he loved, still asleep down the hall with the bedroom door cracked open just enough for the light to spill in.

Robby stood in that silence for a long minute, the chill from the hallway seeping into his bones like penance. Then he turned the key in the lock and walked away.

The air outside was the kind that burned in your lungs.

Pittsburgh was cold in the fall, but this was the kind of cold that made everything sharper—clearer. Unforgiving.

His bag was slung over his shoulder, his steps steady but slow, like maybe the weight of what he was doing hadn’t settled in yet. Or maybe it had, and he was just trying not to feel it.

He didn’t take a cab. He walked the ten blocks to the station with his hands in his pockets and his jaw clenched tight.

The city was gray and heavy, the sky the color of steel, and every street corner felt like it might shout her name back at him if he let his mind wander too far.

He had written her a note. It was short. Too short.

Something about needing to go. About not being who she thought he was. About not being enough.

He hadn't signed it.

He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. Less to untangle.

She wouldn’t have to look him in the eye and see the mess of a man too afraid to stay. She wouldn’t have to see him crack apart under the weight of what he couldn’t say: I love you, but I don’t know how to deserve you.

Because that was the truth, wasn’t it?

He loved her. God, he loved her so much it made everything inside him ache. But love wasn’t always enough, and he was already unraveling—already halfway gone in ways that scared him.

She had plans. She had brightness. She talked about future things like they were inevitable—like there was a place in them carved out for him. Like he belonged.

Michael didn’t know how to belong.

And she—she kissed him like she believed he’d always come back.

He left like he knew he never would.

He remembered the way she’d pulled him close the night before, bare legs around his hips, her breath soft and warm against his skin. She kissed him like the world was still safe.

Like it was forever. Like it was just the two of them in that tiny apartment and the future didn’t scare her. She whispered something against his collarbone—something like don’t go far, something like see you in the morning—and he’d shut his eyes so tight it hurt.

She kissed him like she believed in him. And it broke something in him, because he didn’t.

After, she curled up against him and fell asleep fast, trusting him to stay.

He spent the whole night awake beside her.

Watching the ceiling. Watching her chest rise and fall. Memorizing the shape of her hand resting on his chest like she was anchoring him to something good. Something real.

And then, right before the sun came up, he kissed her on the forehead, like that could make up for everything he didn’t have the courage to say. He got up without a sound, packed only what he needed, left the note on the kitchen counter where she’d find it after coffee.

At the station, he stood on the platform with a coffee in one hand and guilt in the other. The train was delayed. Of course it was. The universe was cruel like that.

He didn’t cry. Not really. But his chest hurt in that splintered, hollow way grief lives in.

If she had woken up…

If she had asked him to stay…

He didn’t know what he would’ve done.

But she didn’t. And he left. He let the train carry him away from the only thing that had ever felt like home, trying to convince himself he was doing the right thing.

He never turned around.

And he never saw the light flick on in the apartment just moments after the train pulled away.

He never saw her wake up, heart hammering, reaching for the empty space beside her.

He didn’t see the light flick on in the apartment just minutes after the train pulled away.

Didn’t see her reach across the bed for him, only to find cold sheets and silence.

Didn’t see her walk barefoot into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes, only to stop short at the note waiting for her like a knife on the counter.

She read it once. Then again. And again, like maybe the words would change if she stared long enough.

They didn’t.

And the life she thought she was building—the one she’d let herself believe in, with the man she’d trusted enough to love without hesitation—cracked down the middle, quiet and sharp.

There was no warning. No fight. No goodbye. Just an empty bed, and a note, and the sound of something breaking that she couldn’t name.

He didn’t know what she looked like in that moment.

Didn’t know the way she slid to the floor, back to the counter, note crumpled in her hand, trying to breathe around the hollowed-out space where he used to be.

He didn’t see her cry.

All he knew was that he had left.

And he hated himself for it.

five years later…

Michael hadn’t meant to come.

He told himself it was just dinner. Just a few familiar faces. Just something to fill the silence that had started to feel like its own kind of punishment.

It wasn’t nostalgia, not exactly. Nostalgia required sweetness, and he’d scraped most of that out of himself years ago.

But the invitation had come anyway—some old friend from undergrad, or med school, or residency, someone he hadn’t seen in years but still had enough of his email to keep him tethered.

“Come by if you’re in town,” it said. “It’s been forever.”

It had been forever.

And Michael—idiot that he was—had found himself driving across the city through the soft December dusk, half hoping the offer had expired by the time he arrived.

Pennsylvania never changed much. It was gray and clumsy in the winter, still bitter enough to make your bones ache if you didn’t move fast enough. The streets were slick with slush. The streetlights glowed gold on the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, carolers sang just off-key.

But the house? The house was warm.

Not just in the literal sense—with its firelight flickering behind windows, the sharp glow of a chandelier, the steam rising from pots in the kitchen—but warm in the way that made your chest hurt.

Laughter spilled from the porch. Music floated through the cracks in the windows. He could see the silhouettes of coats being shrugged off, cheeks kissed, wine poured.

He parked across the street and left the engine running.

He told himself he just needed a minute. Just a minute.

And then—he saw her.

Through the window. Like a movie he had no right to watch.

She was wearing soft pink, not scrubs but something casual and delicate, like the inside of a seashell. Her hair was up. A few strands curled against her neck, the way they used to when she rushed from the shower and didn’t have time to dry it all the way.

She looked older—but in the kind of way that hurt, because it meant time had passed without him. Because it meant she had kept living while he had buried himself alive.

She was talking to someone, laughing. There was a wine glass in her hand. A freckle he remembered just barely visible near her collarbone. When she smiled—God, when she smiled—it twisted something in his ribs.

He should’ve left. Should’ve never come.

But instead, he sat there, drowning in it.

In her.

It had been five years.

Five years since he left.

Five years since she kissed him like she believed he’d come back.

And he had left like he knew he never would.

That last night haunted him. The way she had wrapped herself around him like she was memorizing him. The softness of her lips, trembling just slightly. The way her hands had lingered against his back, as if she could keep him there by sheer will.

She had whispered, “See you in the morning,” into the curve of his neck, her voice barely audible, casual like it meant nothing at all.

And he had kissed her like he believed he could make that true.

But it was like she knew what was coming, on some deeper level. Like her body had braced for it before her mind could catch up.

There was no morning for them. Not after that.

No safety. No stability. No staying.

He had packed too fast. Left without enough. Told himself it was better this way—for her, for them. That she deserved more than someone already half-destroyed.

It hadn’t mattered. It had broken her anyway.

It had broken him.

He looked away from the window, throat tight. A dog barked somewhere nearby. He couldn’t breathe.

Michael reached for the door handle.

Just do it, he told himself. Go in. Say hello. Apologize. Pretend to be someone who deserved to walk through that door.

But then he looked up again—just as she turned, laughed, leaned against the counter like she belonged there—and everything in him stalled.

Because she did belong there.

She looked happy. Or at least… okay. Stable. Surrounded by light and warmth and people who hadn’t vanished when things got hard. What right did he have to walk back in now, five years too late?

None. Absolutely none.

He dropped his hand from the door.

And drove away.

He didn’t see her turn back toward the living room.

Didn’t see the small boy—curly-haired, pajama-clad—pad over and raise his arms.

Didn’t see her scoop him up and nuzzle her nose into his cheek like it was the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

Didn’t see the boy giggle, and press his hand to her face, and whisper something that made her laugh even harder.

He didn’t see any of it.

All he saw was her silhouette, soft and golden, disappearing behind curtains as he turned the corner and left her behind again.

He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. Safer.

He told himself she had moved on. That she didn’t need him. That he didn’t need her.

But as the city lights blurred past his windshield, as the ache in his chest settled deeper, more permanent—

Michael knew he was still lying.

To her. To himself. And to whatever part of him that still woke up some nights thinking she was there.

present day…

There was a rhythm to emergency.

You breathed in crisis. Bled urgency. Learned to function in the eye of the storm.

And Dr. Robby had made a home in the storm.

That morning had been like any other. Fast. Messy. Loud.

A cardiac arrest. A teen with a bullet in his shoulder. An elderly woman with a stroke mid-grocery run. The ER moved like it always did: fast and fractured.

Until it didn’t.

Until everything stopped.

The moment he heard her voice.

“Move! He’s crashing—give me the crash cart, and get respiratory down here, now!”

He froze mid-step, the trauma form in his hand suddenly weightless.

That voice. Familiar. Unshakable.

He turned toward the chaos at trauma bay two—and there she was.

Pink salmon scrubs stained with something dark. Her hair half pulled back, half falling out. Her hands fluttering between the boy on the gurney and the nurse trying to get a BP cuff on.

And her eyes—God, her eyes. Were wild, terrified.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

Not in this city. Not in this hospital. Not on this day.

She was yelling something about sats. Chest pain. A fall.

“He got hit—he was riding to school and some jackass blew through the stop sign—he wasn’t moving, he was cyanotic, I couldn’t find a pulse—so I just started compressions, I didn’t wait for the ambulance—”

Her voice cracked. “I was right next to him and I didn’t react fast enough, fuck—I should’ve seen it coming, I should’ve grabbed him—”

Someone—Whittaker, already gowned up—stepped in beside her. “We’ve got him now. You have to step back, let us work.”

“He’s my son.”

The words cracked something in him.

The boy. Robby saw him clearly now. Pale. Unconscious. A small bruise blooming across his temple. Dark lashes stuck together from oxygen tubing, blood, and sweat.

He couldn’t look away.

Because something inside him twisted hard—like recognition, like guilt, like some ancient ache that had been sleeping for ten years and woke up screaming.

The boy looked like her. Same cheekbones. Same curve of the jaw. Even the soft dip in his left cheek, like it had been sculpted by memory. But the eyes—

They were closed now, but when they’d fluttered open briefly under the lights—

Brown.

Not hazel, not green. Not hers.

His.

It was a stupid thing to fixate on, maybe. But in that split-second, his brain flooded with it. The timeline. The math. Ten years since he left. The kid—what, eight? Nine?

The breath Robby took didn’t make it to his lungs. It caught somewhere deep in his chest, behind his ribs, sharp and sudden like broken glass.

He took a step back without realizing it, hand coming up like he might need to steady himself on something, anything. The edge of the trauma board. The counter. The wall.

He felt the air shift beside him before he heard the voice.

Dana.

She didn’t say anything right away. Just appeared at his side like she always did when things went sideways—silent, sharp, steady. Her eyes flicked from the boy to Robby’s face and back again.

“You okay?” she asked quietly, too low for anyone else to hear.

Robby didn’t answer.

Didn’t know how to.

Because his mind was spiraling now. Backward. Forward. In every direction at once.

She hadn’t seen him yet. She didn’t know he was there. But that didn’t stop the crash. The sound of her voice cracked through him like a whip, and now this—this kid, with her face and his eyes—it was too much.

“I think—” he tried, then stopped. Swallowed hard.

Dana gently guided him toward the side wall, just out of the direct chaos. “Just breathe for a second. I’ve got it. I’ve got eyes on the board.”

“I need—” he started again, but his throat closed up.

“Hey,” she said, softer now. “It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. It was anything but.

Because standing there, watching that boy fight for breath, watching her fight like hell to keep him here, Robby felt everything he had buried start to claw its way to the surface.

The weight of the note he left.

The sound of the train pulling away.

The memory of her asleep, the light spilling into the room, her hand on his chest like she was anchoring him.

He’d thought that version of himself was dead. Buried under work and years and choices he couldn’t take back.

But now—now it was like the past had ripped itself open and demanded he look.

The room blurred for a second. He blinked hard. Tried to focus.

He heard her voice again, still panicked.

“Why the hell aren’t we intubating?! He needs to be intubated!”

Whittaker again, calm and unmoved. “He’s stable enough to scan. You can come with us if you stay out of the way.”

A voice behind his left shoulder now—one of the paramedics.

“She brought him in herself. Collapsed on the street. She didn’t wait for the ambulance—drove like a maniac to get him here. Said she didn’t trust the timing.”

He still hadn’t moved.

The whole world had narrowed to the sound of her breath, the strain in her voice, the way her hand shook as she pushed hair from the boy’s forehead.

Then—quiet. A new voice. Softer. Dana again, back in the room now.

“He’s going to be okay. He’s stable. We’ve got him.”

She exhaled for the first time.

Just once. Then pressed a hand to her chest like she needed to physically hold herself together.

And that’s when someone said her name.

Soft. Familiar.

The sound of it—her name—snapped Robby out of whatever fog he’d been standing in.

That was all it took.

He moved.

Through the flurry of techs and doctors. Past Mohan adjusting the IV, past Whittaker calling out a page to peds. His footsteps were too loud, or maybe the whole room had just gone silent when he stepped in.

She turned at the sound of her name.

And saw him.

For the first time in ten years.

The recognition hit like a punch. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… undeniable.

Her face went still.

Not surprised. Not angry.

Just raw.

As if she’d been bracing for this moment for years without knowing it.

He opened his mouth. Didn’t even know what he was going to say.

All that came out was her name.

And everything else fell away.

© AUGUSTWINESWORLD : no translation, plagiarism, or cross posting.

[mintyys-blog]

Hi Minty!

I was wondering if you could do a fic about a human reader girlfriend x Mark but she doesn’t know he’s invincible and somehow finds out

BLISS | mark grayson x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST | WARNINGS:

The world was ending.

Okay—not ending, but it felt like it as the building you were in shuddered beneath your feet, the walls cracking like eggshells. You didn’t even have time to scream before the floor dropped beneath you. Wind roared in your ears, your heart pounded—and then you weren’t falling.

You were in someone’s arms.

The grip was strong, the movement fast—but smooth. Your body trembled against a firm chest, and the air smelled like smoke and ozone. You looked up. The figure in front of you was silhouetted by the sun, cape flapping in the wind, goggles covering his eyes.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

But it was the voice that made your blood run cold. You knew that voice.

“Y-Yeah,” you said, blinking up at him. You tried to play it cool, but your hands betrayed you, slowly moving along his chest and arms, like you were searching for proof—maybe even hoping you were wrong.

The figure—Invincible—blushed. “Um… ma’am?” he asked, flustered.

You stopped instantly. “Sorry.”

He gently lowered you to the ground, still flustered, giving you one last worried glance before shooting back into the sky. You watched him go, your mind racing.

That voice. That nervous tone. That little awkward cough. Mark.

You stood there for a long time, dumbfounded, staring at the sky like you were trying to piece together a puzzle that had been sitting in front of you the whole time.

He’s Invincible.

All those nights he showed up late, covered in bruises. All the missed calls. All the vague excuses.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to cry. Instead, you walked home in a daze.

When you got back to your apartment, your emotions crashed into each other like waves. Embarrassment for not seeing it sooner. Guilt for the times you yelled at him��accused him of being distant, careless. And beneath all of that… pride.

He was saving lives. Every day. While you were mad he missed a dinner reservation.

You glanced toward the kitchen.

If he was coming over tonight like he said, maybe you could start making things right.

You tied your hair back, rolled up your sleeves, and started cooking his favorite meal. The real kind—warm and comforting. Something that said I see you now. I get it.

When he walked through the door, he looked exhausted.

“Hey, babe,” he said, forcing a smile. “Sorry I’m late again—”

You cut him off gently. “It’s okay. Come sit down.”

Mark blinked, surprised. “You’re… not mad?”

You handed him a plate. “No. I just thought you could use something warm.”

He sat, eyes softening, and took a bite. “This is my favorite.”

“I know.”

He looked at you, then back down at his plate. “You okay?”

You smiled, sitting beside him, resting your chin in your palm as you watched him eat. “I am now.”

You didn’t say it out loud yet. You weren’t ready. But you would be.

He saved you today.

And tonight, in this quiet little apartment, you were saving him back—in the small, human way you could.

The night settled in warm and gentle. You’d stayed tangled in the sheets with Mark, your bodies pressed close, hearts still beating in a quiet rhythm neither of you had to say out loud. He’d fallen asleep quickly, exhaustion finally catching up to him.

But you couldn’t stop watching him. The soft curve of his lips. The way his lashes touched his cheeks. The faint bruises on his collarbone already beginning to fade. He looked so human like this. So fragile for someone who could fly through the sky and hold up crumbling buildings.

Morning sunlight leaked through the blinds, streaking across his bare shoulders. You kissed his jaw, featherlight, letting your lips trail across the warmth of his skin.

Mark stirred, a sleepy groan escaping his throat. One eye cracked open, and then the other. He blinked up at you, dazed and smiling. “Hey…”

You just kissed him again—slow, lingering—and ran your fingers through his messy hair.

“…Okay,” he said, voice low and groggy, “what is up with you?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I mean—don’t get me wrong—” He reached up and brushed your cheek with a thumb, gaze amused and curious. “I love the special attention, but… what caused it?”

You hesitated.

The warmth in your chest gave way to nerves. You looked away, tucking your face into the crook of his neck for a second. He waited, patient, but his arm around your waist pulled you closer, grounding you.

“I know,” you said finally. “I know you’re Invincible, Mark.”

His entire body stilled.

You could feel the sharp breath he took, how his hand tensed ever so slightly against your hip.

“I realized it when you saved me,” you whispered. “The voice… the way you held me. I wasn’t sure at first. But then I was.”

Silence.

“I felt… stupid, honestly,” you admitted. “For not figuring it out sooner. And then selfish. For all the times I yelled at you for being late, or distant, or for disappearing. You weren’t blowing me off—you were saving the world.”

You looked up at him finally, tears stinging your eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mark. I didn’t know. And I can’t imagine how heavy all of this must be for you. I just… I wanted to make it up to you. Even just for a night.”

Mark stared at you like his heart was breaking and mending all at once.

Then he kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Full of something that felt like relief.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he murmured. “I was scared. I didn’t want to lose you. I thought if you knew, you’d look at me differently. Like… I was someone else.”

“I don’t,” you whispered. “You’re still Mark. You’re my Mark.”

A silence bloomed between you, but it was a soft one. Safe. Then, he cracked a crooked smile. “I knew something was up when you started feeling me up mid-rescue.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Shut up.”

Mark grinned, curling closer to you under the covers. “Never. Not when you look at me like that.”

You held him tight, and this time, you both felt seen. No masks. No lies. Just Mark and you.

[mywritersmind]

TROUBLE - LN4 part two

previous part

og summary : Trouble comes in many forms, for Lando Norris, it comes in the shape of his teammates sister. A week at Oscars brings more temptation and impulse than any other start to a season.

summary : A day that was supposedly for Lando and his sight seeing turns into a day full of holding back touches, fast car rides, water fights, and his hand on hers.

listen up : i don’t know anything abt cars so don’t come for me if i said smt wrong abt the mclaren F1. dirty jokes. dual pov! comment to be on taglist!

words : 4082

⋆｡‧˚⋆

lando

I wake up to hushed voices outside my door. I practically roll out of bed, seeing that it’s five in the morning and moving to the door, still half asleep.

When I open it, I expect it to be Oscar with Lily or maybe even Nicole- what I don’t expect is a random man I've never seen, grinning down at Y/n.

She has her arms crossed and stops whispering when she sees me. She steps away from him, the man turning to look at me now. Y/n doesn’t say anything, just grabs his arm and tugs him down the hallway.

I watch her go, her hair a mess and her body barely covered by her sleep set. I blink, still confused and honestly too nosy to not get answers.

She’s back a minute later, shaking her head, “Don’t say a thing.”

I shrug, watching her run her hands over her face, “I wouldn’t dare.”

Then we’re both quiet, neither of us moving and a smirk growing on my face. She gives in easily, stomping her foot and groaning quietly, “He’s my ex. And neighbor.”

“That’s… fun.”

“No. It’s idiotic!” She leans against the wall, frowning still, “You can’t tell anyone. Oscar would freak if he saw him.”

This makes me stand up straighter, “Why?”

“He may or may not have broken my heart… long story.” She sighs, closing her eyes before turning fully towards me again, “And we didn’t do anything!”

I smile, “I believe you.”

“He just- wanted to ‘talk’.” She puts finger quotes over the word ‘talk’. “I shouldn’t have let him in.”

My eyes narrow, not judging her, just assessing her emotions. “But you did…?”

She looks at me as if I slapped her, “Go back to sleep, Lando.” I don’t think she’s ever said my first name before. “Sorry for waking you.”

“Don’t worry-” My alarm goes off on my phone at the perfect moment, “I’m getting up to run, anyway.”

She nods, still looking tired but angsty, crossing her arms. I hesitated before saying, “Wanna come?”

I know I shouldn’t have said it the second she looks at me. Her eyes curious and way too distracting. “Really?”

“Why not?”

“Not like I'm gonna get any sleep after that.” She shivers as if she’s remembering the image of him in her room, “Okay. I’ll see you out front in ten.”

⋆༺

you

When accepting Lando’s offer to join him on his morning exercise, I forgot one thing.

I cannot run.

I’m out of breath and sweaty, falling onto the couch as Lando actually LAUGHS at me! “I think I'm dying.” I mumble, feeling like i’ve just ran a 10k.

“You don’t exercise much, do you?” He walks around the couch, a smoothie in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

I scoff, “Excuse you!” He hands me the water, something so simple but very sweet to me. I chug that shit, making my breath even more ragged, “Why would I!?”

He smiles, sitting down next to me and resting his arm on the back of the couch, “Well usually when you exercise, you tend to get better at specific things. If you start running everyday you won’t look like you’ve just crawled out hell-”

I hit him with a pillow, my skin on fire even in my tight shorts and sports bra. “Fuck you.” I whisper, standing up and walking into the kitchen so he doesn’t see me smile.

“Do you know what we’re doing today?” Lando looks back at me, watching me fill my water.

“Apparently I'm showing you around? I’m not sure.” I shrug, plopping a few ice cubes into my glass, “Lily and Oscar wanted to go to the beach so maybe that too-”

Oscar walks in then, his eyes tired as he yawns and waves weakly at me, “Speak of the devil.” I mumble as he glares at me.

“Good Morning to you my amazing and wonderful sister.” He grins at me, now I know he wants something.

“Pancakes?” I ask, knowing my brother too well.

“Favorite sister.” He ruffles my hair as I push him away. He turns and stops dead in his tracks. I realize that he must have just spotted Lando, the brit watching our sibling antics quietly.

“What’re you doing?” He asks, turning back to me and eyeing my outfit.

“We went for a run.” Lando says casually, bringing his straw to his lips.

