#tHread: Lunch and Lies

[seospicybin]

CAM.

FINAL CHAPTER

Hyunjin x reader. (s,a)

CAM MASTERLIST

Synopsis: Struggling to make ends meet as an art student, Hyunjin never expected his quiet neighbor to change everything. Rumored to be an adult content creator, you offer him a deal—help you with your content, and you’ll help with his financial troubles. What starts as a simple arrangement soon blurs into something more, pulling Hyunjin into a world he never imagined. (9,7k words)

Author's note: I want to thank you for following Cam series. It's been fun. Hope you enjoy this one too ♡

Hyunjin shuts the door behind him and doesn’t look back. Each step away from your apartment echoes louder in his head than the last. His chest feels tight, like he’s holding something back—like maybe he should’ve said more. Maybe he should’ve said anything else. But instead, he chose silence and walked away.

He tells himself it’s the right thing to do. That this is better. That he needs the space. That things were getting too tangled, too fast.

It’s just work, he reminds himself. You were helping me. I was helping you. That’s all it was supposed to be.

But the memory of your smile when you offered him lunch creeps in anyway. So does the look in your eyes when you asked if he was okay—genuine, soft, concerned. Too concerned. He could’ve told you the truth. That it wasn’t just about the job anymore. That he was starting to feel something he wasn’t sure he could handle.

Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten involved to begin with. Maybe he should’ve just focused on his art like he always planned. Still… he feels like he’s walking away from more than just work and that’s what scares him most.

Hyunjin spends the rest of the afternoon staring at the canvas. The brush is in his hand, the colors are ready, but the strokes come out hesitant. Disjointed. Aimless. He tells himself to focus—just paint, Hyunjin. Paint anything. And so, he does.

Slowly, shapes begin to form. A curve here. A slant there. He fills in the shadows, soft and warm, and before he realizes what he's doing, he’s painting you. Your eyes, the exact shade he remembers under the afternoon sun. Your lips, curled in a smile he can’t quite forget. Your skin, the way it glowed under the yellow light in the hallway when you said his name like it meant something. He doesn’t stop until your face is there, staring back at him and he hates it.

Not the painting. The painting is beautiful. But the fact that you’re still in his head—still under his skin.

That night, he lies in bed, restless. The room is quiet, save for the soft hum of the city outside his window. When he finally drifts off, you’re there again. In his dream, you're laughing. You're reaching for him. You're so close that he swears he can smell your perfume, feel the warmth of your fingertips tracing his wrist.

And when he wakes up, breath caught in his throat, the ghost of your touch still lingers on his skin.

-

You try to move on. You tell yourself it’s fine—that people quit all the time. That maybe he just got busy, overwhelmed, maybe school is catching up to him. You try to reason with yourself, even smile at the thought of him doing well without needing you. But the truth is, none of that makes you feel any better.

You can accept that Hyunjin doesn’t want to work with you anymore. What you can’t accept—what keeps tugging at your chest like a thread being pulled loose—is that he didn’t even give you a reason why.

No conversation. No explanation. Just that look on his face, distant and closed off, and the way he walked away like everything between you didn’t mean a thing.

You think about how his voice used to sound when he laughed at your stupid jokes. You think about his fingers—paint-stained and warm—fixing the lighting for your shoot like he actually cared. You think about the way his eyes used to linger on you, like he wanted to say something but never did.

Maybe it was all in your head. Maybe you wanted to believe he cared more than he actually did. You spiral—hard. The thoughts come in fast and loud. Of course he didn’t want to stay. Who would?

You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at your phone like it holds the answers. But there are no new messages. No calls. No missed anything. Just silence.

You tell yourself to move on. To focus. To film something. Edit. Call someone else to help. But none of it feels right. None of it feels like him. And maybe that’s the hardest part. Not that he left, but that he left you not knowing why.

Now you can’t stop thinking that maybe it’s not about work at all. Maybe he just doesn’t want anything to do with you. And maybe... he's right to feel that way.