“You got her up this early to… run?” Oscar asks skeptically as I understand that he’s not just shocked that I ran, but that I ran with Lando.

“I was already up.” I try to diffuse the tension I know is coming, “Trying to clear my find and stuff.” I pull the ingredients out of the cabinet and fridge, biting my tongue.

“Right…” Oscar shakes his head, seemingly letting it go and joining Lando on the couch. As Oscar scrolls through the TV, Lando glances back at me, not giving me a smile or anything before turning back to his teammate.

I turn to the stove, my eyes wide and cheeks red. This is going to be a long week.

⋆༺

lando

“What do you mean, you’re not coming?” I ask Oscar as he pushes past me to grab Lily’s bag.

“Lily just killed her foot-” He says, looking more worried than i’ve ever seen him, “I’m taking her to the hospital.”

Y/n walks in with Lily next to her, her hand around her waist as Lily’s arm is over her shoulder. She’s limping with a pained look on her face, “Shit. I can come- I’ll drive.”

“No it’s fine!” Lily says quickly, “I’ll be fine. You two can just go explore. You should have fun.”

Y/n looks from me to Oscar, “Lily we can come with you it’s really not a prob-”

“No!” She moves away from Y/n, hopping to Oscar who wraps his arm around her, “Just- send me pictures!” And with that, they’re gone.

Y/n looks at me, blinking. Nicole hurries back inside, shutting the door, “That boy I swear…”

“Mom, do you want to come with us today? Lily won’t be back for a while and you should-”

“I’ve gotta work, love.” She explains, “Take Lando to all the touristy spots!”

Y/n turns on her heels, looking at me skeptically, “So… what do you want to do first?”

⋆༺

you

What do you do when you’re tasked with exploring your home town with a man you’ve known for one day and are extremely attracted to?

In my mind, you take him to the best place for him to get as shirtless as possible… the beach! Even though my mom said that wasn’t good enough, I’ve been craving the water.

I still bring him there, how could I not!? Best beaches in Australia are right in my hometown. He’s probably all sad and broody from grey Britain anyway!

I know I already saw Lando shirtless yesterday, but this… this is different.

Tanned, wet, sandy, AND shirtless. His curls are wet and I'm pretty sure a smile is permanently drawn onto his face. He plops down next to me, music blasting from a speaker a couple people down.

“I love the sun.” He mumbles into the towel, sitting up and unknowingly flexing his arms. I breathe in and look back at the water.

“I can tell. I’m jealous. I wish I got as tan as you.” I flick sand onto him as he rolls onto his back. He’s in blue and reminds me a bit too much of prince eric.

“Yeah you might wanna sunscreen up.” He teases, pressing my arm as if I'm bright red! I do not burn that easily, thank you!

I scoff as he tosses the bottle at me, “Fuck off!” I grab it, “You wanna put it on me?” my manner changes in an instant, seeing an opportunity and taking it.

His tooth catches on his lip as he nods. I smile and hand him the bottle gently. Ah, men… So easy to manipulate. So easy to trick.

I move my hair from my back slowly, but the second I hear the bottle unlatch, I spin around and grab it, squeezing it onto him.

“Trouble!” He yells, the sunscreen on his chest and splattered onto his face. I’m running away before he can even open his eyes again. “Get back here!”

I run straight into the water, diving under the first wave and regretting it as soon as his hand meets my ankle. He tugs me back as I come back up for air, his hands fully white and coming straight for me. “No!” I scream, trying to swim away, but his hand is on my waist and smearing the sunblock all down my arm.

“Cunt!” I yell louder, shoving him under water. He pops back up, coughing and laughing.

“You’re so dramatic!” His hands are clean now, shaking out his wet curls onto me.

“You basically called me pale!” I argue, laying back in the water and catching my breath, “I reacted like a sane woman.”

“Nothing about you is sane.” He dunks his head again. I watch him go under and match him, not being able to see him in the salt water but feeling him there.

“You’re the one who fell for it.” I shrug, not forgetting the want in his eyes.

He shakes his head, sinking into the water again so I can only see his head and shoulders, “I’m understanding the trouble thing more and more...”

I can’t help but smirk, “Good thing you can handle it.” Him. The dim kitchen light. The ice cream. His fucking eyes never leaving mine.

“You want me to handle you?” This, surprises me.

He’s matching me quicker than I expected.

I just smile and swim to shore, “Come on, Norris! We’ve got plans!”

Like I said, my mom said the beach wasn’t enough ( even though it’s only his first day here! ) so we took Oscar’s Mclaren and booked it to Fitzroy market.

Lando said he likes shopping and my favorite place to do it is here! The area is crowded with people in way cooler outfits than me and vendors with tons of vintage items.

Lando and I are still in beach wear. He’s in all black, probably baking in the sun but looking ridiculous in a shirt with cutoff sleeves and backwards hat, a camera slung around his neck.

I gravitate to some vintage juicy couture while Lando is on the rack over looking at jerseys. The woman working the booth grins when she sees me. “Y/n! My girl!” She hops over to me, side stepping the others around, “How’ve you been!?”

“Mitch!” I grin right back at her, “Better than ever, babe, i’m out of school!” She laughs, her full head of curls bouncing with her. “How are you!? Business is booming, I see!”

“Amazing! Broke up with Jonah too…” She looks down, her glasses shading her eyes for a second before she pops right back up, “But fuck him!”

“Fuck him!” I join in.

“Yeah, Fuck him.” Says a deeper voice. Jonah comes walking up behind Mitch, wrapping an arm around her before she has the chance to push him away.

“Hey, J.” I roll my eyes at him, respecting his role in Mitch’s life but definitely not the way he dated her.

“Hey.” Mitch sways my arm, leaning in a bit and lowering her voice, “Who’s the hottie?”

I glance back to my companion for the day, he’s holding up a jacket at the booth over and talking to the guy who runs it. “That is Lando…” I turn back to them.

“Boy toy?” Jonah raises a brow as I shake my head.

Not yet.

“Boyfriend?” Mitch looks so shocked that It makes me laugh.

“No! Boy i’m showing around today.” I clarify, “And someone I should probably go after before he gets lost.”

Mitch and Jonah nod, both knowing the extreme confusion one can get into at the market. I kiss Mitch on the cheek and wave goodbye to both of them.

When I turn around, Lando is handing money over to the man and smiling when he sees me. There’s that smile again.

He swings the bag in his hand as we walk away, “You come here often?” The curly haired man glances back at my friends.

“Maybe too much.” I shrug, “Mostly because Mitch carries the best shit ever.”

“Oh yeah?” He nods, “I heard you two talking… what’s up with the tall one?” I laugh when he refers to Jonah.

“They’re… a lot. Soulmates? Maybe. But definitely not meant for eachother. You know? At least, not right now.”

He scrunches up his nose, “I don’t know.”

“They love each other and stuff but Jonah needs to get his life together. All we can do is help Mitch get over him and pray that we don’t end up like them.” It sounds mean, but the two really are in a situation that I would hate.

“Shit.” He nods as we turn into a booth with a million shoes, “I had something like that once.”

This makes me turn to him suddenly, “Yeah?”

“Without the soulmates part… I think I may have been Jonah in that situation. Thank fuck it’s over, though. The girl was not as nice as Mitch.” I nod and smile at his use of my friends love life, “What do you think of these?”

The conversation switches to a horrendous pair of sneakers he’s holding up, “Oh babe… no.” I make him put them back and drag him to the correct section.

He’s like my own barbie doll! One that can talk and definitely bite back.

I knew I would lose Lando in this godforsaken place! I’m in too deep and have three bags in my hands.

I walk around to find him, possibly getting distracted by all the pretty things, but settling my eyes on him once again at a plant shop.

He’s in the corner talking to two girls and a guy, looking a bit shy and way too hot in his backwards cap. I watch him for a second, weaving through the people and walking across some shops.

He finds me pretty fast, it’s probably due to the all white i’m wearing in a sea of colorful button downs and denim. I can see him excusing himself and hurrying over to me, “You left me.”

I laugh, “I lost you!”

He shakes his head and starts walking away, “Sorry prissy, I forgot I'm babysitting you.”

He shakes his head, smiling back at me, “I got cornered by fans.”

“Better than me being there and having rumors spread on twitter of your ‘possible new girl’.” I laugh and walk out of the crowd, the sun hot on us and making me crave a cool drink.

He laughs at this, “You wish.”

I scoff, turning back to face him, “I can leave your ass in the middle of melbourne, you know?” I hold up the keys to my brothers car as he steps closer.

“I dare you.” He says, “I guarantee if you got into that car alone you’d be in a wall in five seconds flat.”

I swat the keys at him, “I’m a great driver!”

“Not in that.” He shakes his head, “Has Oscar ever actually let you driven it?”

I bite my lip, not answering.

His eyes flick down to my lips, then back up at my eyes, “Come on then.” He snatches the keys right out of my hand!

“Norris!” I yell, hurrying after him and across the street as he walks faster, “Hey!”

I catch up to him on the other side, he’s still swinging the keys around his finger with a grin on his face, “Where’s the most open, empty road you know?”

I raise a brow and follow him into the parking structure, “Why…?”

Our car is easy to spot, he walks over to it, and to my surprise, finds his way to the passengers side. Looking at me over the expensive car, he tosses me the keys, “We’re gonna hit two hundred in this thing and I want to make sure there’s no bystanders in the car of your havoc.”

He slides into the car, making me squeal and swing the door open quickly, sliding into the way far back driver's seat and turning the keys into the ignition.

He sees my eyes light up as I adjust the seat, “You ever kart as a kid?”

“A bit. Got kicked out a few times.”

“Why…?”

I eye him and click my seatbelt into place, “Too fast, too reckless…”

He shakes his head and mumbles a curse under his breath before tightening his seatbelt. “Don’t make me regret this.”

⋆༺

lando

I was right. Oscar has never let her drive his Mclaren before, and for good reason.

She can’t drive stick shift, first of all. But I only let her briefly panic before I grab a hold of the stick and tell her to go slow.

She does not go slow. Tate Mcrae is blasting through the speakers as she speeds up the empty street with the windows rolled down. The street is right next to the beach and I can see the sun about to go down.

Y/n break checks me and makes me hold on tighter. My arm is around the back of her seat so I can control the stick shift with my dominant hand. She’s laughing and going faster and faster by the second.

It doesn’t take her long before she gets the hang of it but I still hang onto the stick as she sings along to Sports Car.

I’m not stupid, I know her little games and yes, they might be working, but I will not be giving in. This week is supposed to be relaxing, recuperating, and definitely NOT romantic.

Although, the track that Y/n and I are heading is definitely not romantic. More on the side of we both want each other in a hot sexy way.

Her hair whips all around us as she turns the corner, making her way higher up the hill. I’m now realizing that the hill is more of a mountain, the street getting smaller and the trees growing farther away.

I watch her speedometer as it inches higher and higher, her smile growing bigger as it goes, “Christ, are all Piastri’s this quick?”

She laughs out loud, “Next time you compliment me try not to include my brother in it too!”

I can’t help but let out a laugh, staring at her profile as the landscape zips by us. Her cheeks are pink from the sun and I bet if I put my hand to her neck i’d be able to feel her heart racing.

I shouldn’t be thinking this. I know I shouldn’t. But my eyes wander too easily down her smooth skin, her bikini top untied with the strings hanging over her thin top like it’s nothing.

I drag my eyes off her tits and back on the road, knowing I'm in too deep for someone I just met. We slow down as we reach the top, or at least, where she thinks is close enough.

She practically jumps out of the car, running over to a small patch of flat land and a bench that overlooks the water.

“Holy shit.” I walk slowly behind her, looking out at the view and watching her figure jump up and down. I grab my camera that I forgot is around my neck and snap a photo.

She looks back at the perfect moment, her face shadowed and her hair a mess around her, but it just… fits.

I sit on the bench as she sets her ass down on the back of it, her feet tapping the wood next to me.

“So. Your first full day in Melbourne! Thoughts?”

I smile, “I’ve been here before.”

She groans, “Not with me. Was I a good tour guide?”

I nod, “The best.” We didn’t do a whole lot but that’s the best part. Y/n is completely fun but totally chill at the same time.

My phone lights up, it’s a text from Oscar.

“Osc says that Lily is Ok and they’ve been chilling at the house for a while. He’s asking where we are.” I look up at the girl whose eyes are set on the pink and orange sky.

“Tell him we’re making out sloppy style in his car.”

The only change in her behavior is a tiny tug on her mouth, “Trouble…” I mumble and text him that we’re watching the sunset and will be back soon.

“I’m only voicing what we both want.” Jesus Christ, this girl… I’m rarely speechless, especially after a comment like that. But this girl is insanely captivating and I've never wanted to give in more.

I’m struck again at how beautiful she is, the sky reflecting off her as if she’s a part of the earth.

“Nervous, Norris?” Her head dips down to my level.

“We should get back.” I say, leaning my head back on the wood.

“Cop out.” she whispers before hopping off the bench and moving back to the drivers side.

“Woah! You are not driving back.”

“Try and stop me.”

⋆༺

you

I can’t drive stick. I wasn’t lying about that. Although now that I think about it, it would be a great way to get closer to a man.

Lando’s hand is over mine the whole way back. I insisted I could do it (or at least try!) but he guided my every move anyway. Hot. As. Fuck. I try to watch the road and not his huge veiny hands on mine, but mostly fail.

We’re split up after another quick dinner. I talk to Lily about her new addition to her shoe collection (a black boot semi-permanently on her foot as of today), while Lando, Oscar, and my Mom talk about the movie they’re watching.

I’m in my bed a while later, the lights still on in the hallway and Lando’s door hasn’t creaked shut yet so I know he’s not there.

My mom had thanked me immensely for showing Lando around and Oscar gave me a small thanks while looking at me funny. I don’t think he trusts me with his friend, especially with my past and a certain neighbor.

And sure, I want him to trust me! But I want Lando more.

I’m so zoned out that I don’t notice the man in my doorway, knocking on my open door with a tired smile on his face.

Lando has one hand in his pocket, looking sunkissed and content. “Hey.” I sit up, crossing my feet under me.

“Hi.” He smiles as if he’s about to blush, “I just wanted to say… Thanks for today. It was really fun.”

“I didn’t scare you too bad in the car?” I ask as his head meets my door, his neck straining against it.

“You weren’t too bad. Definitely got my adrenaline pumping.”

“Just say I'm an amazingly fast driver and move on.” I shrug, leaning back on my hands and puffing my chest out proudly.

He watches me- watches my body. I don’t have a bra on, something obvious in the cool space of our air conditioned house. I’m wearing a new set, light yellow with lacy little shorts. He likes it and I can tell.

He groans, running a hand down his face and shutting his eyes tight. “Your brother is gonna hate me by the end of this trip.”

I quirk a brow, playing the innocence card as I push a rogue strand of hair out of my face, “Why’s that?”

He looks at me again, his tongue running over his teeth as he challenges me. I want him, that’s the truth. But i’m not that easy.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, trouble.” he pushes off the door, turning around and not looking back.

“Dream about me. But don’t be too loud tonight, yeah?” I tease, “Thin walls. I learned that the hard way.” I emphasize ‘hard’ never missing an opportunity to tell a joke.

He throws up one hand, the other still on his face as he walks out of my room and turns to go to his. I smile to myself, standing up and shutting the door he was too busy to remember.

[whore4wroetoshaw]

pillowtalk (w2s x reader)

warnings: smut smut smut

the video.

you loved your boyfriend. he was it for you. and not in the fleeting, butterfly way. not a crush that faded when things got difficult. no—he was the one you could scream at and argue with and then fall asleep tangled in the same sheet an hour later. the one who knew exactly how you liked your tea, exactly how to get under your skin, and exactly how to worship every inch of your body like it was the only language he spoke.

and oh, my god. he was the best sex you'd ever had. hands down. absolutely zero contest. you’d look at him and think he was very vanilla, but the way he fucked you? slow, deep, possesive—like he was trying to carve his name into your bones and remind you exactly who you belonged to. it made you feral. 

so when he asked you—on camera, during a truth or drink sidemen video, the prick—“have you ever faked an orgasm with me?” and you didn’t say no like he expected you to… you picked up your shot of tequila, knocked it back, and put the glass down like you were putting a final nail in a coffin.

trust, he was good at pleasing you. the things he could do with his tongue... jesus. the man was skilled. it was just that one time. to be honest, it wasn't even his fault. you were just tired, your head wasn't in it, and you just didn't want him to feel bad. so, you faked a few shaky breaths, moaned out his name, and smiled through the guilt. and that was it. one time. forgotten.

"it was just that one time—i wasn't in the mood, y'know? stop laughing, jj." you tried to surpress your giggles because of the look on harry's face.

you thought that was the end of it. one shot. one simple, honest answer. the boys were already laughing and moving on—ethan reading the next question with a shit-eating grin, jj still laughing like he usually did.

but harry?

harry was staring. he didn't laugh. didn't even crack a smile. he sat back, eyebrows slightly raised, lips twitching like he was trying to solve a maths problem. his whole expression unreadable. way too quiet for harry.

the rest of the video felt long. every time he laughed, every time he smiled or chimed in, you could feel the weight of his attention still hanging off you. he didn’t say much after that, just finished the game with a casual shrug, fingers drumming on the table.

the car ride.

it was so fucking quiet. not in an awkward way. no tension between you as people—you were fine. it was fine.

but it was so quiet.

harry's eyes were on the road, hand steady on the wheel. the only sounds were the low hum of the engine, and the occasional turn signal.

but you could feel him.

feel his gaze flicker over to you at red lights. feel the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the steering wheel. feel the heat simmering between you, hotter by the second.

so, you broke the silence. "what's going on in that pretty head of yours, hm? you're awfully quiet."

his knuckles tightened on the wheel. "hm? nothing. just... thinking."

"about what?" you turned your knees slightly towards him, now looking at his absolutely flawless side profile.

"you know what." his jaw clenched, a small smirk on his face.

you rolled your eyes. "haz, you're still on that? it was just a game. i don't even remember when it happ—"

he didn't look at you. "i'm just trying to figure out how i missed it."

"babe, come on. it was years ago, harry. you didn't do anything wrong. it wasn't about you. i swear." you laughed, reaching over to rub his knee as reassurement.

he looked down, and then up again. after a few moments of silence, he spoke, his voice lower. "i don't want you to feel like you have to perform with me."

"baby. it was one time. it's so insignificant that i don't even remember when it happened." you leaned over and brushed a soft kiss on his cheek.

after you reached home.

the front door clicked shut behind you with a soft thud, and that was it. the match dropped.

he didn’t speak. just watched as you kicked off your shoes and turned toward him, still trying to act normal—casual—like your heart wasn’t hammering in your chest.

you opened your mouth to say something—

but he was on you.

mouth crashing to yours, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. you stumbled back into the wall with a thud, gasping against his lips, his body crowding yours, warm and solid and desperate.

"fuckin' hell, y/n," he muttered against your mouth, kissing you like he was trying to devour your soul. "i'm losing my fucking mind."

“didn’t think you’d spiral this hard,” you breathed.

his hand curled around your jaw, thumb dragging across your bottom lip. "i’ve been replaying every sound you’ve made with me in my head. every fucking moan. every breath. trying to figure out which one was a lie.” his voice dropped. “you realise how mental that is?”

you swallowed, chest rising and falling fast.

he tilted your chin up. “so now i’m gonna make sure there’s no confusion.”

before you could even react, his hands reached the back of your thighs, and he picked you up in a go. a gasp slipped from your lips as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, the pressure of his hard-on pressing firmly against your core through the thin barrier of your clothes. the contact drew a soft whimper from your throat—needy and unfiltered.

harry smirked against your skin. "that all for me, love?" he murmured, his voice rough as his mouth found your neck for the millionth time.

you just whined in response and grabbed his hair, latching your lips onto his again. he chuckled lowly, and carried you to the bedroom door, throwing it open.

he kicked the door shut behind him with a thud that echoed, not that either of you noticed—too lost in the haze of each other, barely making it two steps before tossing you onto the mattress like you weighed nothing. you bounced once, breath catching as you pushed yourself up on your elbows.

he climbed on top of you, hovering for a moment as he tried to take in your presence, his fingers trailing under the hem of your top.

that's it. you couldn't take it anymore.

"goddamn it, harry." you surged up and yanked his shirt over his head in one go, fingers fumbling in your haste, lips catching his halfway through. it was teeth and tongue and heat, and all of it tinged with frustration.

"a little bit impatient there, huh?" he laughed as he tugged your top over your head and tossed it somewhere behind him, already reaching for your jeans.

“can you blame me?” you huffed, breath shaky as you wriggled out of them, your hands everywhere—his neck, his shoulders, everywhere. "you've been staring at me with bedroom eyes all day long, bruv."

harry laughed under his breath—low and rough—as he popped the button of your jeans and slid them down—along with your underwear— in one swift movement, eyes trailing down the length of you like he hadn’t seen you naked a thousand times before.

you bit your lip, cheeks flushed, eyes flickering down for a moment before dragging back up to meet his. your hands moved slowly to his belt, fingers slipping beneath the leather and tugging with careful urgency—like you couldn’t bear another second but also wanted to savour it.

you pulled it free in one smooth motion, letting it drop off the side of the bed with a soft thud. your fingers didn’t falter—next came the button of his jeans, the slow drag of the zip. you felt him twitch beneath your touch, felt the tension ripple through his abdomen.

“you’re killing me, babe,” he muttered, voice low, reverent, as he watched your hands work.

“good,” you whispered, slipping your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and sliding everything down in one go. he kicked them off without looking, never taking his eyes off you.

there he was: all of him, exposed to you, his cock thick and flushed, already dripping with need. your breath hitched in your throat, eyes tracing over every inch of him. the way his muscles tightened under his skin, the deep v of his hips leading to his hard length. It was almost too much.

you reached out, wrapping your fingers around his cock, feeling the heat of him in your hand. you could feel the veins throbbing beneath your touch, his length heavy and solid in your palm. "please fuck me," you whimpered.

he let out a ragged breath, his hands immediately grabbing at your legs, pulling you to him as he knelt between your thighs. and just like that, he leaned forward, pushing your legs apart as he aligned himself with your entrance. his eyes flickered to yours, a silent question. you nodded, breathless, barely able to form a sentence.

harry didn’t need another word. he sank into you in one deliberate thrust, his cock filling you, stretching you in the best possible way. you gasped at the sensation, your back arching off the bed, and he groaned in response, his hand sliding to your hip to hold you in place.

jesus, even after years of being together, you were still caught off guard by his size every single time. “god,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, as he stayed still for a moment, letting you adjust to him. “you feel fucking perfect.”

harry didn’t waste another moment. he withdrew slightly, then slammed back into you with force, making you gasp as your body jolted from the impact. his pace was immediate, fast, relentless—he wasn’t holding back. every thrust sent waves of pleasure through you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.

you moaned out his name as your hands scrambled for purchase on his back, digging your nails into his skin. you gasped as you tried to meet each of his thrusts, your body working in perfect sync with his. there was no gentleness in this; there didn’t need to be. after all these years, neither of you held back anymore.

he gripped your legs tighter, pushing them up and apart to get even deeper, his hips snapping against yours with brutal force. every thrust hit you at the perfect angle, his cock filling you so completely that you could barely breathe. "oh my god, harry!"

you gasped, hips bucking as the familiar pressure started to build again in your core. the pace didn’t slow—if anything, harry pushed harder, faster, making sure you didn’t have time to catch your breath. his hands were everywhere—on your hips, your chest, your throat—as he fucked you like he owned you.

you felt your orgasm rise up, sudden and overwhelming. the sensation spread through every inch of you, every nerve firing at once as you came hard around him, screaming his name as you tightened around his cock. your whole body trembled, the force of it making your vision blur for a moment.

but harry didn’t stop. he was relentless, chasing his own high now, his pace never wavering as he fucked you through your orgasm. the tension was unbearable, and just when you thought you couldn’t take it anymore, he thrust into you with a final, deep stroke, groaning your name as he came hard inside you, his release spilling deep, filling you completely.

you both collapsed in the aftershocks of your highs, your body limp and trembling beneath him, as he kissed your neck, his breath ragged.

"oh my god," you heaved, recovering from your orgasm. "oh love, we're not done."

[4nicolas]

satoru loves taking care of his boyfriend when he’s sick. the second you wake up he knows something is wrong. instead of greeting him with a smile and a sleepy morning kiss you roll on your side and groan.

he instantly knows something is up. he’s coming close, poking your shoulder and whispering. “what was that for..?”

all he gets in response is a few grumbles and you shaking your head. he frowns, rubbing your bicep thinking maybe you slept poorly.

he decides on rubbing your back, gently trying to soothe you into waking up in a better mood. he hated when his baby boy would act like this.

obviously you would never ignore him on purpose, and he knew that. you eventually fall back asleep, waking up thirty minutes later to satorus bright blue eyes staring into yours.

you blink, feeling your head pounding and your throat sore. he raises a brow, inching slightly closer. his sleepy voice breaking you out of your thoughts.

“baby are you alright..?”

he was obviously concerned, normally you two both got up at the same time, did your morning routines, ate breakfast, the usual. today was different though.

you sigh, your voice low and gravely as you speak, “not really, no..”

satorus eyes instantly widen slightly, a small pout on his lips at your response. he brings his hand up, resting it on top of yours.

“whats wrong?” he mumbles, voice quieter, he was trying not to disturb you. it made your heart clench.

“I just.. feel awful.”

this made him frown deeper, his least favorite thing in the world was you being hurt or in pain, close second when he had no sweets.

he squeezes your hand slightly, his thumb rubbing the side of your hand. it’s quiet for a moment before he asks.

“need me to kiss it to make you feel better?” he murmurs with a sheepish smile.

you give him a quick smile, chuckling quietly. “i don’t think kisses would necessarily help me feel better.”

satoru raises one brow, obviously not believeing that.

“um, kisses make anything feel better.” he leans slightly closer as he speaks.

you move your hand up, acting as a barrier between you two. satoru instantly pouts.

“I dont want you to get sick.” satoru shakes his head as if that was nonsense, gently pushing your hand back down.

“babe. i’m the strongest, no little cold is gonna get me.” he says moving closer, his face inches away from yours.

you stare at him for a minute before speaking, barely keeping your eyes open. “if you wanna help.. some soup would be nice.”

satoru, against your wishes, presses a kiss on your lips, quickly getting up for your request.

“soup it is.” he pauses before adding, “and some kisses after.”

you roll your eyes at his comment, shaking your head at your boyfriends inability to not kiss you.

he gives your hand another squeeze before quickly disappearing through the door of your shared bedroom.

as quickly as he disappeared he’s back, showing up in the doorway with a bowl in one hand and a thermometer in the other.

he was still dressed in his pajamas, the sight making me you smile. he walks over, looking down at you on the bed before sitting the soup on the bedside table.

giving your cheek a small pat as he holds the thermometer up. “open your mouth for me, baby.”

in other context you would’ve loved this comment, but right now you felt like he was your nurse.

he places the tip of the thermometer under your tongue, leaving it there with you as he watches closely.

his hand comes to rest on your cheek, the coolness of his palm soothing your burning skin.

you almost want to fall asleep right there, feeling safe under his watch. you feel your eyes fluttering shut before satoru gently takes the thermometer out.

he brings it up close to his face, furrowing his brows as he examines it. he nods at the thermometer, rubbing his chin as if closely understanding it.

he flips it around, showing you the numbers as he speaks.

“102 degrees, guess that means you’ll be staying in bed today. suppose I should just take off to take care of you, huh?”

you raise a brow, knowing that wouldn’t be the best idea. “satoru.. you can’t just take off from exorcising curses..”

“oh but that’s where you’re wrong, my dear boyfriend. when you’re the strongest no one can boss you around.”

he chuckles, placing a hand on your arm, rubbing it reassuringly. “seriously though, if the higher ups have a problem they can punish me later. I care way more about you than those old farts anyway..”

he trails off, getting a serious expression, he really didn’t like the higher ups.

“I don’t want you getting in trouble because of me-“

satorus finger presses against your lips, “shhh, don’t worry about it, okay? just let your loving boyfriend satoru take care of you.”

before you can retort he picks up the bowl of soup, holding it out in front of you.

“now eat up, im here to doctor you up today.”

satorus ways of nursing your back to health were questionable, but he was trying so that’s what mattered.

the soup served as instant comfort, making your throat feel a bit better as well as giving your body a source of energy to get back in shape.

it was a struggle trying to stay awake, but you also couldn’t fall asleep. satoru had insisted on holding you, saying that skin to skin contact would help you get better faster.

you weren’t sure how true that was, but it did provide some comfort being pressed against your boyfriend.

his arms held you in a tight grasp, his head was buried in your hair, hands sliding up and down your back.

even if this didn’t speed up the healing process it did feel good. his hands slipped under your shirt, gently rubbing at your skin, his hands and fingers exploring your muscles.

“you are on fire, babe..” satoru murmurs, his voice laced with concern.

you hum in response, too comforted in his grasp. nuzzling further against him he chuckles.

“aren’t you glad I didn’t go to work?”

instead of responding you hold him tighter, not wanting to let him know he was right, even though he already knew the second your arms wrapped around him.

he chuckles, smile evident in his voice as he speaks. “uh huh. that’s what I thought.”

“I’m going to cough on you.”

he gasps, hand stilling on your back. “so you hate me?”

you roll your eyes, burying your face in his neck, lips pressing against his skin.

“yeah.”

“you’re lucky you’re unwell or else i’d push you off the bed right now.”

a comfortable silence falls between you two, your eyes finally drifting close as you feel yourself falling deeper into the pits of slumber.

satorus arms never leave you, neither does he. he could never leave your side when you’re vulnerable. (he knew you wouldn’t like him calling you that but whatever)

he’ll take care of you how ever long it takes, hours or days, he’ll be there.

he loves you and despises seeing you hurt or sick. he’ll just have to learn how to exorcise illnesses so they can’t affect you ever again.

—

not proofread because I get motivation at 2am before I go to bed.

[seumyo]

more dad!shouto content to cleanse my soul.

Truth be told, your 8-month-old son, Shuu, also loved hearing you monologue. He looked at you like you hung the moon and back, adoring you in the form of giggles and tiny screeches.

You sat on the couch with your legs thrown over the armrest, cradling a drowsy Shuu against your chest. He was in his favorite onesie—the one with tiny bears holding umbrellas—and he kept pawing at the necklace you always wore, his fingers clumsy but insistent. His head rested snugly beneath your chin, warm and soft, and every so often, he let out a quiet coo that melted your heart like butter on a stack of pancakes.

Todoroki was in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up, flipping pancakes like he was born to be domestic. Those cooking classes you encouraged him to take were finally paying off. The sun made his two-toned hair glow, and the sight of him wearing a pastel-pink apron with little strawberries on it—your favorite apron—shouldn’t have made your heart flutter, and yet here you were, contemplating the absurd luck of it all.

“…Mhm,” you hum to yourself, your voice light with disbelief. “I really did that.”

Shuu babbled as if agreeing with you, patting you collarbone with a tiny hand.

“Yes, baby. I mean, look at him,” you continued softly, speaking in that conversational tone one uses when there’s an audience of one infant. “He’s gorgeous. Objectively. Like—did you see those cheekbones? And the whole broody, mysterious hero thing? I bagged that. Me. Charisma? Carried. Humor? Came in clutch. This face? Okay, she helped, but bub, she needed backup.”

You gently kissed the top of Shuu’s fluffy head, then glanced toward the kitchen again, eyes trailing over the quiet, graceful way Todoroki moved. He plated the pancakes with care, added a few slices of fruit on the side, and dusted it with powdered sugar like he was on a cooking show.

Yummy.

The pancakes and your husband the fruits.

You could only blink.

“Your dad used to make girls stammer just by looking at them. Real stoic, jawline-of-the-gods, tragic past and all. And then here I come, tripping over my own shoes, telling jokes about haunted vending machines and crying over animated penguins in documentaries, and somehow—somehow—he looked at me like I was the most fascinating thing in the room.”

You adjusted Shuu slightly, mindful of his tiny head as it lolled sleepily against your shoulder. You pat his back softly, knowing once he burped, he’d be off to dreamland.

“I still remember our first proper date. I had spinach in my teeth the whole time, and he didn’t say a damn thing until the end of the night, and then just—‘You have something green in your teeth, but it was cute so I didn’t mention it.’ Who does that? Who says that?”

Oh, the horror of that memory.

Shuu blinked up at you, eyes slowly drifting closed.

“Your dad. That’s who,” you said with a half-laugh, booping his nose. “And I married him anyway. Because even when he says the weirdest stuff, he means it. He really means it.”

You rested your cheek against your baby’s head again, humming softly.

“You’ve got my eyes, you know,” you whispered. “And his pouty mouth—god help you. That pouty look on your face is going to let you get away with most things. I’m so sorry in advance, and you’re welcome—in a way.”

Todoroki chose that moment to walk over with two plates, setting one down on the coffee table and handing you the other. “Sorry I took a bit longer,” he said, glancing at the baby nestled in your arms. “Did he fall asleep?”

“Almost,” you replied with a warm smile, accepting the plate. “He likes hearing me monologue about how your genetics were blessed and how I saved our child from mediocrity with my superior charisma.”

Todoroki blinked at you.

“Is that what that was about?”

“Don’t act like you didn’t know,” you teased, lifting a forkful of pancake to your mouth. “You were towally into me from day one.”

“I was,” he admitted with zero hesitation, sitting beside you and stealing a bite from your plate—which made you quietly gasp, swatting at his arm softly. “You were very loud.”

“I was confident.”

“You called my scar mysterious and then compared it to a toasted marshmallow.”

...

“In my defense, it is very marshmallowy in vibe. And you know, I ran my mouth like crazy back then.”

Todoroki hummed noncommittally, then leaned in to brush a kiss against your temple. “You were funny,” he murmured. “Still are.”

You raised your brow.

“Were? You think the material’s gone downhill?”

“No,” he said with a faint smile. “I’m just used to it now. Doesn’t catch me off guard anymore.”

You gasped, scandalized, but Shuu made a tiny distressed noise at the sudden jostle, so you immediately shifted back into Mom Mode and soothed him with gentle rocking.

Todoroki watched you with the kind of adoration that made your heart skip a beat, and then, without needing to say anything, he took over—slipping his arms around Shuu and lifting him from your chest with all the care in the world.

“Come on, little guy,” he said softly, resting Shuu against his shoulder. “You’ve been glued to Mom all morning. Let’s give her a break.”

Shuu snuggled right in, immediately settling down. He even yawned, so cute and soft with his rounded cheeks—like a dumpling. You melted.

“Okay, yeah,” you murmured. “You’re still totally out of my league.”

Todoroki looked over his shoulder. “Good thing I chased you until you let me in your league.”

You let out a helpless little laugh, covering your face with your hands. “Ugh, you’re so smooth and pretty. Shuu, I hope you inherited my charm, because if you inherited both your Daddy’s looks and his mysterious aura, the world’s not ready.”

“I think he got the best of both of us,” Todoroki said simply, brushing a hand over Shuu’s soft hair.

And you couldn’t argue with that. Not when their little boy had now fallen asleep peacefully against the chest of a man who never once asked for perfection—only presence, only warmth. Somehow, your bad puns, big heart, and late-night rambles had been enough.

More than enough.

Yeah. You really did that.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[estrellami-1]

A Special Feeling

Ao3 Link

Robin has never been happier, she thinks.

She has a platonic soulmate, his… well, whatever-the-hell Eddie is to him, and a girlfriend.

And really, Chrissy is amazing. Obviously, it sucks that she went through what she did, but then again it sucks that any of them went through what they did. Robin thinks they probably all need a butt-ton of therapy.

Especially, though, her dingus. Her Steve. She knows he hasn’t been sleeping as well, knows he’s thinner than he was even when he was on the swim team.

He’s really needed a whatever-the-hell Eddie is to him. Robin’s got Chrissy, which is amazing, and the nightmares… well, they don’t go away, but they’re a lot easier to ignore when you’ve got your sweet, beautiful girlfriend in bed next to you, sleepily stroking your hair and telling the bad thoughts to leave you alone.

God, Robin loves Chrissy.

But Steve. He really needs whatever-the-hell Eddie is to him. He needs someone he can lean on, who can hold him up, who won’t crumble at the first sight of weakness from him.

And somehow, against all odds, the self-proclaimed runner is that man.

The four of them are on their way home from Indianapolis after Robin’s license celebration, in which Robin drove everyone in her new-to-her car to Indianapolis to get shitfaced.

Except no one really got shitfaced. Because of the aforementioned trauma.

Still, the drinks must’ve done something, because as Robin checks the rearview mirror, she notices Steve is slumped over onto Eddie.

Eddie notices, he has to, even if he’s content with the soft music and the view out the window. Surely he knows Steve is using his shoulder as a pillow.

“Eddie,” she calls softly, not willing risk waking Steve. Chrissy turns to look at him and coos at the sight. “How long’s he been asleep?”

Eddie smiles back. It’s a slow, small thing, but real. Content. “‘Bout half an hour now,” he murmurs. “Maybe a little less.”

Just then the car hits a patch of uneven road. Robin grips the wheel and glances in the rearview mirror again. The movement had woken Steve, who was sitting up and rubbing his eye, murmuring something to Eddie.

Eddie shakes his head, murmurs something back. Gestures to Steve, then to himself.

Steve blushes, nods, says something too low for her to catch, and lays his head back on Eddie’s shoulder.

This time, Eddie wraps an arm around Steve’s shoulders, murmuring something down to him. Steve nods, gets comfortable, and falls asleep again.

Eddie watches Steve for long enough that Robin can tell how he feels.

Robin grabs for Chrissy’s hand, smiles at her. “Are your parents expecting you back tonight?”

Chrissy grins, shakes her head.

“You know of a good place to watch the sunrise?”

Chrissy hums, searches her memory. “There’s one place,” she admits. “Y’know that road to the Quarry, how it branches off to the left?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Once we’re there I’ll guide you.”

She glances in the mirror again. “Hopefully Steve stays asleep. Gravel isn’t exactly the comfiest ride.”

Chrissy smiles at her, strokes her thumb over Robin’s knuckles. “We‘ll take it slow. Nowhere we’ve gotta be ‘til morning.” She leans her head back against the headrest, gazes at Robin in a way she’s not quite sure she deserves. “Maybe Eddie’ll fall asleep too, give them both some much-needed rest.”

“I’m hoping so,” Robin agrees. “You gonna fall asleep?”

“Nah,” Chrissy says, still smiling at Robin. “I’ll stay up with you.”

Robin grins back, and that’s all they say until Chrissy directs Robin to the lookout.

When she parks it’s still a few hours to sunrise. She glances in the rearview once more, then squeezes Chrissy’s hand and jerks her head back.

Chrissy turns to look. Eddie had fallen asleep during the drive, laying his head on Steve’s. They both look as peaceful as they’ve ever been before, and the girls agree with a glance to let them sleep.

Robin leaves the car idling. She doesn’t like wasting gas, but it’s a small price to pay for her boys to be able to sleep.

Eddie’s the first to wake. He shifts around, lifts his head with a grimace that smoothes out when he looks down at Steve, still asleep on his shoulder.

Eddie looks around. Robin looks away before their eyes can meet, and when Robin looks back, Eddie’s pressing a kiss to the top of Steve’s head.

He leaves his lips there, tilting just enough to be able to speak without getting a mouthful of hair.

Steve wakes slower than Eddie did, and he stays silent, but he’s smiling as he looks out the window at the sunrise, head still on Eddie’s shoulder.

Robin smiles, watching the sunrise, reaching to grab Chrissy’s hand again.

He took his sweet time, but Robin knows her dingus has found the person for him, who will love him through anything, who makes him feel safe.

It’s a special feeling indeed. Robin’s known it for a while now. And she’s so glad he’s finally found it, too.

[sweetheartsofpanem]

I've Been Yours - Soft Things Survive

Previous Part

i definitely did not sob writing this… i totally did. UGH MY BABIES

warnings: refer to series masterlist

pairing(s): refer to series masterlist

word count: 4.14k

series masterlist | main masterlist

You wake to the sound of birds.

Not the frantic screeching kind—though you’ve met more than your fair share of those in the last three years—but the soft, slow kind. Morning birds. Gentle and full of quiet purpose, like they’re reminding the world to stretch.

The light filtering through the curtains is golden. It paints the hardwood in long strokes, warm and slow-moving, like everything’s in no rush now. Like the world isn’t on fire anymore.

And for once, you believe it.

You don’t get up right away.

You just lie there, tucked into sheets that smell like laundry soap and comfort, curled into the warmth of the man still half-asleep beside you, and let yourself feel it.

The stillness.

The way your chest doesn’t ache the way it used to.

The fact that your first thought isn’t how do I disappear? but maybe we should get up before the market closes.

It’s been three years since you came back to District 12.

Three years since you stumbled through the ruins and ended up here. Since Katniss and Peeta took care of your wounds like it was the easiest thing in the world. Since you looked at Haymitch and thought, he’s just another man who will hurt me and leave.

And now?

Now you’re tucked under the covers of a home you helped build from the inside out.

Now you work three days a week at an Apothecary, and the rest are split between tending the herb garden with Katniss and helping Peeta paint the side of his bakery. Therapy is a regular part of your week—one of the first things District 12 added once the final reconstruction funds rolled in. It’s quiet. Gentle. You like the woman who runs it. She reminds you of your dad in a strange, comforting way—says your name like it matters, asks questions without trying to break you open.

And you answer them.

You talk about the cellar.

You talk about the things you still don’t have words for.

You talk about love—what it feels like to be wanted in the exact way you are.

Haymitch shifts beside you with a soft grunt, one arm tightening around your middle, breath warm against your neck.

You smile.

You’re not afraid of the morning anymore.

Eventually, you slide out of bed, careful not to wake him.

You leave a kiss on his temple anyway.

He grumbles something incoherent, tugs your pillow into his chest like a substitute for your body, and immediately falls back asleep.

The floor’s cool under your feet as you pad to the kitchen, tugging on one of his old flannels over your sleep shirt along the way. It smells like cedar and whiskey and a thousand quiet mornings just like this.

You start the coffee without thinking.

Two spoons of sugar in his mug. Just a splash of milk in yours.

The kettle whistles low and steady. The window above the sink is cracked open, and a breeze rolls through the curtain. The sun is high enough now to spill gold across the countertop, catching on the small glass vase you keep beside the window—today it holds little blue phlox and mountain mint you picked with Katniss earlier in the week.

You reach for the pan on the stove. Eggs. Toast. A little bit of goat cheese you bartered for at the market.

Footsteps shuffle behind you.

“You makin’ that smell delicious on purpose?” Haymitch rasps.

You smile without turning around. “I considered letting you starve.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, coming up behind you to wrap his arms around your waist. “But you’re getting soft in your old age.”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“And you’ve aged beautifully, honey.”

You roll your eyes and elbow him gently. “Mug’s on the table. Go sit down before you fall over.”

He kisses your shoulder before letting go.

You move around each other with the ease of a shared life—him pouring coffee, you plating breakfast, him grumbling at the chair that squeaks, you laughing because you swore you’d fix it last week and still haven’t.

Everything is slow. Familiar. Easy in a way it never used to be.

By the time you both sit down to eat, the sun is full and warm across the table. Soot appears like a ghost in the doorway, leaps up into your lap, and settles in with her usual dramatic sigh like finally, the attention I deserve.

You scratch behind her ear. She bites you gently. Haymitch mutters something about her being possessed.

You sip your coffee and let it all sink in.

You have a home.

You have love.

You have mornings like this.

After breakfast, Haymitch insists on doing the dishes, grumbling the whole time about how you’re not allowed to “turn into one of those people who hum while they clean.” You hum just to spite him.

Back in the bedroom, the two of you get ready without really saying much—there’s no need to. You move around each other like a dance you’ve been doing for years. Haymitch pulls on a button-down while you stand in front of the dresser, brushing your hair. He walks past, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck on his way to grab socks. You toss his belt at him before he even asks for it.

He still tugs the hem of your shirt down after you pull it over your head—out of habit more than anything—and murmurs, “Pretty.”

You swat at him, flustered even now, and he grins like it still works every time.

By the time you lace your boots and check your little shoulder bag for your market list, there’s a soft knock at the door. You open it to find Katniss already waiting on the porch, a small satchel slung over her shoulder, her braid over one shoulder and her expression unreadable as always.

“Ready?” she asks.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Haymitch appears behind you, leans against the doorframe, and peers out at her. “You break her, I’ll break you.”

Katniss deadpans, “Then don’t give me defective products.”

You’re already laughing as you step onto the porch. “We’re literally just going to the market.”