The curtains are drawn, casting a muted gray over your apartment. You’ve been lying on the sofa for hours, curled up in the same position, the blanket barely clinging to your body as your phone keeps chiming over and over. You know what it is. You don’t even have to look.

Eventually, with a sigh, you reach over and swipe it off the table, the screen lighting up with a flood of notifications—all of them from Lustre.

You open the app. Your inbox is filled with flirty, suggestive messages. Compliments on your last post. Requests. Heart emojis. Tips. Offers. You scroll through them with your thumb, barely registering the words. Just eyes glazed over, searching, hoping—waiting—for one name to appear.

But it doesn’t. He’s not there. Not even a silent like. Not even a ghost view.

Your shoulders drop, a quiet, bitter laugh escaping your lips before you toss your phone aside. It lands on the cushion with a soft thud, screen dimming back to black. You drag yourself up, feet cold against the floor as you wander aimlessly around your apartment. It’s too quiet. Too still. And your mind feels just as noisy as it is empty.

As you walk past the makeshift studio, you pause. Something catches your eye. You lean against the doorway, arms crossed as you stare at it—the massive painting that takes up nearly half the back wall. The one you did with Hyunjin. The colors, bold and chaotic. Your brush strokes and his—blended, layered, messy. Your bodies had moved in sync, hands stained with paint, clothes ruined, laughter echoing as you danced around the canvas like kids. Then, the shoot after—bare skin streaked with color, flashes of camera light, his hand warm against your hip as he adjusted the lens.

You remember how proud he was of that piece. The way you both collapsed on the floor after, cracking open cold drinks, toasting with paint-smeared fingers. The initials you both scrawled in the corner, still visible beneath a smudge of deep blue. It was the first of many. A beginning. And now it just feels like an echo of something that’s already ended.

Your heart aches—sharp and sudden, like a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You step closer, fingers brushing the dry surface of the canvas, as if touching it might bring some part of him back even though you know it doesn’t and you’re left there in the silence, missing someone who might’ve already let you go.

Squatting down, your eyes catch the initials in the corner: S.H.

You trail your fingers over them, gently outlining the letters. Your voice barely makes a sound as you murmur, “Sam Hwang.”

The name feels strange in your mouth—familiar, but distant, like something you've read in passing but never truly paid attention to.

Sam Hwang…

You say it again, this time letting it roll slower off your tongue. And then you freeze. You straighten up slowly, eyes widening as your mind starts connecting the pieces.

Sam Hwang.

You scramble for your phone, heart thudding as you fumble to unlock it. Your fingers are unsteady as you tap open the Lustre app and pull up the messages from that one user you had grown fond of—the one who always left sweet, thoughtful notes beneath your content. Never crude. Always kind.

You scroll back through the messages. The way they referenced things you never shared online—small details, like the time you wore your hair differently, or when you used a different song in your clips. It felt like they knew you. Like they saw you.

And then your brain syncs it all at once. The flowers.

Those purple tulips Hyunjin brought you, for no reason at all—just because. You thought it was sweet, random and you were too busy to notice it. But then you remember that it's the flowers on his profile picture. You stare at the screen, your pulse racing.

Mag.Shawn.

Sam Hwang.

It's an anagram. It’s him. It’s been him all along. You cover your mouth with your hand, a shaky breath slipping past your fingers as you try to steady yourself. Every message flashes through your mind now, suddenly reframed in Hyunjin’s voice. The compliments. The support. The gentle teasing. The way he never crossed a line.

Your knees give slightly, and you sit back on the floor with your phone still clutched in your hand, your heart pounding as if you just uncovered a secret love letter that was never meant to be found. Now that you know… everything feels different because it was never just about work. Not really. It was always something more.

-

Hyunjin is tired. Not the kind of tired that paint-stained fingers and aching shoulders bring—but the kind that seeps into the space behind his ribs, hollowing out something he’s not sure he’ll find again.

The school studio had been silent all day except for the low hum of music and the scratch of brushes against canvas. He painted aimlessly, moving through motions that didn’t bring the kind of release they once did. He should’ve felt accomplished. But instead, he just felt... alone.