“I’ve seen the way she shops,” Haymitch says. “She gets this look in her eye.”

“Peeta’s worse,” Katniss mutters.

You turn back to him before leaving and rise up on your toes for a quick kiss—soft and simple, pressed into the corner of his mouth. “Be good.”

“No promises.”

Peeta appears on his porch across the way right as you and Katniss start walking, waving dramatically like you’re leaving for war. Haymitch calls something sarcastic back, but you’re too far down the path to catch it clearly.

The Victor’s Village has changed in three years.

All twelve houses are full now—some with returning families, others with people who came to rebuild and never left. Kids play in the yards. Gardens bloom along the fences. Someone waves from a porch a few houses down and you wave back without hesitation.

It’s a neighborhood now.

A real one.

And for the first time in your life, you feel like you belong in one.

The sun’s already high by the time you and Katniss reach the edge of the village, the path worn into something familiar beneath your boots. The grass hums with heat, bees drifting between wildflowers along the fence line, and every so often you catch the sound of distant laughter—kids chasing each other barefoot, someone shouting from a garden.

It’s summer. Full, and green, and alive.

Katniss doesn’t talk much as you walk.

She never has.

But it’s a comfortable silence, one that doesn’t press. She gestures once with a tilt of her chin, and you follow her down the side road that cuts toward the main square. The buildings are all rebuilt now—stone and wood and clean glass windows. There’s even a small sign above the tailor’s shop, hand-painted and hung by thick rope.

The market is already buzzing when you arrive.

Stalls line both sides of the square, shaded by linen cloths and patched umbrellas. People call out names, wave across the street, trade goods over tables cluttered with jars, produce, and worn baskets full of herbs.

Katniss heads straight for her usual booth—the one that sells dried roots and salves—and you veer off to check the bread stall.

You both fall into rhythm. Picking through vegetables, bartering gently. Passing things back and forth without really thinking about it.

At one point, Katniss holds up a small jar of wild honey and says, “You think Peeta would like this?”

You raise your eyebrows. “He’ll cry with joy.”

She almost smiles.

You end up with two bags full by midday—bread, peaches, mint, goat cheese, a few tiny jars of jam. Katniss grabs extra soap and something that smells vaguely like cinnamon and ash. You find a pair of hand-stitched tea towels that match the mug Haymitch always insists is his favorite and buy them without thinking twice.

When the sun hits its peak, you duck under the shade of a tree near the square and split a chilled plum between the two of you. It’s sticky and perfect. Katniss licks juice off her wrist and mutters that it’s too hot. You agree, but neither of you makes a move to head home yet.

You’re just… there.

Existing.

Together.

And that, somehow, feels like the most remarkable part of all.

The sun’s settled into its lazy afternoon stretch by the time you and Katniss head home.

The bags are heavier now, your arms warmed from the weight, and your skin carries that soft, sun-drunk feeling that only comes from a long summer day spent in good company.

You glance over at her, hiding a smile.

“So,” you say, casual as anything, “how’s it feel being a married woman these days?”

Katniss gives you a side-eye so sharp it could slice fruit.

You grin. “I’m just saying. You’ve got a husband now. That’s commitment.”

“He still leaves socks everywhere,” she mutters.

“And you still chose him.”

“I didn’t choose his laundry habits.”

You bump her shoulder lightly. “You love him.”

“I tolerate him aggressively.”

“You married him in front of witnesses.”

She exhales through her nose, but her ears are pink.

You don’t press any further.

You don’t need to.

The two of you walk in comfortable quiet for a few minutes, dust puffing up beneath your boots, the village just coming into view around the bend. Katniss shifts one of her bags higher on her shoulder and says, mostly to herself, “It’s not what I expected.”

“What isn’t?”

“Marriage,” she says. Then adds, after a pause, “Happiness.”

You blink.

Then smile.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Me neither.”

And for a second, the world narrows to that moment—sun on your back, sweat on your neck, the woman beside you quiet but steady, and the path ahead leading home.

When you get back to the Victor’s Village, the afternoon light has turned syrupy, golden and soft across the porches. A light breeze stirs through the trees, fluttering laundry on the lines and rustling the late-summer leaves.

You wave goodbye to Katniss and split off toward your house, arms aching but heart light.

Inside, it smells like Haymitch’s soap and morning coffee left too long on the stove.

You set your bags down on the kitchen counter, take a moment to pull the jam jars and tea towels free, and tuck them into the cabinet with a fond little smile. Soot is curled in a sunspot on the back of the couch, belly up, all four legs flopped to the side like she’s been through so much.

You scratch her belly. She kicks you. You kiss her head anyway.

Then you head back out, wiping your hands on your skirt as you cross the porch and make your way across the square to Katniss and Peeta’s house.

She’s already on the porch waiting.

Wordless, the two of you fall back into step, circling around the side yard toward the backyard fence.

And then you hear it.

A crash.

A loud one.

Then Peeta’s voice, “You’re not supposed to throw it like that!”

Followed by Haymitch, shouting, “I said I was aiming for the log!”

Katniss stops walking.

You exchange a look.

Then both of you step into the backyard at the same time.

There’s a lopsided wooden target propped up against a tree.

Three kitchen knives sticking out of the grass nowhere near it.

A pile of firewood with a very clear dent in one log.

Peeta standing with his hands on his hips, looking betrayed.

And Haymitch with a fourth knife in hand, already rearing back for another throw.

You stare.

Peeta sees you and immediately points at Haymitch. “He said he could hit the center.”

“It used to be easier,” Haymitch mutters.

“You threw it into my garden bed.”

“That’s what you get for planting lettuce like a coward.”

Katniss exhales through her nose. “Are you two okay?”

“No,” you say at the same time.

Peeta opens his mouth to argue. Stops. Looks down at the knife sticking out of a perfectly innocent zucchini plant.

Then sighs. “We may have made poor choices.”

You don’t even get a chance to settle in before Haymitch gives you a look.

Not the tired, vaguely annoyed one you usually get when you ask him to do something mildly wholesome. No, this one’s more… focused. Like he’s already made up his mind about something and you’re just now catching up.

“You done playing farmer’s market baron?” he asks.

You raise a brow. “Maybe.”

“Good,” he says, wiping his hands on his pants. “We’re going for a walk.”

You blink. “We are?”

“Mm.”

“Right now?”

“Unless you’ve got a pressing appointment with the lawn.”

Peeta turns around way too quickly, pretending to water something that absolutely does not need watering. Katniss is suddenly very interested in the inside of her bag.

You glance between all of them, squinting. “Why do I feel like I’m being ambushed.”

“You’re not,” Haymitch says immediately. “You’re just being handled.”

“Wow. Comforting.”

He shrugs and grabs your hand anyway.

His palm is warm. A little calloused. Familiar in a way that settles something deep in your chest.

You glance down at your clothes. “Should I change?”

He looks you over slowly, then leans in to murmur, “You look perfect.”

Your face burns. “Ugh, why do you always say cute stuff like that?”

“Not my fault you react like that every time I tell the truth.”

Peeta coughs behind you—loud and exaggerated.

Katniss doesn’t even pretend not to smile.

You squeeze his hand once before following him across the grass, past the fence, out toward the trees.

The woods are warm but shaded, sunlight filtering through the leaves in long streaks that dance across the path. The air smells like moss and green things, the way it always does in midsummer—like everything is alive and still growing.

You and Haymitch walk side by side, hands still loosely clasped between you.

He hasn’t said much since you left the yard.

Not that that’s weird. He’s never been much of a talker when you’re out here. Just prefers the sound of wind through trees, birds calling overhead, the soft crunch of leaves under your boots.

But still… he’s quiet today in a way that makes you glance at him twice.

“You okay?” you ask.

He hums.

“You’re doing that thing.”

“What thing.”

“That thing where you act normal but also like you’re hiding a secret and I’m about to find out you’ve buried a body.”

He snorts under his breath.

You narrow your eyes. “You’re definitely hiding something.”

“I am literally just walking.”

“Suspicious.”

He doesn’t rise to it. Just squeezes your hand and keeps walking.

You fall into step again, smiling to yourself.

The path to the lake hasn’t changed much over the years—still soft and winding, a little overgrown in places, but well-trodden by your boots, his, Katniss’, Peeta’s. This trail has carried so many of your summers. So many of your memories. You know it by heart.

The last curve in the trail opens up into the clearing.

The lake shimmers in the sunlight—broad and still, catching the sky in its surface like glass. The trees frame the water like a picture, the breeze bending the tall grass gently at its edge.

You stop for a moment at the top of the slope, letting it settle over you.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just stands beside you.

Hand warm in yours.

Breath steady.

Like he’s trying to remember this moment forever.

The breeze off the lake ruffles the edge of your shirt. The sun’s warm on your back, but it’s gentler now—late afternoon creeping in. Golden and slow.

You watch the way the light shimmers across the water and think: it’s always been this beautiful.

But it wasn’t the lake that stopped your heart.

Not really.

You squeeze Haymitch’s hand, thumb brushing slow over his knuckles. “Hey.”

“Mm?”

“You remember the first time we all came here?”

He glances sideways at you. “What about it?”

You look out over the water. Let your gaze drift to where the dock is half-shadowed now, the surface rippling with the wind.

“I think,” you say, slow and careful, “that was when it started for me.”

“What started?”

You glance up at him. He’s watching you now—eyes narrowed, not suspicious, just focused. Waiting.

You shrug, a little shy. “Us.”

He goes still.

You press on, gentle. “You were standing in the water.”

He blinks. “That’s the memory?”

“Yes.”

“That was your big moment?”

“Let me finish,” you laugh, swatting his chest lightly.

He smirks but quiets.

You swallow, eyes back on the lake. “You were just… there. Knee-deep. Looking like you hated every second of it. But you didn’t. Not really.”

He’s silent beside you.

“I remember looking at you,” you say softly, “just standing in the water with the sun hitting your face, like you were trying so hard not to enjoy yourself. And for some reason, my heart just… stopped.”

You pause. Let it settle.

“I don’t know why. I just remember thinking—oh. Like it had already happened and I was only just realizing it.”

Haymitch doesn’t speak right away.

Doesn’t look at you either.

Just watches the water, jaw tight, breath a little deeper than before.

You smile to yourself. “You probably thought you looked grumpy and mysterious.”

“I was grumpy,” he mutters.

“You were gorgeous,” you say, eyes still on the lake.

And that’s what finally makes him turn.

His hand finds yours again. Steady. Warm.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, honey,” he says.

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

Not even when the silence stretches out between you again, warm and full, like it’s holding its breath for you.

You glance over, catch him watching you with that same look he always gets when he’s about to say something important—like it tastes strange in his mouth, like it might hurt to let it out.

“Alright,” he mutters suddenly, like he’s talking to himself. “Okay. Fine.”

You blink. “Fine what?”

Haymitch shifts his weight and digs into his jacket pocket, expression pained like he’s about to perform surgery without anesthesia.

Then pulls something out and holds it in his closed fist.

You stare at him.

“…Did you just start a sentence and then not finish it?”

He glares. “I’m getting to it.”

“You’re the one who said ‘okay’ like you were being held hostage.”

“I am being held hostage. By love. And your face.”

Your lips twitch. “That sounds like a you problem.”

He doesn’t respond.

Just opens his hand.

And there it is.

A ring.

Simple. Silver. No fancy stones, no polished shine. Just a smooth, slightly scuffed band with a tiny engraving on the inside—real enough for now.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You look up.

Haymitch is already staring at the lake again, jaw tight, like if he looks at you for too long he might combust.

“I know it’s late,” he says quietly. “Three years of living together and being in love and being stupid and waking up next to you like it’s normal. And I know we don’t need it. Don’t need paper or rings or people knowing our business. I know you already chose me.”

You say nothing. Can’t.

He glances at you once, quick. Then back to the water.

“But I wanna do it anyway,” he mutters. “Because you’re it for me. Always have been. And I figured if I’m gonna die one day, I might as well go out knowing I locked this shit down.”

You make a sound that’s half laugh, half sob.

He clears his throat. “So… what do you say, honey? You wanna marry the town drunk?”

You blink fast.

Stare at him like he hung the damn stars.

Then smile so wide your cheeks hurt. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah, sunshine. I do.”

He finally looks at you—really looks.

And it’s all there.

All of it.

He slides the ring onto your finger, a little crooked, a little clumsy.

Perfect.

And then he says, just loud enough to hear, “You better tell people you begged.”

You don’t give him a chance to say anything else.

You just launch at him.

He grunts as you crash into his chest, arms flung around his neck, nearly knocking him off balance in the grass.

“Honey—”

But you’re already pressing kisses to his cheek, to his forehead, to the line of his jaw, breathless and grinning like your whole chest might explode.

He stiffens for half a second—pure Haymitch reflex—and then melts. Just completely gives in, arms winding tight around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you hard enough.

“You’re such an idiot,” you murmur against his skin between kisses. “I love you so much.”

He huffs, low and shaky, and mutters, “You’re gonna break me one day, y’know that?”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

Eyes shining. Lips parted. Ring gleaming on your finger where it rests against his chest.

“Guess you’ll have to marry me before that happens,” you whisper.

He looks at you like he’s never seen anything so ridiculous and so holy all at once.

Then, soft but very seriously, “You’re mine.”

Your smile widens. “I’ve been yours.”

You kiss him again—slower this time.

The lake shimmers behind you. The wind stirs the trees. And for a moment, the whole world hushes around the two of you.

Just long enough to hold it.

Just long enough to remember that you made it.

You walk back hand in hand.

Slowly. Like the path feels different now. Like the whole world cracked open and decided to give you everything you thought you weren’t allowed to want.

The ring catches the light every time you move. You can’t stop looking at it. Can’t stop looking at him.

Haymitch doesn’t say much on the walk back.

But he keeps glancing over at you, like he’s making sure this is real. Like if he looks away for too long, you might disappear. Every few steps, he squeezes your hand. Like he can’t help it.

And honestly?

Neither can you.

By the time the houses come into view, the sky’s starting to shift—blue deepening, gold stretching across the fences and porches. It’s still warm, but there’s a breeze now, and you can hear the faint sound of laughter from the backyard.

“They’re gonna be insufferable,” Haymitch mutters.

You grin. “Can’t wait.”

You round the corner of Katniss and Peeta’s house just in time to see Peeta hurl a tomato at Haymitch’s terrible wooden target and Katniss judging him from her lawn chair with deep disappointment.

They both look up when they hear your footsteps.

Peeta immediately brightens. “Oh good, you survived your walk.”

Katniss glances between you. Then your hands.

She freezes. “Is that—?”

Peeta squints. “Wait. Is that a ring?”

You don’t even say anything.

You just lift your hand and smile.

Peeta screams.

Like, actually screams.

Katniss groans and covers her face with both hands. “You’ve killed him.”

Haymitch winces.

Peeta launches himself at you like a human golden retriever, nearly knocking you off your feet. He hugs you first, then Haymitch, then both of you at once while saying something about flower arrangements and dresses and themed desserts.

Katniss stands up and shakes her head. “I’m not wearing a dress.”

“We’ll find you a tasteful jumpsuit,” you say, laughing, tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

Haymitch watches you with something soft and warm in his expression—like the chaos doesn’t matter. Like nothing matters except this.

Except you.

Except the fact that after everything, after all the grief and noise and pain, you are still here.

And so is he.

Together.

Always.

Epilogue

[myownwholewildworld]

gif by @\watchbroken

“you ain’t falling asleep again” — an oldman!joel miller drabble

main masterlist pairing: oldman!jackson!joel miller x f!reader summary: joel takes viagra and can't keep it down. he decides you can help. and the glasses stay on. a/n: please everyone say, THANK YOU SYD @syd-djarin !! i wouldn’t have written this if it wasn’t for you! tysm for allowing me to be shamelessly feral and for cheering me on, you know i love ya <3 anyways, hope you guys like this drabble, i am ovulating. heed the warnings and enjoyyyy xx tags/warnings: 18+, mdni. pwp. filthy smut. the old man’s glasses stay on. breeding kink. consensual somno. use of viagra. brief reference to a limp dick situation cause it’s hot. period sex and descriptions of period blood. joel goes down to town on you (f!oral), so vampire!joel if you wish cause he loves it. fingering. unprotected piv. creampie. age gap, no age gap, your choice. no description of reader other than afab. unedited, soz, i'm horny and i wanted this out asap. w/c: ~1.8k

Joel resented you. Really did.

You were sprawled across his bedsheets, legs splayed without a worry in the world. And here he was, on the rocking chair facing the bed in his Jackson home, watching you enjoy your beauty sleep, while his cock beat hard on his calloused hand.

He’d definitely overdone it with the viagra. At the tender age of sixty-one, Joel sometimes needed a bit of help to get him going. The first time he’d remained limp on your hand, despite your best efforts, had really stuck with him. Truth be told, that hadn’t stopped you from sucking him off, giggling and drooling all over his dick. But still, it embarrassed him. So, when Joel had the chance to trade for some pills, he did.

And now he had to deal with the consequences of his actions. He’d been railing you all night till the first lights glittered in his room—your beautiful body bouncing on his cock while the light reflected off the sweaty drops kissing your skin. But unlike him, you were spent and in much need of some rest.

Joel, on the other hand, had not been able to go back to sleep. As soon as he heard your soft, cute snores, his veiny cock had hardened again. Unconsciously his eyes darted to the sweet nook between your thighs. He really had the best view from here, eagerly watching his spent dripping down your slick slit.

The chair rocked under him, his big hand palming the growing erection, his eyes roving over every delicious curve of your body. And then something caught his eye—the cum leaking from your pussy was no longer white, but a shade of pink.

Joel sat on the verge of the rocking chair, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose to have a better look. No, his old man’s sight wasn’t betraying him—you really were bleeding.

His cock had a mind of its own, reacting to the call of nature in the most primal way. Joel tugged at his shaft, squeezing himself tight while a pearl of precum adorned his flushed cockhead. Your period couldn’t have come at a better time. Joel thoroughly enjoyed himself when that time of the month arrived—a reminder of how breedable you were.

Joel stood up, throbbing cock on hand and his cracking knees betraying his moves. He couldn’t just stay put any longer—surely, you’d understand that he was compelled to do this. That he just couldn’t stop himself, not when you were freely bleeding on his white bedsheets.

You stirred a bit when the wooden floor creaked beneath his weight, but your eyes stayed shut. Joel tiptoed to the foot of the bed and carefully sat on the mattress. Up close, he inspected your cunt with diligence. Your pussy was still gushing out his pinkish cum, but he needed to see red.

Bunching the bedsheets on his fist, Joel swiped your seam clean, his thumb stroking your entrance through the fabric to ensure no remnants were left behind. Once he was satisfied, he laid on his tummy and moved your legs, so the back of your knees rested on his shoulders. Now he could really see your slick cunt up close.

Joel spread your pussy lips, coaxing them apart to stretch your crying hole. A few seconds later, he was gifted with a glob of blood. He thumbed your clit softly, coaching your cunt to leak some more period blood for him, and you quietly squirmed. Another red bubble dripped down your fold, smearing your sweet puffy lips, staining his sheets. His eyes locked in on your beating bud, and he just knew what he had to do.

Hypnotised by the sensuality of it all, Joel leaned in and kissed your begging clit. The fingers that were stretching your lips open for him travelled down your glistening seam until they reached your bloodied opening. Without even doubting himself, Joel shoved his middle and ring ringers in your wet warmth, the squelching of your blood almost making him feel dizzy with lust.

Joel suckled on your clit, your thighs trembling against his ears, and then his mouth dropped. He removed his fingers from your tight hole and coated the skin of your inner thigh with your own blood while his tongue dived in.

Your pussy tasted divine. Metallic, fertile, slightly bitter. His favourite flavour, that was for sure. When Joel lapped your whole seam, from your seeping entrance, through your clit, to your mound, he felt your hand fisting his salt-and-pepper curls.

“Joel… What are you…” you trailed off sleepily, moaning as your back arched off the mattress.

Joel looked up at you, smirking like the devil he was.

“Just let me have this,” he almost implored, pecking the bloody fingerprints he’d left behind on your inner thigh.

“Are you… are you still hard?” you managed to croak out, eyes fluttering shut when Joel latched on your clit again.

“Mhm,” he mumbled, mouth full of you.

Joel alternated between fingering you and prodding your hole with the tip of his tongue, drunk with your iron-like tang, thumb pressing tight circles on your clit. And he truly didn’t stop until your legs were shaking uncontrollably around him and you were mewling your pleasure, your wails echoing in his bedroom.

With a bit more of encouragement, you finally came in his mouth. Joel didn’t hesitate to drink everything your cunt oozed out—the period blood mixing with your cream was his personal nectar. His favourite breakfast. He shamelessly licked your folds and hole clean, revelling in how your entrance quivered around the tip of his tongue when he poked at it.

Your mind was still hazy with the ghost memory of your wet dream, but Joel eating your bloody pussy out definitely had you delirious. This old man of yours knew no shame, no hard limits. And you loved him for it.

When Joel emerged from between your thighs, you gasped, and your pussy gushed. His beard was covered in your period blood, even his cheeks were smudged. And Joel just… looked so chuffed about it all, it made you smile back at him.

You glanced down at his lap when he knelt between your legs, his broad hands resting on your knees to part your thighs for him. His stiff cock greeted you, swaying and throbbing. He was about to fucking explode, so red and swollen, leaking precum everywhere—you truly feared for his wellbeing.

“Fuck, Joel…” You bit down your plump bottom lip, eyes focused on his dick. “How many pills did you take?”

“Two. I wasn’t sure if one was enough, needed to make sure I could fuck you all night long,” he admitted, tapping your clit a few times with his warm, tacky cockhead. “And then you fucking bail on me, falling asleep and leaving me hanging.”

Before you could defend yourself, Joel buried himself in you down to the fucking hilt in one smooth thrust. You braced yourself and grabbed at his forearms, back arched so much that your nipples were kissing his naked chest.

Without exchanging another word, Joel began railing you hard, his throbbing cock growing inside you, impossibly so. He filled your entire pussy, the tip of his dick kissing your cervix every time he hammered in. No thoughts formed in your brain, you could only moan and sob and scream his name so everyone in Jackson would know you were getting your guts fucked.

Joel imposed a punishing pace, anchoring his hands to the headboard while his hips slammed against yours, the clapping of skin on skin competing with your loud groans. His mushroom head dragged alongside your anterior wall every time he ploughed you, rubbing that precise spongey spot inside you that made your pussy hug him tighter.

You just managed to open your eyes and glance up at him. He was gorgeous, the most handsome man you’d ever had the pleasure to meet. And he was all yours.

With every plunge, his old man’s glasses slipped further down the bridge of his aquiline nose, until they caught on the tip of his nose. The glass was all foggy now, and you were almost sure Joel couldn’t see shit right now. The picture made you smirk, but his incessant shoves forced your mouth to shape a perfect O before you began moaning his full name again.

Joel was fucking you so hard into the mattress, the precarious balance of his glasses gave way, and the frames fell onto your chest. Without thinking, you snatched them to put them on back on his nose but then you thought better of it. Instead, you put them on and looked up at him with a sly grin—it was all blurry, but could still make out his face and feral eyes.

“Fucking beautiful,” he husked out.

You felt the pulse emitted by his girthy cock, and the threat of his orgasm called to yours. When the first ropes hit your cervix, you came with him, your pussy milking him dry of every single drop he fed you. Joel filled you up to the brim with his cum and not satisfied with it, he fucked his spent into you for a couple of minutes while your used cunt spasmed around him.

You were truly spent, laboriously breathing, your heart racing wild in your chest. Joel was heaving too, and his greying brows furrowed when his cock left your entrails.

You couldn’t help but look down—you had left pink creamy rings on his hard cock, a mixture of your juices, his cum and your period blood. And when you peeked over at your pussy, you sighed. Yes, your pussy was smeared red, your inner thighs too, and you were still bleeding onto his sheets.

You should have felt slightly embarrassed, but knowing how much Joel enjoyed you on your period, well... there was literally nothing to be shy about. As a matter of fact, you had been waiting for this time of the month to come, because you just knew that Joel would be feral about you.

Letting your head fall back for a breather, you felt Joel pet your overstimulated clit. You whimpered a little, your nerve endings flaring alive, almost painfully, and your brows bunching together in concentration.

You managed to open your eyes again, and then you realised. He was still hard. Very much so.

“You ain’t falling asleep again,” he groaned, pointing an accusatory bloody finger at you. “‘M not done with you yet, sweetheart.”

He was right. Joel didn’t let you.

[tobiosbbyghorl]

yours, like i always was | psh

café for7you followers event

Order for @rjssierjrie @ ⋆˚✿˖°

One, Romance Cream ‘Holding hands under the table.’ Coming right up!

Steeped in years of shared memories and the kind of closeness no one questions. Infused with playful bickering, possessive stares across crowded rooms, and kisses passed off as “just how we’ve always been.” Poured over with hand-holding under the table, knowing looks, and the unspoken rule that no one gets between you. This cup is warm with lifelong comfort, a touch clingy, and undeniably, hopelessly, his.

If you saw Sunghoon, you saw Y/N.

If you saw Y/N, Sunghoon was a few steps behind—sometimes with an iced americano in his hand, sometimes with your tote bag slung over his shoulder because “you always overload it, and I don’t want you pulling your shoulder again.”

At this point, your friends stopped asking who was hosting.

If you were at Heeseung’s place, Sunghoon was in your seat waiting for you. If you were late to lecture, he was already saving the spot beside him, your favorite pen on the desk. If you didn’t show up to a party with him, people assumed you weren’t coming.

The two of you were inseparable. Always had been.

And no one could quite tell where the friendship ended and something else began.

⸻

“Don’t glare like that,” you murmured, nudging Sunghoon under the table with your foot.

“I’m not glaring,” he said flatly, resting his chin in his palm, eyes locked on the stranger who had tried to strike up conversation with you while you waited for the group to arrive.

You gave him a knowing look. “Sunghoon.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Why’d he sit next to you like that? There are six empty chairs.”

“Maybe because the rest of the table is full of backpacks and your entire gym bag?”

He didn’t reply. Just reached for your hand under the table, like it was second nature. Your fingers threaded together automatically.

“Better,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “You holding my hand makes you less jealous?”

“I’m not jealous.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, brushing your thumb against his.

The boy who’d been trying to talk to you glanced over, then blinked when he saw your hands clasped together under the table.

Sunghoon didn’t even flinch. Just shot him a polite, tight-lipped smile and laced his fingers even tighter with yours.

⸻

You’d always been like that.

Touchy. Close. Maybe too close. But it never felt weird.

You had your legs over his during group movie nights. He played with your fingers during class. If you needed to whisper something, your hand would tug on his hoodie until he bent down without even asking what for.

And the kisses?

Well, those started casually too.

It was a Tuesday night after midterms. You were in his room, sprawled out on his bed with an energy drink and two half-eaten convenience store meals between you.

“I can’t feel my brain,” you groaned, rolling onto your side to face him.

Sunghoon let out a soft laugh, flopping onto his back beside you. “You say that every time we study.”

“This time I mean it.”

You reached out and poked his cheek. He grabbed your wrist and tugged you closer until your face was a few inches from his.

“You look like you’re gonna fall asleep.”

“I might.”

“Go ahead,” he said, gaze dropping to your lips. “I’ll wake you up in ten.”

And then, without thinking, without blinking, you leaned forward and kissed him. Just a soft press of lips—slow, sleepy, gentle.

He kissed you back like it was nothing new. Like it was something you’d done for years.

When you pulled away, you didn’t speak.

Just tucked yourself under his arm and sighed.

“Wake me in twenty.”

“Got it,” he whispered, staring at the ceiling like he was trying not to smile.

⸻

From then on, kisses weren’t special. They were yours. Part of the routine.

A goodnight peck after falling asleep on his couch. A quick kiss on the cheek when he handed you coffee. A lazy smooch mid-movie when you were both too tired to speak.

If anyone else tried that, you’d burn the world down.

But Sunghoon? He was your person. Your other half. Your “not-boyfriend” boyfriend.

⸻

One night at dinner with friends, you were seated beside each other, legs touching, sharing a plate even though you both had your own meals.

“Can you two be any more couple-y?” Chaewon asked, exasperated, watching you swipe a noodle off his plate.

Sunghoon didn’t look up. “We’re not a couple.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Heeseung muttered.

You snorted, flicking Sunghoon’s hand. “We’ve always been like this.”

Chaewon narrowed her eyes. “You literally fed him a bite. With your hand.”

“I was helping,” you said innocently.

“You kissed his cheek,” Heeseung added.

“He had sauce there.”

“Your hand is on his thigh right now.”

You blinked. “And?”

Sunghoon just shrugged, completely unfazed, and turned to you.

“Want dessert?”

“Only if you split it.”

“Obviously.”

And under the table, he reached for your hand again—his fingers brushing yours before they laced together like they belonged there.

⸻

The next night, after everyone left, you were curled up on his bed, still wearing his hoodie, your cheeks warm from the wine.

“You know they think we’re dating, right?” you said.

Sunghoon looked up from his phone. “Yeah?”

“They’ve been placing bets.”

“Who’s betting on us?”

You rolled onto your side, hiding your face in the pillow. “Everyone.”

“Wanna make them lose?”

Your breath caught. “What does that mean?”

He leaned over you, smile lazy, eyes soft.

“Means if we keep pretending it’s normal to hold hands under the table and kiss when no one’s looking, I might actually start losing my mind.”

You blinked up at him. “You already kiss me like it’s nothing.”

“That’s the problem,” he whispered. “It’s not nothing.”

His forehead rested against yours.

You reached for his hand again.

He took it without hesitation.

⸻

You and Sunghoon didn’t talk about that moment again.

Not the way his voice dipped when he said it’s not nothing.

Not the way his fingers curled tighter around yours like he was afraid you’d let go.

Not the way your heart tried to punch a hole through your chest when his forehead pressed to yours.

But things changed.

Not in a big, obvious way.

Just in the way you caught him staring at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

Or the way your hands always found each other’s under the table, even when you weren’t seated next to each other—reaching, brushing, lacing fingers like it was a habit neither of you wanted to break.

⸻

At a small get-together the next week, you were curled up on the couch, leaning into Sunghoon with a blanket thrown over your legs. He didn’t seem to care that it was warm inside. He didn’t move away once. If anything, he shifted closer, his palm resting gently on your knee under the fabric.

You should’ve noticed your friends watching.

“Okay, enough,” Chaewon burst out suddenly, pausing the movie. “Can we just clear this up?”

You blinked. “Clear what up?”

She gestured between you two. “You’re obviously in love.”

Sunghoon froze beside you. “I—”

You coughed, voice higher than usual. “No, we’re just—”

“Best friends,” Heeseung deadpanned. “Who kiss. And cuddle. And hold hands. And sit on each other’s laps when there’s a whole other chair available.”

You bit your lip. “Okay, maybe—”

“Sunghoon literally picked Y/N up bridal style at that party last weekend just because she said her feet hurt.”

“She did say her feet hurt,” Sunghoon mumbled.

“That was one time!” you insisted weakly.

Jake just shook his head. “Bro. You two basically live inside each other’s personal space.”

Sunghoon opened his mouth. Closed it. Then turned to look at you, eyes full of something soft and quiet and there.

“You wanna just…” he started slowly, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles, “make it official already?”

Your heart thumped against your ribs.

You blinked. “Like, for real?”

He nodded once. “I think I’ve been in love with you since we were twelve.”

You stared at him. “Sunghoon—”

“And you kept kissing me like it didn’t mean anything,” he added, lips curving slightly, “but I know you. It did.”

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Yeah. It did.”

He smiled and leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours again. Just like that night.

But this time, he kissed you for real.

Not the sleepy, casual kind.

Not the “this is normal for us” kind.

A real kiss—slow, full, lingering like it was built on years of everything you never said but always felt.

When you pulled back, the room was dead silent.

Then someone (probably Jay) clapped.

“I KNEW IT,” Chaewon shouted.

Jake was already transferring money through Venmo. “Pay up, losers!”

Heeseung muttered, “I feel like I should apologize to myself for all the times I sat third wheel without knowing it.”

You and Sunghoon just looked at each other and laughed—fingers still intertwined under the blanket.

⸻

Later that night, walking home, Sunghoon held your hand tighter than usual.

“You okay?” you asked.

He glanced at you sideways. “I just… I can’t believe we waited this long.”

You bumped his shoulder. “I can. We’re idiots.”

“Speak for yourself,” he teased. “I was a little down bad, sure, but I was also very patient.”

You snorted. “You glared at every person who so much as said hi to me.”

“I was being protective.”

You stepped in front of him, walking backwards to face him. “Sunghoon, you once made me fake a phone call because a guy tried to sit next to me on the bus.”

“I regret nothing,” he said proudly. Then added, voice softening:

“I didn’t like the idea of anyone else getting to have you.”

Your heart flipped.

“You have me now,” you said, letting him catch your wrist and pull you in close.

“Yeah,” he whispered, resting his forehead against yours for the third time that week. “I do.”

And this time, when he kissed you, there was no one else around.

No friends. No teasing. No pretending.

Just you and him—and the kind of love that had always been there, hiding in plain sight.

want to order too? visit and place your order on café for7you!

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @firstclassjaylee @morganaawriterr @rikifever @daisyintherainsposts @kkamismom12

[differenteagletragedy]

i nEEEEEEED your take on emotionally sensitive reader watching a heart-wrenching show w simon riley. how do u think he'd react? remain stoic? cry a little? comfort reader? bawl? idkidkidk but I just finished watching when life gives you tangerines and the way i was BAWLING MULTIPLE TIMES PER EPISODE!!

i love your way of writing and how you humanise/domesticate simon riley, so i thought u might be able to do it justice. :333

thank u in advance!!!!

Anon thank you thank you, very relatable (love weeping constantly at literally anything), and soft Simon is my favorite thing in the world <3 <3 <3

Simon likes watching tv with you. He likes being with you in general, likes being at home even better, and there's just something so cozy about cuddling on the couch at the end of the day. It's so normal in a way he never imagined he'd get to experience.

Sometimes he falls asleep, and sometimes he's more focused on you than on whatever you're watching, but tonight, you're on the season finale of the first season of one of your favorite shows, one he'd never seen, so he's paying attention. It's good enough, though a little maudlin for his taste, and he's just about to crack a joke about the dramatics of it all when he hears a sniffle.

He looks over, and you're full-on crying, eyes glued to the screen while tears stream down your face. He glances around the room in confusion, because ... what is this? But he knows you well at this point, has studied you like you're both a person he loves and a lesson to learn, and he can see how invested you are in the show -- that's what you're crying about.

A laugh rumbles out of his chest, the tv forgotten, by him, anyway.

"You fucking serious?" he asks, not unkindly but amused. "You're crying over this?"

"It's sad!" you answer quickly. "Have you not been watching?"

"I've been watching, haven't seen anything to weep over though."

You scoff, pausing the show, and turn to him. He knows he's about to get a talking-to, and he settles in, smirking and excited to hear it.

"One, I'm not weeping, I'm showing natural human emotion to something very sad," you tell him. "Two, she is so strong and so brave? Three she's 16 and she thinks she's going to die, that's --"

"She's not gonna die, love, come off it," he interrupts you, still smirking. "There's six seasons left."

For some reason, that causes you to cry harder. You actually let out a soft little sob, your face crumpling. Simon feels a little bit like a dick for it, but he still laughs. Not because he's laughing at you, but because it's all just so damn adorable.

He tuts, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you to his chest, "Come on now, sweetheart, that's enough of that. Don't like to see you crying, you know that."

He holds you for a moment before he reaches over and presses play, and the two of you stay silent for the rest of the episode -- until you cry again, then a third time. His arms stay around you, firm and solid, and he can't help but smile.

It's something about the knowledge that you're crying over something that doesn't matter, not really, and how that means that there's nothing more serious to cause you grief. It makes him feel like he's doing something right to make you feel comfortable enough to let him see you like this.

When the end credits of the episode start playing, he leans down to kiss the top of your head, and he says, "Think you got some snot on my shirt, take a break for a wardrobe change?"

"You're such a jerk," you tell him, but he can hear the smile in your voice.

"Ah, but I'm your jerk," he concedes, pulling you just a little closer. "I'll take that."

[minorlyatfault]

⪩ ⪨ I'D LIKE TO HANG OUT WITH YOU FOR MY WHOLE LIFE !

✷ PAIRING. . . leo valdez !

✷ CATEGORY . . . HEADCANONS !

✷ l. valdez with a. . . writer!reader

✷ TAGS : hopeless romantic & inventor boyfriend. writer girlie with too many feelings & too many notebooks. pride & prejudice changed his life. "marry me" but it’s not a joke anymore. accidental poetry via flirting. glasses appreciation hours. arguments that end in kissing. he reads your stories like puzzles. love confessions while half-asleep. flustered genius moments. ink-stained hands meet soot-streaked cheeks. literary metaphors turned into real relationships. skirt-induced combustion. hand-on-waist boy behavior. he’s your muse & your biggest fan. ooc. possibly daughter of athena!reader?? but can be any because it's not specified & the only focus is you & leo! sweet mama. don't.

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 NOTES !

001. some might see this as toooo ooc because leo seems less melodramatic. but take note that this is how i see leo. i don't see him as too,,,,, well,,, that(like how people on tiktok say he is), especially with a partner. i see him as more,, well. this.

002. made a pjo work just like a promised fleur !!

003. next will either be annabeth, percy, or jason.

004. hehe,,, new format. idk if it's gonna last

leo did not in a million years think he'd fall for you▰the girl who's always scribbling in a notebook & referencing 19th-century novels as if that's everyday chat.

"if i may say, your eyes are nothing short of remarkable in this lighting."

"leo, that's a car's headlights."

"doesn't make it any less true."

he calls you shakespeare as a nickname. sometimes wordsworth. once called you little miss letters & you just stared at him like,

"do you even know who that is?"

no. he didn't. he just wanted to flirt.

you read him little passages from your stories, & he sits there, chin resting on his hand, pretending to listen casually▰

oh, but his heart? screaming. because the heroine of your new book sounds a little too familiar.

"you write as if you are in love with somebody,"

your pen stops.

"perhaps i am."

he goes blank.

he creates you a mechanical bookmark that automatically turns to the last-read page at a word.

you almost cried.(you did.) he panicked.

"no no no don't cry it doesn't even blow up or anything▰"

leo completely taunts you for being a "romance snob," but as soon as you lent him pride & prejudice, he goes feral for elizabeth bennet.

"she told darcy off to his face?? QUEEN."

he meant the part where elizabeth bennet refused mr. darcy's offer to get married because of his arrogance, conceit.

he never actually says it aloud, but he re-reads sections of your novels when he can't sleep.

he's sure he can interpret your emotions from your metaphors.

your signature is so nice to him it's really not fair.

like??? how's the "i love you" you wrote on a post-it card hotter than any kiss he's ever received??

sometimes you get to read in the middle of the forge,

& he does this thing like it's pissing him off.

"babe, can you move, i don't want to weld my hand off by mistake."

but he enjoys having you there. grounding him. tempering the smoke.

you put on his tool belt one time as a joke & he is not fine.

"you can't just▰arm yourself like that."

leo is a yearner, shut up. he is. he is. he is. he is.

but not the dramatic kind.(even though he is,,,, melodramatic lol)

he just follows you around when you don't notice. eyes gentle. wondering how he happened to catch the break.

you begin to keep a journal of "things leo valdez says that belong in a novel."

he reads it. gets embarrassed.

"you really think i'm that charming?"

"no,"

you say flat out.

"i just romanticize everything."

you nearly kiss once when you proof the grammar on something he's written & he says,

"ugh, marry me then."

it's a joke. until it's not. until you're paralyzed. two inches apart.

he thinks your glasses are hot. period. especially when you're at work. "brainy babe alert."

you decipher once while sitting on his workbench, still clutching your notebook.

he pushes away just to say,

"you better be writing this down."

"shut up & kiss me, valdez."

"yes, ma'am."

you write a poem about him once & he reads it without your knowledge.

it's not even mushy▰it's witty & nice & totally him. like him him he hasn't stopped thinking about it since.

you refer to him as "my love" once in passing & he short circuits.

like. completely speechless. jaw dropped. attempts to play it cool & walks into a wall.

he reads wuthering heights just so he can argue with you about the ending.

you end up arguing under the stars for hours.(the camp is used to it by now.)

you're passionate. he's smiling.

you kiss after like it's the only thing that makes sense.

the first time he says he loves you, it's while you're half asleep on his shoulder, notebook falling off your lap.

"just so you know,"

he whispers.

"you don't have to write the perfect love story. you're already living it."

he sits behind you as you write. doesn't say a word

just observes the way your fingers move, the way you bite your pen.

sometimes he leans his chin on your shoulder & hums just to make you squirm.

"is this scene inspired by me?"

"no."

it is. he knows it is.

you wrote the smile he makes when he's trying not to, the fidgeting he does when he's anxious.

it's him. all him.

he speaks to your thighs. actually rests his cheek on them while you're editing a chapter & mutters,

"you've been ignoring me for two hours."

"leo, you're literally on my lap."

"yeah but emotionally???"

you enter the forge wearing a flowy skirt & glasses & he ignites. like literally burns something on fire. but like, he's still a goofball despite being flustered.

"oh, sweet mama! you can't just come in here looking like a hot librarian!! i'm working!!"

he's fond of when your hands are ink-stained. kisses your fingers & says,

"you're dangerous, babe. lethal. poetic. & hot."

you blink & say,

"you have soot on your nose."

he kisses you harder afterwards.

"can you stop writing while kissing me?"

"you said something good. i had to jot it down."

"i'm literally trying to seduce you."

"yeah & you're doing great. keep going."

when you're angry, you don't scream. you just write brooding metaphors about men of fire who are too proud to say they were wrong.(i'm pretty sure i've mentioned this to m. grayson hcs)

leo reads it. brings you tea. writes "i'm sorry" in scraps & sweets.

he makes you a small metal rose that folds up to have a quote from persuasion inside.

you almost faint. like total victorian swooning moment.

leo legit freaks out.

"was it too much??"

"no,"

you breathe.

"it was perfect."

kiss, kiss, kiss!

he adores when you read to him.

eyes shut, head on your lap, full boyfriend mode.

even if he doesn't get half the prose, he just loves the sound of your voice.

you kiss him in the middle of an argument.

full-on push him against a wall, glasses crooked, lips on his.

he's shocked. dazed. winded.

"okay,"

he whispers.

"you win."

he touches your waist when he's tired. or flustered. or when you're speaking too quickly & he needs to anchor himself.

"leo?"

"what? you're cute. i'm suffering."

you bring him snacks when he works & put small notes on the containers.

"eat something or i'll write a death scene for you."

he values those a lot. he values you a lot.

at times, you whisper story ideas to him as you snuggle.

he grips you tighter & mutters,

"sounds familiar."

he's your muse & he knows it. struts around like,

"i inspired five poems today. that's a record."

he reads one of your journals once & finds a line that says,

"i didn't believe in fate until he kissed me like i wrote the stars myself."

he chokes. turns red. goes to build something just to cope.

he kisses your glasses.

straight-up presses a kiss to the lens just to be annoying.

"you're so dumb."

"you love me."

"unfortunately."

you slow dance after he's done forging sometimes. no music.

just the drone of machines & your quiet laughter against his chest.

when you're feeling overwhelmed, he makes you a reading fort out of junk blankets & pillows & smuggles chocolate under the lip like a dragon sharing treasure.

he enjoys being sandwiched between your legs as you braid his hair & read poetry aloud.

he's bored. he's not. he's in love.

when he does say the words "i love you," it's soft. honest. full of love.

"i love you,"

he breathes, forehead to yours.

you whisper,

"write that down."

he laughs. he kisses you.

"i already did."

© minorlyatfault, 2025

[beenbaanbuun]

I saw this pic of Twitter and immediately thought of Morticia Hwa and Gomez Joong 😭😭😭

OH THIS IS… HOLY MOLY

(this is not proof read and is very short)

——————————————————————————

the sitting room is quiet, a heavy haze resting over the four members of the household as they recover from the ungodly amount of food that san had prepared for dinner. in the butler’s defence, there were meant to be more of you, but a disaster at the sanctuary meant mingi couldn’t come, and yunho had gotten caught up in some artistic daze so deep that he’d been unable to draw himself away from his canvas, let alone leave his house. a meal for six became a meal for four, and not a crumb was left to spare.