When he finally makes his way back to the apartment building, the sky is a deep shade of navy. He climbs the familiar stairs slowly, dragging his feet, thoughts tangled like loose threads in his mind.

It’s when he rounds the corner, about to take the next flight up, that he sees you. Sitting on the steps, elbows on your knees, fingers nervously fidgeting. And when you look up—eyes locking with his like magnets clicking into place—Hyunjin stops breathing for a second. He knows that look. It's the same one he saw on that night you first talked to him. You’ve been waiting for him.

You rise slowly, carefully, like you’re afraid you might scare him off. But your voice is steady when you ask, “Can we talk?”

Hyunjin clenches his jaw. His heart hammers against his ribs, screaming yes, yes, let her in—but his head tries to keep control.

“There’s nothing left to talk about,” he says flatly. He doesn’t even look at you when he moves past, doesn’t dare. If he does, he knows he’ll unravel.

You don’t give up. Your footsteps echo behind him, too close, too persistent, and your voice comes again, more urgent this time. “I’m not mad that you quit, Hyunjin. I just need to know why.”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t. The words stay lodged somewhere in his throat, too complicated, too heavy to give voice to. His fingers tighten around the doorknob as he unlocks it. He finally turns to face you, his body angled half into the apartment, half still in retreat.

“Can we not do this now?” he mutters. “Just… not tonight.”

He starts to step inside but then you’re pushing forward—determined, fierce—and before he can stop you, you’re inside his apartment. The door clicks shut behind you, and the air between you both thickens.

“I’m not leaving,” you say quietly, “not until we talk.”

And just like that, he knows—there’s no more hiding.

You stand in the middle of the room like it’s a battlefield. You’ve crossed your arms in front of you, trying to brace yourself, trying not to fold. Your voice cuts through the heavy silence.

“Why?”

Hyunjin avoids your eyes. He turns slightly away, jaw tense. “I’m just tired,” he mutters. “I need to focus on school.”

You don’t say anything for a moment. You just stand there, the weight of his answer settling between you. Then, quietly, you say, “That’s not the real reason.”

Your voice begins to build, unraveling with everything you’ve been holding back. “These past few days I’ve been going over everything in my head, over and over again. I needed to know why, Hyunjin. Why you left like that, without saying a word. I thought maybe I did something wrong, maybe I made you uncomfortable, or maybe…”

Your voice cracks as frustration begins to break through. “Is it because of that night at Sienna’s party? Was it about Felix? Was it... me?”

Hyunjin flinches, hands tightening into fists at his sides. Your words sting in places he doesn’t want to admit. “It’s because I know you don’t want me,” he blurts, louder than he means to. You stare at him, eyes narrowing, confused. He takes a shaky breath, and his voice comes again, rawer this time. “Why haven’t you posted the content we made together? Is it because you didn’t want to do it with me? Because you don’t want me in it? Or is it… is it because you’re ashamed?”

You’re quiet now. The question hangs in the air like smoke. Then you breathe in, shaky and small, and your voice is almost a whisper when you speak. “I didn’t post it because I don’t want this life for you.”

Your arms uncross, and your gaze drops to the floor. “You’re a real artist, Hyunjin. You’re talented. You deserve to be known for your work—not as some guy who makes content with me.”

Your voice is trembling now, your words fragile. “I don’t want to be the reason you get looked at differently. Judged. You’re better than this.”

Hyunjin’s chest tightens. He almost snaps again, but he holds it in. Instead, he takes a step forward, voice low and steady. “Better than what, huh?”

You look up at him, eyes glassy, lips parting like you might speak—but nothing comes out. Another tear escapes, and without thinking, he reaches for you, gently placing his hands on your elbows.

“Do you even know what I want?” he asks, softer now.

You blink, your breath catching, and you shake your head. “No,” you say quietly. “But I know you’re better than this. I know you deserve more.”

His thumb catches the tear that rolls down your cheek.

“What if this—” he whispers, voice shaking just a little, “what if you are what I want?”