“we should fire him,” hongjoong groans as he allows his body to become slack against his husband’s. it’s hardly like him to lounge so casually, and yet you find yourself unable to judge from your position, lay on the back of your favourite bear rug. it’s music to your ears when seonghwa lets out a quiet chuckle at the sudden appearance of a torso on his lap, and you give them both a lazy smile.

“on what grounds?” seonghwa purrs with so much sickly sweet affection in his tone that you’re sure his teeth must be rotting, “we can hardly fire the best butler we’ve ever had on the basis that his cooking is too good.” lithe fingers come to rest atop hongjoong’s head, sweeping through his curls to separate them. you watch as his eyes flutter closed under the touch, too full of food and love to resist the sweet call of total relaxation for much longer.

“i suppose no one else would be able to put up with our darling dove as well as san does.” you throw a mumbled complaint in hongjoong’s direction at that. unsurprisingly, it falls upon deaf ears. “anyone else would be running for the hills the moment she decides it’s time for her week long baking phase.”

visions of flour clouds and a red faces butler fill your mind, and you can’t help but grin. not one decent cake had come from your few attempts, but the fond memories are enough to make up for it. after that first messy attempt, which saw san standing over you as you meticulously wiped down his kitchen, you had to keep your baking a secret. san had decided rather swiftly that he’d rather suffer through your complaining than see you try to whip up a cake batter again, but he didn’t live in the kitchen, and there were plenty of times you had the place to yourself.

you have no doubt that he knew, though. after all, ingredients don’t just vanish into thin air, and the smell of burnt food is one that tends to linger. it’s been months since your short-term hobby came to a head though, and he’s never once brought it up.

yeosang’s theory is that he doesn’t want to stir up any further interest in you. as far as you’re concerned, he’s just being his usual, polite self. after all, mentioning a ladies failures is quite high up on the list of faux pas’ that you’ve created in your head.

“you make it seem worse than it was,” you complain from the floor, face squished rather unceremoniously against jongho’s back, your words muffled by his fur. the rug itself is warm with the spirit that runs through it like blood, and it lulls you into a sleepy state of which there is no escape. not that you necessarily want to escape it; perhaps if you fall asleep down here, seonghwa might carry you to bed instead of you having to walk it…

the chorus of laughter from the two men is enough to keep you awake for now, though.

“perhaps we’re remembering it wrong, but i seem to recall a rather continuous stream of inedible goods coming from that kitchen,” hongjoong says, “and whilst i adore you, dove, no amount of love could ever make me want to repeat that experience.”

“yeosang liked them!” it’s a bare faced lie, but with the werewolf having already taken to his bed, you have no one to dispute your claim. a perfect crime, if it weren’t for the fact that you’re such a bad liar.

“if we say we believe you will you promise never to set foot in there again?” seonghwa asks with a lilt of laughter laced through his words. it’s such a pretty sound, and you can’t help but find yourself nodding along to his offer. he smiles down at you, honest and kind as though you hold the world in your hands. “good girl.”

[reilemon]

♥︎Amore Immortale♥︎ Ch.4

Chapter Title ♥︎ Silk Dress and Soft Lips ♥︎ ch.3

♡︎ synopsis: Your first steps beyond the mansion lead to more than you ever anticipated.

♡︎ pairing: vampire!Xavier, vampire!Zayne, vampire!Rafayel, vampire!Sylus x fem!reader (separately and together)

⚠ MINORS DNI (18+ ONLY) ⚠

♡︎ tags: there's nothing that spicy going on here

♡︎ word count: 7.3k

♡︎ a/n: i'm so sorry for the delay. this chapter had at least ten different outlines, and when i finally settled on one, i had to plan an outline for the chapter five. i hope you'll enjoy this chapter.

♡︎ Thanks to my dearest friend and beta reader ♡︎@its-de♡︎ for helping.

divider by @/strangergraphics

When your eyes flutter open, morning light has already begun to bleed through the heavy velvet curtains. The bed beneath you still holds the warmth of sleep, cocooned in sheets that smell faintly of lavender and rose. For the first time since arriving at this secluded manor, you wake without fear. There's a faint ache in your muscles that reminds you of the day before. A dull throb stirs behind your eyes - an echo of overstimulation, as if your body is reminding you that too much pleasure, too much attention, comes with its own price.

Your mind, still fogged with sleep, begins to gather specks of memory:

Xavier’s fingers tracing underneath your blanket, Rafayel’s teasing grin, Zayne’s attentive gaze.

And then it dawns on you -

Today, you are meant to return to your home in the village. Zayne will accompany you. You hadn’t set a time, but you already feel a flicker of guilt at sleeping in. With a small sigh, you throw the heavy duvet aside and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, letting the chill of the floor remind you that this house is never fully warm.

That’s when your gaze falls on the nightstand.

A single folded note rests atop the dark wood. It hadn’t been there when you fell asleep.

You reach for it, fingertips brushing the thick parchment as you unfold it. The handwriting is neat and formal, though a bit hard to read. The small flicker of excitement you hadn’t even realized you were holding begins to dim.

I’ve been called on an emergency case.

I sincerely apologize for breaking our agreement.

I hope you will understand.

- Zayne

Your shoulders sink before you’ve even reached the signature. Zayne is a doctor, or something close to one, as he’d said. His schedule must be unpredictable. Emergencies do not wait for convenience.

You understand this. And yet…

You were looking forward to this morning. Not just to seeing your house again, but to his company.

You fold the note carefully and set it back on the nightstand.

Perhaps Xavier has returned from wherever Sylus dragged him last night. Maybe he would accompany you. If only you knew where you were - if the roads from the mansion weren’t still a mystery - you would go alone.

With a deep sigh, you rise from the bed, reach for your silk robe, and gather yourself for the day. The hallway is still dim when you step toward the bathroom.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

You emerge sometime later refreshed, having washed away some of the disappointment.

Then you stop - a yelp escapes you before you can suppress it.

Leaning casually against the wall across from the bathroom door with arms crossed is Rafayel.

You exhale, one hand flying to your chest.

His grin widens, entirely too pleased. “Didn’t mean to scare you.” he says, in the tone of someone who absolutely meant to scare you.

You glare, but your pulse is already calming.

“Well,” you murmur, “I’m fully awake now. So… mission accomplished.”

You notice, then, his appearance - less careless than usual. His shirt is buttoned properly, with a tailored vest snug over his waist, and his long coat folded over one arm. His boots are laced, polished. He appears as if he’s ready to go somewhere.

Which is more than can be said for you.

You tug your robe a little tighter around yourself, suddenly too aware of the thin silk clinging to your skin, the lace at your collarbone. He’s seen you like this before - ill, half-conscious, far from alluring - but now there’s no fever, no excuse. And his eyes… though they wander, they don’t linger. He lets you keep your dignity.

“Do you want breakfast before we leave,” he asks, with casual smoothness, “or in the carriage?”

You blink. “Leave?”

He chuckles as he pushes off the wall and straightens. “I’ll be your escort today.” he says, with a mock bow. “Try not to look so shocked. I can be reliable. Sometimes.”

Your mouth opens and then closes again. Not because you disapprove - but because Rafayel, of all people, seemed the least likely to volunteer for the duty. He doesn’t strike you as someone who wakes up early or offers rides out of the goodness of his heart.

“Oh,” you manage, “Alright.”

Before you can gather your thoughts, he adds, “Also – I need new brushes and decent parchment, so I thought we might take a small detour to Linkon. It's a charming city. You’ll love it.”

A sudden invitation to the city you’ve always wanted to visit. As enticing as it sounds, you should ask questions.

Instead, you say –

“Give me fifteen minutes.”

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

In the carriage, as the village fades behind you, a swirl of emotions brews within you - surprise, relief, and something like confusion. You sit in the comfortable velvet-lined seat, fingers curled loosely around your skirt, watching the trees blur into dusk - stained light.

Your first stop that morning had been your little house. Nothing waited inside but stale air, a thin layer of dust that settled on your furniture. You moved through it methodically, sealing every window, locking every latch.

While Rafayel ventured into the village to gather lunch for the road, you used the time to pack. His voice echoed back to you when you reached for a fifth dress –

“Don’t pack too many. There are beautiful ones in Linkon. ”

You’d protested, of course - you couldn’t afford such luxuries. But he’d only sighed, theatrical and exasperated, like a man offended by your frugality.

“Please,” he’d said. “I would never suggest you spend your own money.”

So you packed only four of your best dresses, the ones you wore rarely. You added underclothes, a shawl, a few trinkets from your shelves, and your journal - still mostly blank.

You were nearly finished when you paused.

The truth was - you didn’t know how long you’d be gone. And you still hadn’t asked the bookstore owner for more time off. You’d meant to use your supposed head injury as an excuse, but now… you wondered if perhaps something truly had been knocked loose inside you.

Despite the comfort of the mansion, despite the attentiveness of the men beneath its roof, you still know nothing about them. You’ve seen their smiles, felt their touch. But you haven’t seen what’s behind the curtain.

You shake your head.

Across the room, your jewelry box glinted on the nightstand - a small reminder of why you fled here in the first place. Inside the bag, the journal, whispered its encouragement. Go. See. Let it unfold.

You’ve been offered something people only read about. Why not take it? How bad can it be?

With a trembling breath leaving your lips, you reach for the bottom drawer of your desk.

From it, you pulled a small bundle of old letters, their pages yellowed with age, tied together with a faded orange ribbon. Though you never wish to return to the life you left behind, there is one part of it you’ve never been able to let go of. You placed them gently on top of your belongings and closed the bag.

Now, the trees whip past the window. The sun is sinking low, spilling hues of rose and amber through the glass, warm light casting soft halos along the velvet seats. Rafayel dozes across from you, arms folded, head tilted against the padded wall of the carriage. Asleep like this, bathed in the pale blush of sunset, he looks ethereal - as though painted in some forgotten century by hands that knew beauty was not simply meant to be seen, but worshiped. You allow yourself a longer glance than you should. A small, involuntary smile tugs at your lips before you quietly look away.

He’d returned from the village with a basket of fresh food wrapped in cloth. You had asked him to wait in the carriage while you stopped by the bookstore - he agreed with a wink, but didn’t hide his amusement at your request.

“You’re worried I’ll draw attention?”

“You do look like someone who stepped out of an opera stage.”

“Flattering.”

And so, he waited, lounging inside the too - grand carriage parked in front of your modest home while you walked to your workplace.

You’d expected the worst - scrutiny, resistance, judgment.

But the bookstore owner had barely blinked. He’d nodded as you explained, gesturing vaguely to the fading bruise on your forehead. He’d even offered to find a temporary replacement, suggesting that you return only when you felt fully recovered. You’d stood there in mild disbelief, muttering your gratitude as a strange pressure rose in your chest - a tight, unfamiliar weight that tasted like freedom.

Now, seated in the carriage, the wheels humming softly beneath you, you lean your head back against the velvet and exhale.

Maybe - for once - the world is giving you permission to want something more. Maybe the stars have aligned, if only for a moment. Maybe this isn’t danger.

Rafayel stirs, his eyelashes fluttering before his eyes open fully.

“Are we there?” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

You smile faintly. “Not yet.”

He stretches, long and catlike, spine arching until the seat creaks beneath him. His coat falls off one shoulder, exposing the fine linen beneath. He blinks at you, then turns his gaze to the window.

“We should reach the inn before dark,” he says, rubbing at one eye with the back of his hand. “Supposedly has a very charming garden view.”

Then he makes a small pause before his gaze returns to you, steadier this time. “Are you truly content leaving your house like that? Unattended, I mean?”

You nod. “I arranged for someone to keep an eye on it.”

He raises a brow. “Someone?”

“My neighbors. Two boys - Luke and Kieran. They live alone, I think. Still young and mischievous, but clever. I paid them while you were out hunting down our lunch.”

Rafayel hums, tilting his head. “I admire your pragmatism. Though I’m now picturing your little cottage being turned into some kind of goblin den by a pair of unsupervised village imps.”

You laugh. “They’re harmless. Just a bit wild. But they’ve always been kind to me.”

His expression softens, just slightly. “Kindness is underrated.”

He shifts again, reclining once more but this time keeping his gaze on the window. His voice is quieter now, almost thoughtful. “Let’s hope they stay that way.”

You glance over, lips parting to ask what he means - but he’s already closed his eyes again.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

By the time you arrive, the sky has fallen into that soft blue hour between dusk and true dark. The carriage slows to a creaking halt before the inn - a modest two-story house, its stone walls covered in ivy.

Rafayel hops down first, then turns and offers you his hand.

Inside, the inn is warm in that old, lived-in way. The scent of stewed root vegetables, fish, ale, and beeswax candles fills your senses as you walk inside.

The innkeeper is an older woman with tired eyes but a kind smile. She welcomes you both as you approach her. When Rafayel inquires about rooms, she shakes her head with an apologetic look.

“I’m afraid there’s only one room left for the night,” she says. “It’s small but comfortable. Meant for two - but only one bed.”

Rafayel turns his head toward you. “Is that alright with you?” he asks, voice low.

There’s a flicker of warmth blooming beneath your skin. You swallow it down, lift your chin just slightly.

“It’s fine,” you say, maybe too quickly. “I don’t mind.”

He nods once and reaches for his coin purse.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The room is small but charming. The bed sits near a narrow window with a lace curtain swaying faintly from the breeze. The innkeeper lit the small fireplace, its glow painting the walls in gold and its warmth seeping into your limbs. There’s a single armchair, and a small desk.

You set your bag down beside the wardrobe, dust motes flickering in the firelight. Rafayel rests his coat across the armchair���s back, then turns to survey the room.

“I’ll take the floor,” he says after a moment. “Or the chair. Honestly, I may not sleep at all. I spent half the ride unconscious. I might end up sketching until sunrise.”

You glance at him, then nod after a moment, unsure what else to say yet, heart beating a little too fast.

He gives you space, stepping aside to let you prepare however you like. There’s still dinner to be eaten, and bathing to be done.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

You sit curled on one side of the bed, your knees tucked beneath the duvet, the fabric of your nightgown rumpled from being in your bag. The neckline slips a little with each shift of your shoulders, but you are too tired to fuss with it.

A single candle flickers on the nightstand beside you, casting amber light across the open pages of your book. The words blur slightly at the edges of your focus, not from exhaustion, but from distraction. Your eyes read - your mind does not.

Across the room, Rafayel sits in the armchair near the hearth, his posture languid, one leg crossed over the other. He has changed into silk pajamas, the robe over his shoulders loose and open, revealing his collarbone. One hand holds a sketchbook balanced on his knee while he’s sketching something.

The only sounds are the turn of your pages and the soft scratches of his pencil.

You shift beneath the covers, smoothing the sheets over your lap, watching him settle into the armchair once more. You glance toward the hearth, then back to him.

“You barely touched your food earlier.”

His eyes flick toward you. “The fish disappointed me,” he says simply.

You blink. “How so?”

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “It was too dry and too seasoned for my taste.”

You adjust your pillow and lie back. “Are you truly going to sketch the whole night?” you ask softly.

His pencil stills. He glances up, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That depends. I might borrow your book once you’ve fallen asleep.”

You smile and shake your head. “You’ll be disappointed. There’s not a single scandalous scene in it. No opera ghosts. No masked lovers.”

He chuckles, “I suppose it will lull me to sleep then.”

You watch him another moment. He’s still lounging, still pretending to be perfectly content away from the bed. But the fire is burning low now. The armchair doesn’t look nearly as inviting as the mattress beneath you.

“You know,” you say gently, your eyes returning to your book, “it’s perfectly fine if you want to sleep here. The bed’s large enough.”

There’s a pause, and you can feel his eyes on you. “Are you sure?”

You nod, and then proceed trying to read the words in front of you.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

Rafayel slowly slips under the covers, cautious not to disturb your sleep. He lies on his back at first, his arms fold loosely across his chest, and for a long moment, he doesn’t move - doesn’t even breathe deeply.

Then, slowly, his head tilts. Just enough for his eyes to find you in the half-light, drawn irresistibly to the slow, steady rhythm of your sleeping breath. His gaze traces the line of your shoulder where the blanket has slipped down just slightly, the delicate arch of your collarbone.

And then - your neck. The exposed stretch of skin, soft and unguarded, glows faintly in moonlight. He stares, not because he wishes to - but because he cannot resist.

He swallows.

Then, with a breath so quiet it might have been imagined, he turns away, and his eyes close.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The road to Linkon city is far longer than you anticipated.

You’d always known the city was distant, but somehow, since moving to the quiet village nestled in the woods, you had assumed it was closer. More reachable. More real.

And now, here you were, halfway into the journey, with another inn stay ahead of you before you’d even glimpse its skyline. Another night, another bed.

Hopefully there will be more than one room available, or at least a room with two separate beds.

Though… you can’t say you’re entirely opposed to sharing again. If you even shared at all last night. You fell asleep with Rafayel still curled in the armchair, and when you awoke this morning, the other side of the bed was cold.

But still - somewhere in the haze of sleep - you remembered shifting in the night. A subtle dip in the mattress. A breath not your own. The faint warmth of someone retreating just before your awareness returned.

Or perhaps it had been a dream.

“Cutie, are you listening to me?”

The sound of Rafayel’s voice draws you back. You blink, lifting your eyes to find him watching you from the seat beside you, head tilted in theatrical disappointment.

He has his sketchbook open across one knee, a pencil poised in his fingers. The carriage sways gently beneath you, but his hand remains steady.

“Sorry,” you murmur, offering a sheepish smile. “I lost my focus.”

His brow furrows, faint and brief. Just a flicker of concern. “Did you not sleep well last night?”

You hesitate, but only for a second. “I did. I think I’m just anxious. I keep wondering when we’ll finally reach Linkon.”

He glances out the window, his features bathed in the golden morning light that makes his skin look almost too smooth, too perfect, like something carved and painted rather than born.

“We should arrive tomorrow before lunchtime,” he says, then looks back at you. “I didn’t know you were that excited to see it.”

You sigh softly, your gaze drifting to the scenery rushing past the window. The world out there feels both impossibly far and achingly close.

“It always sounded like a place where life happens. Loud, inspiring, brilliant,” you say. “A complete opposite of where I’m from.”

You don’t realize you’ve gone quiet until Rafayel shifts beside you, watching you with an unreadable expression.

You blink, shake your head, and smile at him.

“I think I’m ready to draw you.”

That earns you a defeated sigh, yet he hands you the sketchbook.

“Since you were so eager.”

He leans back into the cushioned seat, arms crossed. You start with the shape of his face, tracing the curve of his jaw. You mark the arch of his brow, the slope of his mouth. But nothing sits right. Everything comes out just a little off. His lips are too wide. His eyes too hollow. His nose - good gods, what is that?

He watches the entire time.

At first, he’s quiet, eyes flicking between your hand and your face as if studying which one is struggling more. You can feel the weight of his gaze - not heavy, not judgmental, but patient.

Your strokes grow slower. More hesitant. It’s harder than you expected. He’d made it look effortless - lines gliding into shape, expression emerging from nothing. But now, your pencil skips, your fingers cramp, and the image looking back at you is not him. Not even close.

You stare at it for a long moment, then try to hide it behind your palm.

“No,” he says softly, amusement in his voice. “I saw that. Show me.”

“It’s terrible.”

“I’m your teacher. You must let me critique you.”

You shake your head, but he leans closer.

“Come on, darling. I can handle a poorly drawn nose.”

You exhale, defeated, and slowly turn the sketchbook toward him.

He takes one look, then raises his hand to cover his mouth. Not fast enough.

The laughter doesn’t quite escape him, but the betrayal is written in every twitch of his lips, every tremor in his voice.

He clears his throat, and composes himself. “It’s - charming.”

“Don’t lie.”

“No, no, I mean it. It’s… very expressive.”

You squint at him. “You’re holding back laughter.”

He holds up his hand. “Only because I respect your effort.”

Your cheeks flush, but despite yourself, a laugh bubbles up. “You’re impossible to draw.”

“You’re telling me. I’ve spent ages avoiding mirrors.”

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

After the laughter faded and the sketchbook was tucked firmly back into his satchel, you returned to reading your book. Rafayel didn’t push you to try again. He didn’t tease. He simply went quiet as he started reading a book he picked out before you departed, and the hours slipped by.

Now, you stand before the window of your room in the second inn - a taller, older building with high, arched ceilings. The curtains are pulled aside as you gaze at the deep navy sky. You’re not tired exactly, but there’s a weariness in your bones. It’s the kind of weight that arrives after trying, failing, and wondering if you should have tried at all.

You’d wanted to draw him. Not just because you wanted to learn - but because it felt like a way in. And you failed. You had felt incompetent - with the way your pencil refused to cooperate, the way your hands couldn’t capture a smidgen of his essence.

So, you had just laughed it off. And now… you don’t know what to make of it.

You turn around, ready to curl up in the bed with your book, but a knock on the door stops you. The familiar and distinct knock.

When you open it, you see Rafayel leaning casually against the doorframe, holding the sketchbook and a pencil. His sleeves are rolled to the elbows, and the collar of his shirt is loose.

His eyes meet yours. “Let’s try again.” He continues, as you step aside to let him in. “You do realize drawing a portrait in a moving carriage is something even trained hands deem a challenge?”

There’s no trace of mockery in his voice. “You were ambitious,” he says, setting the sketchbook down at the edge of the bed. “Not foolish.”

With your permission he settles onto the bed, balancing the sketchbook on one knee. You follow, smoothing the fabric of your nightdress as you sit beside him, close enough for the heat of his thigh to brush yours when either of you shift.

“Start with pieces,” he says, glancing at you. “They’re easier to focus on. Less overwhelming than the whole.”

Then he begins to draw. You watch as a single eye begins to take shape on the page. First the almond curve of the eyelid, then the sweep of lashes, the iris unfurling effortlessly.

You can’t look away. It isn’t just how well he draws. It’s how easily it comes to him, how everything seems to obey his hand.

“Here,” he says, nudging the sketchbook gently toward you, “your turn. Just replicate this eye. Nothing more.”

You take the pencil from him, your fingers brushing his. You try to draw it exactly as he did. But it is so embarrassingly different than his.

He leans in - breath soft against your ear.

“Don’t think about making it beautiful,” he murmurs. “Just make it real.”

You nod, biting your lip slightly, and start over.

Somewhere between the third and fourth sketch, he shifts, stretching out his legs with a quiet groan, and you do the same, both of you sliding down off the bed to sit on the floor, backs resting against its edge. Now, you’re shoulder to shoulder.