Hyunjin leans in slightly, the words right there, barely held back. “I want you,” He says, breathing through the emotion swelling in his chest. “And whatever comes with you.”

-

The second those words leave his mouth—“I want you. And whatever comes with you.”—you break.

It’s not graceful or quiet. It’s a sudden rush of breath you didn’t know you were holding, and then your face crumples as the tears fall fast and hot. You cover your face with both hands, like that could somehow muffle the sound of your sob, but it doesn’t work.

Hyunjin’s eyes widen with alarm, as if he hadn’t expected that reaction. As if he doesn’t understand why it hurts you so much to hear something so kind.

“You shouldn’t,” you croak between your fingers, voice thick and breaking. “You shouldn’t want me.”

That’s the part that cracks him open too. He doesn’t ask you why. He doesn’t tell you you’re wrong. He just steps forward and wraps his arms around you like he means to hold every shattered piece of you together. His warmth surrounds you instantly—his arms firm around your back, one hand on the back of your head, gently cradling you as you cry into his shoulder.

“I do,” he whispers, voice close to your ear. “I want you. I only want you.”

You cling to him, your hands fisting into the back of his shirt as if letting go would undo everything. The weight of everything—the confusion, the distance, the aching loneliness—pours out of you all at once, and still, Hyunjin holds you tighter.

You breathe in slowly, trying to steady the trembling in your chest. The worst of your tears have passed, but your throat still burns and your hands are still curled in the fabric of his hoodie, like you’re afraid to let go.

When you finally lift your head, your eyes meet his—deep, warm, unwavering. And it’s there again. That quiet devotion. That stubborn tenderness he always gives you without asking for anything in return.

“I do want you,” you rasp, voice barely above a whisper. “But I just… I know you deserve better.”

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, his thumb brushes softly across your lips, silencing the words before they can cut deeper into the space between you. He looks at you with something like heartbreak and fierce affection wrapped into one.

“You’re the only one I want,” he says, voice low and sure, as if daring you to challenge him again and then he leans in.

His lips find yours in a kiss that’s tender at first, then deepens with something heavier—something full of things he’s been holding back for far too long. It’s not rushed, not messy. It’s slow, consuming, full of warmth and ache and all the unsaid things that have been living between your hearts.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to cup your face with both hands, his forehead resting lightly against yours, his breath mixing with yours.

“You’re all I want in this world,” he whispers.

And before you can say anything else, he kisses you again—like a vow, like a promise, like he’s sealing every word he just said with the press of his lips against yours.

You pull away just enough to catch your breath, your forehead still resting against his. Your lips are tingling, heart pounding, and there's something new blooming in your chest—hope, maybe. Or something dangerously close to it.

You swallow, eyes flicking down to his lips before finding his gaze again. “Do you… want to continue?” you ask softly. “Pick up where we left off that night?”

For a moment, Hyunjin just blinks at you—like the question caught him off guard. But then a grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, warm and crooked and so undeniably him. He lets out a breathy laugh, voice laced with fond disbelief. “You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that.”

Hyunjin kisses you again—deeper this time, with more urgency. Like something in both of you has snapped free and there's no turning back now. His hands slide down to your thighs, and in one swift motion, he hoists you up. You gasp softly, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist, your arms looping around his shoulders as you press yourself closer. Your bodies fit together like they remember how it felt—how right it was.

The kiss grows heated, the air between you humming with everything unsaid and everything still to come. And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, it feels like the weight on your chest has lifted, like you're exactly where you're supposed to be—held tightly in his arms, kissed like you're the only thing he sees.

Hyunjin carries you down the short hallway with a kind of quiet certainty, his arms secure around you, his breath steady near your ear. Your heart flutters with every step—part anticipation, part disbelief that you're here, that this is happening again but different, deeper.

You glance over your shoulder, peeking into the dimly lit room as the two of you enter. It's the first time you’ve seen his bedroom, and the sight makes your lips twitch. The bed—mattress on the floor, slightly rumpled sheets, a couple of sketchbooks stacked on the nightstand—is exactly what you expected, yet still makes you grin.

You turn your head back to him, raising an eyebrow. “No bedframe, huh?”

Hyunjin just smirks, unbothered. “Didn’t realize I needed one to impress you.”

Your laughter is soft, breathy against his neck, and before you can fire back a reply, he’s already kneeling to lower you onto the mattress. The sheets are cool against your skin, but the warmth in his eyes keeps you steady. He leans over you, his fingers brushing your cheek, and for a second, he just looks at you like he's taking you in all over again, like you're his favorite work of art.

You feel it—that pull in your chest, that ache in your throat—as Hyunjin hovers above you, his eyes locked onto yours. There’s something intense in his gaze, something unspoken yet so loud it fills the room. His stare burns through the quiet, says everything he hasn’t said yet and everything you’ve been too scared to admit.

When he kisses you again, his body settles gently over yours, and you instinctively welcome the weight of him, the warmth, the way his presence wraps around you like a second skin. There’s nothing frantic about the way he touches you—his hands glide over your body like he’s relearning every inch. But even within that gentleness, there’s a sense of urgency. His fingers trail down your arm, brushing the side of your waist, and you can feel how much he wants you—how much he’s been wanting you. Still, there’s something soft in his every movement. Like even when he’s aching for you, he’s still being careful with your heart.

You don’t know what gets into you—but the moment your eyes meet his, wide and expectant beneath you, something shifts. A boldness, maybe. A need to let him feel what you've been holding back. You roll over, catching him off guard, and suddenly it's him beneath you. His back hits the mattress with a soft thud, and his breath catches as your legs settle on either side of his hips. His hands instinctively find your waist, grounding himself in your touch.

For a moment, you just take him in. The way his dark hair falls into his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls a little quicker now. You can’t help but trace the shape of him with your eyes, then with your hands—slowly, deliberately. Fingers skimming down his chest, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric.

You start unbuttoning his shirt, one at a time. His muscles tense beneath your touch, his breath hitching when your palm brushes bare skin. When the shirt parts open, your hand slides over the contours of his chest—smooth skin, defined lines, the flutter of his heartbeat under your fingertips.

And then your lips follow. You press gentle kisses against his skin, soft and slow, tasting the warmth of him, the way he shivers with every touch. As your kisses trail lower, his breath grows more uneven. You pause just at the edge of his waistband, the tension between you humming like a live wire. You lift your head just enough to look at him, his lips parted, eyes dark with anticipation, and the faintest tremble in his breath. You smirk.

Then you lean in and kiss him—hard. His lips mold to yours instantly, his hands gripping your waist tighter, pulling you closer, like he needs you there, needs this. And between the kisses, your voice dips low, teasing against his mouth.

“Why are you so nervous?” you murmur, brushing your nose against his. “It’s not like this is the first time we’re doing this.”

You feel the subtle hitch in his breath, the way his fingers flex against your skin. Still, he doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, he surges up, kissing you again. Deeper this time. Hungrier. Like that was all the encouragement he needed.

You melt into it, into him, your body pressed flush against his, his warmth grounding you in ways nothing else ever could. His hands roam—up your back, over your spine, holding you close and you stay there, tangled in him, lips moving together in quiet desperation, slow but insistent, a rhythm you both fall into with ease.

You breathe him in, every kiss tasting like something familiar but new again. And wrapped in his arms, with the weight of his affection holding you steady, the ache in your chest softens.

For now, it’s just the two of you. No doubts, no questions—just this moment, and the way he makes you feel like you’re the only thing he wants.

-

Hyunjin feels every second of your kiss like it’s being etched into his memory—every soft press of your lips, every shift of your body melting against his. You fit against him so perfectly, like your body was molded to match his. And god, he could stay like this forever.

Even with his mouth busy, his heart races as he feels your hand glide lower, fingers trailing the edge of his jeans. He catches your wrist gently, right before you can slip your hand beneath the waistband. You pull back slightly, gasping in surprise, and the look on your face—wide-eyed and slightly mischievous—makes his chest ache in the sweetest way.