You start to feel more confident, and now you’re itching to try your hand at drawing his eyes again. You steal a glance upward, then look away too fast. You try again, tracing the shape in your mind before putting it on paper. But when you lift your eyes for the third time, he’s already watching you.

“You’ll have to keep looking,” he says, voice teasing. “It’s difficult to draw something while avoiding it.”

Your eyes meet his. The candlelight reflects in his irises, painting them with impossible color-ocean blue melting into fuchsia dusk. They look unreal. Like they were never meant to be captured by anything as clumsy as your hand.

Your breath catches. You glance back down at the page, heart skipping once. But you try again.

His gaze doesn’t waver. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t tease - he simply lets you look.

You lose track of how long you spend on his eyes. The candle burns lower, the air cooler, and yet the heat in your cheeks doesn’t fade.

When at last you stop, your hand aching, your page smudged and worn at the edges, you look up at him. He leans closer, observing your work.

Then he nods once, “You’ve learned,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It’s good. Truly.”

You sigh in relief.

He looks at you a beat longer, then glances down at the sketch again.

“Shall we move onto the lips?”

The heat floods your cheeks at once. You close the sketchbook a little too quickly and give a small, flustered laugh.

“It’s late,” you murmur, unable to meet his eyes. “I think… we should leave that for tomorrow.”

You can hear the amusement in his voice. “Of course.”

He stands up from the floor, and then extends his hand. “Come on, artist.”

You take it, your fingers slipping into his palm, letting him pull you upright. His strength is effortless, his grip warm.

“Thank you,” you say, still holding his hand for a moment before letting go. “For the lesson.”

His brows lift slightly, and then he gives a soft laugh, “Cutie,” he murmurs, stepping back toward the door, “I’m more than happy to be your inspiration.”

When you reach the threshold, he doesn’t move immediately. He pauses, one hand resting against the doorframe as he turns to face you again. The corridor beyond him is dim and quiet, lit only by a line of low-burning sconces.

He looks at you then - not with mischief, not with bravado, but with something that feels almost like admiration and makes you hold your breath. He leans in, and then - his lips find your cheek.

He pulls back slowly, and he meets your eyes again, “Goodnight.” he whispers.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The kiss still lingers, somewhere beneath the surface of your skin.

You didn’t need to dream about it - the memory was vivid enough, playing on a loop behind your eyes as the morning sunlight spilled through your window, as your breakfast was served, as the two of you sat across from one another at the carriage. He hadn’t mentioned it. Neither had you.

And yet every glance, every word passed between you was tinged with something new.

Now, the city opens before you like a stage, and you step into it not as a dreamer but as a living part of it. Linkon.

It does not welcome you gently.

The streets are alive in a way you’ve never known - the clatter of hooves on stone mixes with the thrum of chatter and bartering voices, the rustle of silk skirts and crisp boots, the slap of linen being drawn back from market stalls. Color spills from the awnings of cafés and apothecaries, bookbinders and watchmakers, their storefront windows glowing with early afternoon light.

Perfumes drift through the air, mingling with pipe smoke, expensive leather, roasting nuts, varnish, the sweet tang of grapes and pomegranates from a vendor’s cart. Somewhere not far, a woman is singing in another language, her voice soaring above the clamor with eerie beauty, like a siren refusing to be drowned out.

Your steps are slow. You want to see everything. And you do - but perhaps too much.

You try not to show it. You keep your shoulders back, your hands at your sides as you walk, your eyes wide but not darting. Still, the sheer density of the world pressing around you begins to press inward. There are too many windows to peer into, too many conversations half-caught, too many directions to look.

And all of it is beautiful.

But it is also… loud. You’ve spent too long in rooms where the loudest thing was your own breathing. The hush of your cottage. The murmur of turning pages. The quiet hands of four strange men who moved with fluid elegance.

You should feel exhilarated. Instead, your breath quickens in your chest, just slightly. The noise doesn't grow louder, but it closes in. Your thoughts scatter like spilled seeds, struggling to hold onto anything grounding.

Rafayel, walking beside you with one hand in his coat pocket, slows his pace. He glances at you sideways, with quiet attention.

You feel his presence shift closer. Then, his voice - silky as ever - “Would you like to take my arm?”

You blink, staring at him for a moment. Then you nod, looping your hand around his elbow, the gesture settling in your chest like a soft exhale.

He leads you through a narrower street now, the crowd thinning just slightly. He guides you beneath a small archway, the stone overhead carved with faded floral reliefs. At the end of the alley is a wooden door painted in rich red color. A bell chimes when he opens it.

Inside, the air shifts and the city falls away.

The art supply shop is quiet - saturated with the earthy scent of aged wood, varnish, paper, and pigments. Shelves rise to the ceiling, stacked with hand-bound sketchbooks, jars of powders, brushes, wooden palettes.

A silver-haired man lifts his head from behind the counter, his face brightening with a respectful smile. “Ah. Mister Rafayel. It’s been too long.”

Rafayel inclines his head, smile faint but genuine. “You know how it is. I lose time when the seasons change.”

The man’s eyes drift to you, polite but curious. “And is this your apprentice?”

You flush at the word. Rafayel glances at you, amused.

“Something like that.”

You look around slowly, drinking in every corner of the shop. You exhale, deeper this time, and only then do you realize how tightly your lungs had been held.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

In your hands, you hold a new sketchbook and a couple of new pencils, wrapped neatly in brown paper. Rafayel carries his own bundle beneath one arm, mostly brushes. The two of you return to the busy city center, and your hand found its place back around his arm.

Then, a smooth, male voice calls out from behind.

“Rafayel!”

He stops mid-step, spine straightening with an audible sigh that seems to come for exasperation.

“Thomas,” he says, turning on his heel with a tight smile.

You turn as well, and your gaze lands on a tall, hazelnut-haired man in a crisply tailored suit.

Thomas’ attention turned to you for a moment as Rafayel introduced you, and then it returned almost immediately to Rafayel.

“I was going to send a letter,” he says, “about the new patrons. A few rather wealthy collectors with a particular interest in your work.”

Rafayel exhales through his nose, his voice dry. “Sending a letter still sounds good.”

Thomas lets out a slow, theatrical sigh. You catch the dynamic between them immediately -business tangled with camaraderie, wrapped in mutual irritation. It makes you bite back a smile.

“How about tonight?” Thomas offers, brushing imaginary dust from his lapel. “My wife and I will be attending the opera. You’re both invited to our box.”

You feel your expression brighten before you can stop it - Rafayel notices at once.

With a soft shrug that was far more graceful than indifferent, he says, “That might make the conversation tolerable.”

Thomas nods. “We’ll see you there. Half an hour before curtain. You remember the place.”

With a small bow he walks away, disappearing into the crowd.

Your excitement is short lived as reality settles in.

“Rafayel?”

He slows beside you, eyes flicking to you. “Yes?”

“I don’t have anything suitable to wear. Not for the opera.”

He chuckles and then without a word, slides his arm gently across your shoulders. The pressure is light, but firm enough to turn your path.

“That is easily remedied, cutie.”

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

You sink into the soft, velvet-lined chair beside Rafayel. Just in front of you, seated slightly lower in the the private box, Thomas leans toward his wife - a sweet-faced woman with a softly rounded belly, her gloved hands folded neatly atop it as she murmurs something to him.

You glance down at your dress, still in disbelief that you’re wearing it.

It had all happened so quickly. Once you and Rafayel arrived at the atelier, he had requested something ready-made and elegant, but capable of last-minute alterations. The dress he picked out from the selection for you was a silk unlike anything you’d worn before, paired with gloves with pearls for buttons.

You had tried to protest, voice wavering with unease as the seamstress circled you, pins in her teeth. You’d told him the dress was too much. That you didn’t need it. That you’d rather miss the opera entirely than having him spend so much on you.

But Rafayel hadn’t even looked at you when he responded - just nodded at the modiste to continue, and said, simply, “No one should miss beauty for the sake of modesty.”

And now, here you sit, the silk with intricate details molded to your figure.

The opera house itself feels like another world entirely - its domed ceiling painted in lavish murals of gods and goddesses, the balconies dressed in red velvet and trimmed with gold, chandeliers gleaming like constellations overhead.

On stage, the first act unfolds in a fever of color and music.

You hadn’t expected to be captivated. Opera, in your memory, had always been too distant, too slow, even boring. But here, in Linkon, it’s different. The voices rise and fall like ocean waves, filling every corner of the space with raw, glittering emotion. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until the curtain lowers at the end of the first act and the world exhales around you.

Beside you, Rafayel’s attention remains elsewhere. He speaks with Thomas, the two men conversing in low, imperceptible voices. You try not to listen, and even if you wanted to, you wouldn’t be able to comprehend their words.

Meanwhile, Thomas’ wife battles against sleep, her posture slowly slumping, her fan drooping ever lower with each yawn. By the end of the second act, during the intermission, she lets out a delicate sigh and leans toward her husband, murmuring something you don’t quite catch.

The two of them rise from their seats, and Thomas turns to Rafayel.

“We shall take our leave. You two stay and enjoy the rest.”

With that, he offers you both a shallow bow, and leads his sleepy wife out of the box, her gloved hand curled around his arm, her eyes already half-lidded.

The two of you are left alone in the private box - surrounded by hundreds of people, and yet cloaked in velvet shadows.

The third act unfolded in slow, aching brilliance.

The soprano’s final aria echoed through the vast chamber, her voice breaking just enough on the final note to shatter the silence before the ovation. You sat still, breath caught, eyes wide. You’d never seen anything like it. You weren’t sure you ever would again.

Beside you, Rafayel didn’t move.

He remained composed, hands folded, posture relaxed, but more than once you felt his gaze shift to you.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The air outside had cooled considerably, but you barely notice it. Not with your skin still tingling from the heat of the performance, from the music that still rings in your chest. Now, with your arm tucked through Rafayel’s once more, you walk through Linkon’s midnight streets, and it feels like the entire city had softened.

“Did you hear the way she held that note?” you ask, turning to him, your voice bright with awe. “I thought she would lose breath.”

Rafayel chuckles low in his throat, his gaze resting on you rather than the road ahead.

“Her name is Angelica. She’s very good at pretending to die.”

You laugh and continue talking - your words a cascade of impressions, hands gesturing as you try to describe the sets, the costumes, the singers.

“I thought I’d be bored,” you admit, shaking your head. “Or lost. Or tired. But I couldn’t blink. I didn’t want to miss a single moment.”

“I noticed,” Rafayel murmurs, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You leaned forward so far, I thought you might tumble from the box.”

“You wouldn’t have let me fall.”

“No,” he says softly. “I wouldn’t.”

You falter for just a breath. But the moment passes quickly, with the next wave of your excitement. You tell him about your favorite line - you try to quote it, mangling the phrasing, and he corrects you with the original cadence, eyes glittering when your laughter echoes the quiet street.

You didn’t realize how much you’d been smiling. How light your body felt, even in the heavy silk of the new dress. How much the city stilled, becoming nothing more than lamplight and his presence beside you.

Rafayel said very little. You didn’t notice it, but his gaze was warm, indulgent, like someone being handed the chance to rediscover the beauty of something he thought he’d grown numb to.

༺｡° .ᘛ𓆩♡𓆪ᘚ. °｡༻

The hallway of the inn is quiet, dimly lit by wall sconces casting golden light across marble floors and rich green wallpaper. Your steps slow as you approach your door, but you hesitate for a moment.

Your hand lifts, to the base of your spine, where the fine silk of your dress was drawn tight with laces and buttons. You were too wrapped in the performance, in the city, in him, to think about changing out of the dress.

You turn toward him.

“Rafayel,” you say, your voice quiet.

He turns to you.

You try to sound casual, your hand gesturing vaguely behind you.

“Would you… mind helping me with this? I just need someone to… free me from the dress.”

The silence that follows isn’t long. Then he nods.

You open your door and let him inside.

Drawing the curtains closed and lighting the candles, while he sets up the fireplace for you, you stand in the center of your room, your spine impossibly straight as you turn your back to him.

You remind yourself that this isn’t new. He’d seen you sick. He’d brought you warm cloths, tucked you beneath blankets. He’d seen your bare shoulders before. Yet your heart fluttered in your ribs as he moved behind you without a word.

The first button slides free with a delicate tug, and then another. But it’s the laces he pauses over, his fingertips resting just below the knot.

When he finally begins to loosen the laces, he does it slowly - painfully slow. The fabric resists at first, tight from the wear of the evening, but his hands are diligent. With every loosened part, your breath deepens, your chest swelling against the bodice as it begins to give. Cool air brushes your skin where the fabric parts, making your skin prickle, but you don’t shiver.

With a slow exhale, you let the dress slide over your hips, letting it pool around your feet, leaving you in the soft silk underdress, the shape of your figure no longer hidden.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, your back still turned to him, as you step over the dress. “For helping. And… for tonight.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Instead, you feel him step closer, your bodies only a breath away now. You turn to face him, and he is so close you catch the firelight in his eyes, the bright blush high on his cheekbones, even the tips of his ears.

He doesn’t try to look away, and you don’t think you can.

Without a word, he reaches for your gloved hand. His own are steady, but there’s a tremor in his breath as he works the pearl buttons free. When the second glove finally peels away, his lips meet your knuckles. Then, he turns your wrist upward. The kiss he leaves there is hotter, hungrier, his tongue grazing the blue river of your pulse. The skin there is sensitive, thinner, and the way his lips brush across it makes your knees go weak, but you stay still.

His mouth travels higher. Another kiss, slow and careful, against your forearm. Then higher, where the strap of your underdress rests on your shoulder. His lips press there, and he breathes you in, like he’s trying to commit the scent of you to memory. A fractured sigh escapes him.

His other hand rises, steady and warm, and finds your chin. His thumb brushes your cheek, tilting your face up until your eyes meet his. His eyes are midnight storms, flickering to your mouth.

And suddenly, the world narrows.

All you can see are his lips - soft, parted, so close you can almost taste them. He doesn’t move yet. He waits. He gives you one last breath to choose.

You don’t step back. You don’t break his gaze.

So he leans in, and kisses you.

It doesn’t feel real at first. His mouth finds yours with a tenderness that steals your breath, his lips pressing softly.

Your heart stutters, and yet the rest of you goes still - utterly still. Because it’s him. Rafayel.

The one who always seemed a little too perfect. Too brilliant. Too untouchable. The man who filled a room with laughter but somehow remained just beyond your reach. And now - he’s kissing you like you’re the one he’s been reaching for all along.

You didn’t expect this. Not from him. Not like this.

His hand stays at your jaw, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheek as his lips move over yours. And when his tongue brushes softly along your bottom lip, slipping past it to meet yours, tasting you for the first time - you melt completely.

Your hands float upward, unsure at first, then instinctive. They curl around his neck, sliding into the soft waves of his hair.

His kiss deepens - still tender, but deeper. He pulls you closer by the waist, your bodies flush now, the hard plane of his chest pressing against your breasts, his breath and yours mixing in the space between open-mouthed kisses.

One of his hands drifts lower, fingers slipping down the arch of your back before splaying at the top of your buttock. The touch sends a jolt of molten heat low into your stomach, coiling tight and needy. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. The kiss turns a little messier, your mouths opening wider, breaths coming faster, his grip pressing you against the hard ridge of his thigh.

But he starts slowing down. Bit by bit, the kiss turns liquid, the hand on your butt slides upward, fingertips brushing the sensitive dip of your spine.

He pulls away just far enough to rest his forehead against yours.

His thumb traces your swollen lips, his voice low and ragged. “You should sleep, darling.”

After a moment, you nod, though your eyes remain closed, lips still tingling, breath still uneven. When they flutter open, they meet his. The usual mischief in his eyes has dissolved, replaced by tenderness that makes your heart flutter. Moonlight spills through the window, glinting in his irises, and for a heartbeat, you see a flicker of something unreadable, that he quickly smothers beneath a slow blink. You don’t know if that was even real, or if your mind is playing tricks on you.

Then he leans in and presses a delicate kiss to your cheek, then the inside of your wrist. He wishes you sweet dreams, and steps out of your room.

When you lie in your bed, your body is still thrumming, your chest impossibly full.

And even as sleep pulls you in, the warmth of his kiss stays with you - on your lips, your cheek, your hand - as if he left pieces of himself behind to keep you company until morning.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

@verynormalsstuff @eliasxchocolate @haal07erlj @libriomancer @howvoiceless @celestialforce @tbaluver @zaynesjasmine1 @ladyparamount @xxfaithlynxx @totallytaurus4 @s-ugu @evil-mei @whatarewe-choppedliver @imeverycliche @blackwell-ninja @secretkiseki @kaya-nets @stellablobboo @ssetsuka @celestemcbrim @m00nchildwrites @yournextdoorhousewitch @mysticcoffeebean @beewilko @harmonyrae @animecrazy76 @hanamanefateris @itsmeaudrieee @gravity-valley @raiyuxa @skylaryoung2002 @dekiruxxx @angel-jupiter @daturasflower

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ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ ᴍᴇ

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx || ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ/ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ || 5535 ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ || ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴀʟᴢʜᴇɪᴍᴇʀ, ɪ ʜᴀᴠᴇɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ᴋɴᴏᴡʟᴇᴅɢᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴜʙᴊᴇᴄᴛ. ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ʟᴏꜱꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴄʜɪʟᴅ (ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ'ꜱ ᴘᴀʀᴛ)

ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ ᴀɴꜱᴡᴇʀ: @aziul-glimpse ʜᴇʟʟᴏ ᴍʏ ᴅᴇᴀʀ! ᴀɢᴀɪɴ, ɪ ᴀᴍ ꜱᴏ ꜱᴏʀʀʏ ꜰᴏʀ ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛ! ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴛʜᴀɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ꜰᴏʀ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅɪɴɢ ᴍᴇ, ɪ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʀᴀᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴ ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ! ꜱᴏ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴅᴏ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ!! <3 <3

ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ | ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ | ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ | ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ | ᴊɪɴx

JAYCE

The sun dipped lazily behind the towering silhouette of Piltover’s skyline, spilling golden light across the balcony. The breeze was gentle, rustling the sheer curtains like whispers — calming, familiar. Almost.

You sat by the window, your hands trembling slightly as you clutched a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. The mug had a chip in the handle. You couldn't remember how that happened. You couldn’t remember if it had always been there.

The quiet around you felt too loud. The paintings on the walls — strangers. The ticking clock — oppressive. The floor creaked like footsteps when no one was there. You’d woken up in a bed that smelled like lavender and steel, with a photo frame turned face-down on the nightstand and no memory of how you’d gotten there.

“Y/N?” Jayce’s voice echoed softly from the hallway, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps. He always walked a little too loud. It used to bother you. Maybe it still did — or maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

You blinked, turning your head slowly toward the sound. His face came into view. Familiar. Warm. Kind eyes. A name perched on the edge of your thoughts — something with a "J"... or was it a "D"?

He smiled, like the sun was still in the room. “There you are. You scared me — you weren’t in bed.”

You frowned and looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. “I... I didn’t want to sleep anymore. I think... someone was in the house.”

Jayce knelt down in front of you, concern flickering in his eyes. “No one’s here but us. You’re safe.”

He reached for your hands. You let him. His touch was warm. Steady. Like a lighthouse in fog. You looked down at your lap, blinking slowly.

“This place is too big,” you murmured. “It’s not my house. I don’t live here.”

Jayce’s chest tightened. He took a breath. You’d lived here for over a decade — together. The window seat was where you read aloud to him. Where you curled up after bad days. Where you told him you wanted a cat you never ended up getting. Where you’d both cried when you lost your first child. Now, it was just another unfamiliar corner of your mind.

“It’s ours,” he said softly, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb. “You used to say this seat made you feel like the whole world stopped, just for you.”

You looked out the window again, eyes distant. “Did I?”

Jayce nodded. “Yeah. You’d make fun of me for falling asleep mid-conversation right here. Said I needed a slower life.”

A soft laugh escaped you — barely there, but it was yours. “That does sound like something I’d say.”

He smiled, soaking in the sound of your voice when it wasn’t shaking. His eyes searched your face, holding onto every blink, every breath like it might be the last clear one of the day.

Silence settled again. You looked at him, eyes squinting slightly. “Are you my son?”

Jayce’s heart sank, but he didn’t let the smile leave his face. “No. No, I’m not.”

“Oh.” You tilted your head, frowning. “Are you... supposed to be here?”

He didn’t flinch. He never did. “Yeah. I’m supposed to be exactly here.”

Your brow furrowed. “I think I should call someone. My husband. He’ll worry.”

Jayce leaned forward and gently rested his forehead against yours. His voice cracked just slightly.

“I’m right here,” he whispered.

For a second — a flicker of a second — recognition sparked in your eyes. Your fingers tightened around his.

“Jayce.”

He closed his eyes, breathing out. “Yeah. I’m here.”

You reached up to cup his cheek, tears brimming as confusion and clarity crashed like waves. “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting.”

Jayce leaned into your touch, his own eyes shining. “Then I’ll help you remember. Every time.”

You stayed like that, foreheads pressed together, his hand cradling yours. The fading sun painted your skin in gold, and even though the tea was cold and your memory threadbare, he made the moment real.

“Did we love each other?” you asked, voice small.

Jayce smiled through his tears. “We still do.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded photograph — creased from being held too often. In it, you were laughing, arms wrapped around his neck, confetti in your hair. You were younger. Brighter. But still you.

“I carry this everywhere,” he said. “On days when you don’t remember me, I let this remind me who I’m still fighting for.”

You looked at the photo, the image fuzzy to your eyes but the feeling oddly warm in your chest. “You look happy.”

“I was. I am. You gave me that.”

A silence stretched again — this one softer, more forgiving. Then, he slid up beside you on the window seat, draping a blanket over your shoulders. You leaned into him instinctively. Some part of you always did.

“Do I ever get better?” you asked.

Jayce hesitated, then pressed a kiss to your temple. “You have good days. And I’ll be here for all of them.”

You closed your eyes, head on his shoulder, and breathed in the scent of him — metal and cedar and something like home.

The window watched over you both as night fell, the stars quietly blinking into the sky like memories resurfacing, one by one.

Even if you forgot every piece of your life, he would never forget loving you.

And even if you asked a hundred more times, he would always stay.

VIKTOR

The clock ticked faintly in the dim morning light, its rhythmic sound echoing through the stillness of the apartment. The soft rustle of paper pages stilled as Viktor paused mid-sentence in his book. He looked up, frowning slightly at the distant creak of the bedroom door. It wasn’t unusual, not anymore.