You’re straddling him still, your legs snug around his hips, and he props himself up on one elbow, gazing at you. Your lips turn into an adorable pout. “But we’ve been waiting so long for this.”

He knows you’re right. He knows the urgency, the ache in your voice—it’s the same one he feels burning through him.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice low as he reaches up, brushing a few strands of your hair away from your face. He lets his fingertips trail along your jaw before settling just beneath it, holding you gently.

He leans in and kisses you. Slowly. Purposefully. Like he’s telling you everything he can’t quite put into words. When he pulls back, barely an inch from your lips, he rests his forehead against yours and whispers, “But let's make this lasts.”

You let out a quiet breath, your lips curling into a soft smile, and he swipes his thumb gently across your bottom lip, marveling at the way you look at him like he’s worth something, like he matters. And then he kisses you again, capturing that smile with his lips, holding it there between the both of you—this tender, perfect moment that feels like it could stretch into forever.

His hands find the hem of your blouse, fingers brushing warm skin as he gently tugs the fabric upward and over your head. You let him, your arms rising instinctively, eyes never leaving his. He trails his fingers down the length of your arms afterward, slow and reverent, like you’re something sacred, something to be worshiped.

When he reaches behind you, his fingers find the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with ease. You let the straps slide down your shoulders, and he watches as you shrug it off completely, tossing it somewhere forgotten. His breath catches when he sees you—bare, soft, and beautiful in the dim light.

He reaches out, fingertips tracing the slope of your collarbone before moving lower. He touches your chest with care at first, almost in awe, and rests his hand flat on your sternum, feeling the rapid thud of your heart beneath his palm. Slowly, he glides it down until it finds home on your ribcage, holding you steady as he leans in.

His mouth follows next—kisses pressed along your jaw, trailing to the curve of your neck, each one lingering longer than the last. He kisses your chest, hands rising to cup your breasts with a kind of reverence, but also urgency. His palms are warm, fingers pressing in gently, fondling and kneading. When he takes your nipple into his mouth, your breath stutters into a soft moan, and that sound alone drives him wild.

He lavishes attention on you, switching sides, leaving behind faint wet marks on your skin—his own quiet claim. He moves higher, up your chest, his tongue smoothing along your skin before he suckles the hollow between your neck and shoulder, and he feels you shiver beneath him.

Hyunjin breathes you in as he buries his face against your sternum, his lips resting just above your heartbeat. It drums steadily against him, louder somehow now that everything else has quieted — the world, his thoughts, the tension that had built between the two of you over the past days. All of it fades as he listens to the rhythm of your heart, like it’s telling him something he already knows deep down.

Your hands come up gently, arms wrapping around his shoulders, holding him close. Your fingers slide into his hair and he sighs into your skin — the sound barely audible but full of meaning. You don’t speak. Neither of you needs to. It’s not about words right now.

The warmth of your embrace, the bare skin against his, the rise and fall of your chest under his cheek — it feels like a thread, invisible and delicate, tugging the two of you closer until there’s nothing between you. Nothing but the ache of longing finally answered. He presses a soft kiss to your chest, right over your heart, and stays there, still, quiet, content.

For the first time in a long while, Hyunjin feels whole — like he isn’t running from anything anymore. Like maybe this… is exactly where he’s meant to be.

After a long moment, he lifts his head from your chest, his breath warm against your skin as his gaze finds yours — intense and unreadable. Then, without a word, he shifts his weight and catches you off guard, pushing you gently down onto the bed, reversing your positions once more. You let out a soft gasp, eyes wide as you land against the mattress, your hair fanned out beneath you.

His hands frame your face as he leans down and kisses you again — slow, deep, claiming. You can feel the change in him, in the air. It’s not rushed. It’s not just need. It’s more than that now.

As his lips part from yours, his hands begin to explore you again, moving down your sides in a slow, reverent motion. Every brush of his fingers leaves a trail of goosebumps in their wake. When they reach your hips, they linger for a heartbeat before he tugs gently at the waistband of your shorts.