Setting the book aside, he reached for his cane and rose slowly to his feet. The tap of it against the wooden floor followed him as he crossed the quiet living room. Each step was measured, deliberate, as though matching the steady beat of the clock.

“Y/N?” he called gently, his voice a hush in the stillness.

You stood in the hallway, the morning sun catching the strands of your hair and casting soft shadows across your face. But your eyes… they weren’t focused. They drifted around the unfamiliar space, wide with confusion, filled with something frightened and distant.

The sweater you wore was inside-out, sleeves pushed awkwardly to your elbows. Your hands gripped the hem like it was an anchor—something to hold you down before the tides of memory swept you away again.

“I—I don’t know where I am,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Where is this? Who are you?”

Viktor’s heart clenched, but he didn't falter. He'd grown used to this routine—if one could ever truly grow used to watching the person they love fade in and out of the world they built together.

Still, he smiled. Softly. Reassuringly. Not just for you—but for himself.

“You’re safe,” he said gently. “It’s morning, love. You woke up a bit early, that’s all.”

You stared at him, searching his face like it was a puzzle you were desperate to solve. Your brows drew together, a flicker of recognition, then gone again like a bird taking flight. You looked down at your feet.

“I don’t…” you began, tears prickling in your voice. “I’m sorry. I’m trying. I know I should remember. I know you—but I…”

“I know,” he murmured, closing the space between you. “It’s all right. You don’t have to try so hard.”

He held out his hand to you, slow and gentle. Like always, he gave you the choice. And like always, something in you reached for him, fingers sliding into his like the lock still remembered its key.

“…Your hand feels warm,” you said quietly. “Familiar.”

A long silence passed, filled only by the distant sound of a Piltover tram gliding by. Then—

“There was a garden,” you said suddenly, your eyes lighting with something new. “With lavender. And white benches.”

Viktor blinked, then smiled—a little crookedly. “Yes. The Academy gardens. We used to walk there every Sunday. Rain or shine.”

“I brought tea in that yellow thermos,” you added, a small laugh breaking through the fog. “You always said it was too strong.”

He chuckled, his eyes misting. “It was terrible tea, miláček. Absolutely undrinkable. But I always finished every drop.” (Darling)

You smiled at that, the expression soft and shy, like someone waking from a dream. But then the smile faltered. A pause.

“…Were we in love?”

Viktor’s breath caught, just for a moment. He reached out, brushing a thumb across your cheek. You leaned into the touch—instinctively, unknowingly, like a flower turning toward sunlight.

“We are in love,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Every day. Always.”

You looked down, your throat bobbing as you swallowed against the lump forming there. “I don’t want to forget you. I’m scared.”

“I know,” Viktor said gently, drawing you closer, pressing his forehead against yours. “But even if you forget me—I will remember for the both of us.”

He held you then, cradled in his arms like you were the most fragile, most precious thing in the world. His cane leaned against the wall behind him, forgotten as his full weight shifted into the embrace—anchoring you both.

Your arms came around him slowly, hesitantly. And then—fully. You clung to him like a memory trying not to fade.

Outside, the city was waking—trams rattling, voices rising, gears turning. But here, in this little apartment filled with photographs and journals and flowers dried between books, time moved gently. Slowly.

You didn’t remember what day it was. You didn’t remember what year.

But you remembered the scent of lavender. You remembered terrible tea. You remembered the warmth of Viktor’s hand in yours.

And for now…

That was enough.

JAYVIK

The sun filters through the tall windows of the workshop, dancing off brass instruments and the soft edges of half-forgotten projects. The hum of Piltover life is distant, muffled, as if the world beyond this space knows to tread lightly.

Viktor sits beside you on the couch, his cane resting against his knee, fingers curled loosely around its handle. His free hand hovers gently over yours, the warmth of his skin grounding. Jayce is across from you, perched on the coffee table with a photo album balanced on his knees.

You blink slowly at the pages, brows knitted. The images blur—faces you feel you should know, moments you must have lived, yet they stay just out of reach, like mist curling away from grasping fingers.

“I don’t…” you start, your voice thick, unsure. “I don’t remember this. Who—?”

Jayce offers a small, sad smile. “That’s us. Here—look.”

He turns the book slightly so you can see better. There's a photo of the three of you on a balcony, the skyline of Piltover glowing behind you. You’re laughing, head thrown back. Jayce’s arm is around your shoulders, Viktor is to your right, his hand resting at the small of your back.

Your fingers twitch on your lap. “I look happy.”

“You were,” Viktor says, voice low and warm. “We all were.”

Jayce’s voice softens. “You made us better. Still do.”

Your throat tightens. “But I don’t know you,” you whisper, eyes glassy. “I feel like I should, but I don’t. What if… what if I never do again?”

A silence falls, heavy but not hopeless. Viktor shifts closer, the faint tap of his cane against the floor echoing like a heartbeat.

“It’s all right, milý,” Viktor murmurs, brushing a stray hair from your face. “You don’t have to remember everything. We remember for you.” (Dear)

“And we’re not going anywhere,” Jayce adds, leaning forward to press a kiss to your temple. “Not now. Not ever.”

You nod slowly, like you’re trying to believe it. A tear slips down your cheek anyway.

Viktor gently presses a tissue into your hand, then opens the photo book again, flipping to a new page. “Do you remember this one?” he asks softly.

It’s a blurry picture of the three of you tangled on a couch, asleep in a pile of books and blankets. Jayce is snoring. You’re curled into Viktor’s side, head on his chest. There’s a coffee mug balanced precariously on the armrest.

You frown. “That mug… I think I broke it once?”

Jayce grins, eyes lighting up. “Yes! You dropped it during a pillow fight. You blamed Viktor.”

“I did not,” Viktor says, half-offended, half-amused.

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Maybe… maybe I remember that part.”

Viktor gently laces his fingers with yours. “Then that is enough. A piece at a time.”

Jayce closes the photo book and wraps his arms around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest. You close your eyes, breathing in the familiar scent of metal, parchment, and that cologne Jayce always wears.

You might not remember everything. Names might slip, faces might blur.

But in this moment, held between them, you know one thing for certain:

You are loved.

And you are not alone.

=

Later, as the light begins to fade into dusky gold, you sit between them in silence, the photo book open on your lap. Jayce’s head is leaning against yours, his arm still around your shoulders. Viktor rests his cane against the wall and shifts to take your hand again with both of his.

You look at them—really look. Jayce, with his strong jaw and eyes that have always held too much emotion. Viktor, with his tired smile and the way his eyes soften just for you.

“Were we... happy?” you ask suddenly, voice barely a breath.

Viktor’s thumb brushes the back of your hand. “We still are.”

Jayce leans in, resting his forehead against yours. “Even on the hard days. Even when it’s messy. Even when you forget.”

You close your eyes. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not,” Viktor says firmly, instantly.

“Never,” Jayce adds, his voice cracking.

There’s a moment where all three of you just breathe. The quiet hum of the city. The tick of the old clock on the wall. The slow, steady rhythm of Viktor’s heartbeat against your side.

“I’m scared,” you admit.

“I know,” Viktor says gently. “But you’re not alone. We’ll walk this with you. Every step.”

Jayce smiles softly. “Even if we have to remind you a thousand times… we’ll do it. We’d do it a thousand more.”

You tilt your head, forehead touching Jayce’s, fingers curling tighter around Viktor’s. The memories might fade. Your mind might shift like sand.

But their love?

That’s the one thing that never will.

VANDER

The bar was quiet this afternoon.

Not silent—never truly silent in the Undercity—but hushed in the way places are when people choose quiet. No shouting matches, no raucous laughter, no boots stomping across the floorboards. Just the occasional clink of dishes being cleaned in the kitchen and the slow, rhythmic hum of the old pipes weaving through the walls like distant lullabies.

Outside, the streets of the Lanes murmured with life—but in here, time felt like it had slowed, curling into itself like smoke.

You sat at the counter, shoulders slightly hunched, both hands wrapped around a chipped mug of tea. It had gone cold long ago. You hadn’t taken a sip.

You weren’t entirely sure how long you’d been sitting there.

The man across from you stood with a careful stillness, like any sudden movement might startle something fragile. Big, broad, with silver streaks in his thick beard and a long-forgotten sadness tucked behind his gentle eyes. He looked like someone important—someone close—but you couldn’t quite place him.

“Everything okay, love?” he asked, voice deep and warm, the kind of voice that had comforted countless others.

You blinked slowly, shifting your gaze to him. “I… I think I’m waiting for someone.”

He nodded, like he’d heard it before. “Who?”

You frowned, lips parting in quiet confusion. The answer was there. You could feel it—like a name resting on the tip of your tongue. But the more you reached for it, the more it slipped away.

“I don’t know,” you said at last, voice small, a little broken. “I don’t remember.”

He stepped around the counter with care, every movement deliberate. He didn’t sit immediately—he gave you time to see him, to accept him. Then he pulled out the stool beside yours and lowered himself onto it.

Close enough to be comforting. Familiar. Like the warmth of a worn blanket on a cold day.

“I’m Vander,” he said gently, placing his hand over yours. His palm was rough and calloused, but warm. Steady. “I run this place. And you… you live here. With me.”

You stared at his hand over yours. The warmth of it seeped into your skin, into the deeper places. Something flickered inside you—a spark, a flash. A feeling. Not a memory, not quite. But it tugged at your chest.

“I know that name,” you whispered. “Vander.”

A small smile played at his lips. His eyes, tired but soft, lit up with quiet hope. “You call me old man sometimes. When you’re teasing me.”

That coaxed a breath of a laugh out of you—uncertain but real. “That does sound like something I’d do.”

Footsteps on the stairs broke the moment, light and tentative. Powder peeked into the room, her braid falling loose over one shoulder. She held a stuffed bunny in her arms, its ears threadbare and floppy from years of love. She hesitated in the doorway.

“Is it… a bad day?” she asked softly, eyes flicking between you and Vander.

“Just a foggy one,” he murmured, thumb brushing your knuckles.

Claggor came in behind her, holding something behind his back. He looked nervous, like he wasn’t sure if he was interrupting something sacred.

“She didn’t eat her lunch,” he said to Vander, but his eyes were on you, worried.

Vi trailed in after him, dragging a chair and setting it with a determined thump beside yours. “That’s okay. We can help,” she said with that brave, fierce tenderness she always carried. “Right, Y/N? You wanna sit with us a bit?”

You turned your head slowly, taking them in—Powder with her wide, tear-bright eyes; Claggor shifting from foot to foot; Vi standing like a wall ready to take a hit for someone she loved.

Then Mylo appeared, holding a plate of toast stacked unevenly, like it might fall over at any second. He grinned awkwardly. “Made it myself. Might be a little… uh… crisp.”

“I know you,” you said quietly, heart swelling with something you didn’t have words for. “You’re my kids.”

They all smiled, even as tears pricked at the corners of their eyes.

“Sort of,” Mylo said with a shrug. “You’re like our cool aunt who always makes the best snacks and says bad words when she thinks we’re not listening.”

Powder giggled and walked over, climbing carefully into your lap. She curled against your chest and rested her head there, bunny in hand.

“You tell the best stories,” she said, her voice muffled by your shirt. “Even the scary ones.”

Your hand found her back automatically, stroking gently. “I… I don’t remember the stories.”

“That’s okay,” Powder said, tilting her head up. “We do. We can tell them to you.”

Claggor pulled a well-loved photo album from under his arm and set it on the bar, flipping it open with careful fingers. The pages were a mosaic of faded photos, scribbled drawings, and pressed bits of memory—flowers, receipts, ticket stubs. Moments you knew once. Moments they still carried.

“There’s the one where we all went to the surface for your birthday,” Claggor said, pointing to a blurry picture of you with a bright feathered hat. “Vi made the hat.”

Vi grinned, pride and embarrassment mixing in her expression. “You said you felt like a bird and spent the whole day flapping your arms around.”

A sudden laugh bubbled up in your throat—genuine this time. You could see it, faint but golden. The light on the cliffs. The wind in your hair. Feathers brushing your cheek.

“You all look so small in these,” you murmured, fingers brushing the page.

“Well, we were,” Vander said beside you. His voice was quiet, reverent.

You turned to him again. Your hand drifted up without thinking, brushing his beard gently, tracing the line of his jaw.

“Are you… my husband?”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t correct. Just smiled that sad, patient smile and wrapped your hand in his once more.

“Not by law,” he said, kissing your knuckles. “But by everything that matters? Yeah.”

Something inside you settled. You didn’t remember everything. Maybe tomorrow, you’d forget again. Maybe the names would go, or the faces would blur.

But for now—this midday moment, wrapped in sunlight and warm hands and familiar laughter—you weren’t lost.

You were home.

SILCO

The light in the loft was soft—filtered through cracked blinds, the kind that only half-worked after years of wear and the occasional tantrum from Jinx. Dust drifted lazily in the golden beams like motes of memory. The kind that Silco had learned to cling to. The kind you no longer could.

He stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame, watching.

You were standing in the kitchen, barefoot, one slipper dangling from your fingers like you'd forgotten what it was for. The old kettle on the stove was hissing quietly, steam curling upward like a ghost of routine, but the mug in front of you was filled with dry rice instead of tea. You stared down at it with a furrowed brow, lips pressed in a line, as if it had personally insulted you.

Silco didn’t speak right away. He'd learned not to rush. Sudden movements, quick words—they could startle you. He hated that he knew these things. Hated that he needed to.

“…Darling?” he asked softly, stepping forward.

You turned at the sound of his voice, slow and cautious. The frown deepened as your eyes met his. You looked at him like he was a stranger who had just wandered into your home—someone familiar but misplaced in time. There was a pause. Then you gave him a polite, almost apologetic smile.

“Do I… know you?”

It hit like a bullet every time. Sharp, fast, and unrelenting.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Silco, the iron-willed leader of Zaun, bowed his head slightly—as if you were still royalty, as if his love for you stripped him of all armor. In truth, it did.

“Yes,” he said, his voice quiet but clear. “You do. But it’s alright if you don’t right now.”

Your face twitched, like a glitch in a dream. You took a step back, glancing toward the hallway.

“I’m sorry,” you said in a small voice. “I just—I’m not sure where I am. I was looking for my… my mother. She was just here. She was baking bread, I think. I smelled it.”

Silco’s heart twisted. There hadn’t been bread in this house in years.

You weren’t sure what year it was again. Some days, you drifted into your childhood. Other times, you called for Vander, confused why the bar downstairs wasn’t crowded. Sometimes you remembered Jinx—sometimes you cried when you didn’t.

Today, you were lost.

Silco approached you slowly, careful not to let the floor creak too loudly beneath his boots. You needed to see him, recognize the weight of his presence, not be startled by it. You didn’t flinch away. That was a small mercy.

“Let me help,” he said gently, reaching down to take the slipper from your hand.

You blinked at him, uncertain. “You don���t have to—”

“I know,” he said, crouching before you. “But I want to.”

His gloved fingers carefully slipped the slipper onto your foot, brushing lightly against your ankle with the same reverence he had the first time he ever touched you in bed. Tenderness wrapped in restraint. Silco rose slowly, his one good eye never leaving yours.

You still hadn’t looked at him the same. Not yet.

“May I make you some tea?” he asked, keeping his voice soft, patient.

“…I already started,” you murmured, glancing back toward the counter, your expression growing troubled. You reached for the mug again. “But this isn’t right. I think—I think I messed up again. I keep messing things up.”

He moved to intercept the mug, fingers brushing yours as he took it gently from your grasp. You let go, but your hands trembled slightly as you dropped them to your sides.

“You didn’t mess anything up,” he said, pouring the rice out into the bin and rinsing the mug. “It was just… a different recipe today.”

You gave a short, breathy laugh at that, the sound equal parts amused and disoriented.

“I used to be smart,” you whispered. “Didn’t I? I wasn’t always like this.”

Silco paused. The silence between you was thick, filled with words he didn’t know how to say. Then, without turning, he said:

“You still are.”

You looked down at the floor, shoulders curling inward. “But I don’t remember anything. Not even you.”

This time, he turned. Crossed the small space between you in three slow steps. He raised one hand, hesitant until your eyes met his, and placed it gently on your cheek.

“You always come back to me,” he murmured. “And when you do, I’ll be here. Every time.”

Your eyes welled up with tears. They shimmered there, caught in the light like tiny prisms of pain and memory.

Then something shifted.

A flicker behind your eyes. Recognition. A name rising through the murk.

For just a moment—one fragile, flickering moment—you looked at him like you used to. You lifted a hand, hesitating only a second before reaching for the jagged scar beneath his eye. Your fingers traced it like a road map, like Braille of a story you were trying to remember by touch alone.

“I know you,” you whispered.

Silco’s breath caught.

“Yes,” he said, voice cracking like old stone. “You do.”

You leaned into him, your forehead coming to rest against his chest. He smelled like ink, smoke, and the faintest remnants of the cologne he used when he wanted to feel like himself around you.

“You waited for me,” you murmured.

“Always.”

He wrapped his arms around you—arms that had once shaken the politics of Zaun—now trembling as they held you as gently as if you were made of glass. His cheek rested against the top of your head. He closed his eye.

And in the quiet, with the scent of steeping tea curling through the air and dusk pressing soft shadows into the corners of the room, Silco held you like you were still his whole world—because you were.

Even if your world didn’t always remember him.

Even if you forgot again tomorrow.

He would wait. Again and again.

For the flicker.

For the moment.

For you.

JINX

The room smells faintly of oil and metal, the ever-present scent of Jinx’s hideout. Blueprints are scattered across the floor, covered in doodles and wild scribbles only she can decipher. Gadgets tick and hum quietly in the corners, little machines whirring with purpose. Neon signs outside cast shifting colors on the crumbling walls, painting everything in lazy hues of electric blue and pink. Somewhere nearby, a record spins, its melody dreamy and off-kilter—the same song that’s been playing for hours, skipping every few loops like it’s got something stuck in its memory too.

You sit on the edge of the bed, hands trembling, eyes flicking across the room like you’re searching for answers in a place that’s never made sense. Your breaths are shallow, uneven. You clutch a pillow to your chest like it might anchor you.

“Where… where am I?” you ask, voice small and cracking like thin ice underfoot.

Jinx freezes mid-step. She was crouched over by her workbench, elbow-deep in one of her new toys—a mechanical bunny rigged with smoke grenades for ears and a wind-up tail. She was even humming to herself, lost in the buzz of her own world, until your voice cut through the air like a blade.

The screwdriver slips from her hand, clinking against the floor.

She turns slowly. And the second she sees your eyes—blank, scared, distant—she knows.

You’re not really seeing her.

“Hey… hey,” she says gently, her voice dipping lower, more careful now. She takes a single step toward you, then pauses. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re home, firefly.”

Your brow furrows, and you flinch like her voice itself startles you. “No. No, I don’t… this isn’t my home. I don’t know this place. I don’t know you.”

That one cuts deeper than a knife.

For a split second, something flashes behind Jinx’s eyes. Her usual smile falters, tugged down by something sharp and pained. But she pastes it back on—crooked and cracked—and tries to pretend it’s fine.

“Oh c’mon, Y/N. You’re killin’ me here,” she says with a chuckle that shakes a little too much. “Don’t tell me you forgot me. Not me. Not your best girl.”

You don’t answer. Your eyes dart to the door like you're wondering if you should run. Your hands clench tighter around the pillow as your breathing grows quicker, more erratic.

“I don’t remember,” you whisper. “Why don’t I remember anything? Why can’t I think?”

Jinx moves closer then—slow, non-threatening. She drops to a crouch in front of you, boots squeaking softly against the floor. Her hands, gloved and smudged with grease, gently reach out to hold yours.

“Because your brain’s being a butt,” she says, voice deliberately light. “Brains are stupid sometimes. Not your fault.”

You stare down at your hands in hers, trying to place her. Trying to feel something familiar.

“I’m losing everything,” you say after a moment, tears starting to gather in your lashes. “Even myself.”

“No,” she says firmly, more serious now. “No, no, no. That’s not true. You’re still you. Even if the wires get crossed sometimes, even if some pictures go fuzzy—you’re still my Y/N. I know you.”

Her thumb brushes over the back of your hand, a quiet motion, tender.

Then she fumbles in her vest, pulling out a small notebook. The thing is thick with use, its bright pink cover plastered with neon smiley face stickers, patches of duct tape holding the spine together. A little charm dangles from the spiral binding—a tiny doodle of the two of you, hand-drawn, laminated, and fraying at the edges.

On the first page, in messy blue ink, it reads:

“Y/N’s Memory Manual – As Told By Jinx (Your Totally Awesome Bestie)”

She flips it open, holds it up so you can see.

“That’s us at the carnival,” she says, pointing to a Polaroid taped in with neon washi tape. In the photo, your face is mid-laugh, a cotton candy moustache on your upper lip. Jinx has her tongue out, licking a candy apple with a wild look in her eye. “You threw up after the rollercoaster. I laughed so hard I almost joined you. It was gross. It was amazing.”

You blink at it, slowly. A ghost of a smile twitches at the corner of your lips.

She sees it. And just like that, her face lights up like fireworks over the Lanes.

“There it is,” she whispers. “There you are.”

She flips to another page.

“And here’s when we built Fishbones. Technically, I built it, but you handed me tools and told me I was a genius. Which, obviously, I am. But it was nice to hear you say it.”

You let out a weak chuckle, small and broken—but it’s there. It cracks something open between you. The fog starts to thin.

“You made this… for me?” you ask softly.

Jinx nods, her grin faltering into something more sincere. “Duh. I know you forget things. So I made you a cheat sheet. Because I’m awesome like that.”

She sets the notebook in your lap, then gently slides up onto the bed beside you. Her arm curls around your shoulders, pulling you against her chest, where her heartbeat drums fast and steady.

Tears slide down your cheeks. “I’m scared, Jinx.”

Her voice is quieter now, raw around the edges. “I know,” she says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Me too.”

You close your eyes, sinking into her. Her warmth. Her scent. That heartbeat.

“But you’re not alone,” she whispers into your hair. “Not while I’m breathing. You hear me? I’ll keep reminding you. Every day, every minute, every heartbeat if I have to.”

You nod slowly, holding the notebook tight to your chest. For now, it’s enough.

Tomorrow might be different.

Tomorrow might disappear.

But right now, in this strange, patchwork hideout lit by flickering neon and filled with chaotic inventions and wild love—

You remember her.

And that’s everything.