His gaze lifts to meet yours again, seeking permission without speaking, and when you give the slightest nod, he inhales quietly and then continues — slowly peeling them down your legs, your underwear along with them. The air feels cooler against your skin as you’re exposed to him fully, but the way he looks at you makes you feel anything but vulnerable.

He kneels there at the edge of the bed, unmoving for a moment, just looking at you. Not in lust — though there’s desire in his eyes — but in awe, like he’s looking at a painting he doesn’t dare touch, like he wants to memorize every curve of you, every detail, as if you were art in motion. And to him, you are.

His hands are steady as he leans in again, his lips brushing over yours in a soft, lingering kiss before moving lower. He places gentle, fluttering kisses along your collarbone, then down to your ribcage — slow, unhurried. His mouth grazes your navel, then your left hip, each press of his lips last longer than then previous.

You gasp softly when he slips his hand under the back of your thigh and lifts it, his lips finding the soft skin of your inner thigh. He lingers there for a breath, the warmth of his mouth sending ripples through your entire body. Then he trails lower, his lips brushing down your calf, and finally landing on the sole of your foot. The unexpected kiss makes you giggle, the sound breaking through the quiet like sunlight through clouds.

After giving your foot a quick massage, he gently sets your leg down and looks up at you, his expression shifting — no longer teasing or playful, but full of something much deeper. He sighs, almost shakily, and brings his hand up to cup your jaw, his thumb brushing along your cheek.

“I should be the one asking if I deserve all this,” he murmurs, his voice low and earnest. “If I really deserve every beautiful part of you… to touch you, kiss you, hold you.”

You don’t say anything — the way you look at him already says enough.

Hyunjin reaches for your hand, holding it tenderly in both of his. He brings your wrist to his lips first, placing a kiss there like he’s sealing a vow, then presses one to your open palm. Then he shifts forward, lowering himself over you slowly. His body presses gently into yours, his skin warm, his heartbeat strong and steady against your chest.

This time, he’s not just close. He’s with you — completely, quietly, and fully present. Molding into you, like the final brushstroke that completes a painting.

Just when you’re completely wrapped in him, he suddenly pulls away, sitting up on the bed with a breathless laugh, eyes flickering with something unspoken. You watch him as he impatiently pushes his jeans down his hips, shedding the last barrier between you. His sigh of relief is audible, and the way his chest rises and falls is enough to make your breath catch.

Hyunjin doesn’t waste time to wrap his hand around his swollen length with evident veins coiling around it, pulsating with need. He glances at you through heavy lashes, his hand begins stroking it up and down, then he murmurs, “Do you want to?”

You don’t answer with words—just a slow, sure nod. He reaches for your hand, guiding it gently, curling your fingers around his hot, hard cock.

The moment your hand wraps around him, his jaw tightens, his eyes fluttering half shut. Together, you find a rhythm—pumping his cock at a slow, steady pace, the tension thick between you as your eyes stay locked, every breath shared and every movement deliberate. There's no rush, just this quiet moment of closeness, of trust and want, unfolding between the two of you.

Hyunjin’s breath hitches as your hand continues its slow movements, the tension in his body unraveling under your touch. His eyes stay on you, dark and intense, until they flicker downward. With one hand still wrapped around yours, guiding the rhythm, his other hand trails down your thigh—light, teasing, reverent.

When his fingers slip between your legs, dipping into your wetness. His touch is gentle at first, exploratory, but it doesn't take long before he’s pressing two digits into you, finding the spot that makes you shift and gasp. His lips part as he watches your reaction, his own breathing getting heavier.

“So wet,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, “so ready for me.” There’s awe in the way he says it, almost like he can’t believe this is real—that you're here, letting him touch you like this.

The sensation of his fingers working you open while your hand still pumping his cock pulls a shiver from deep inside. It’s a push and pull, each of you responding to the other in quiet desperation, building the tension between you. His forehead presses to yours for a second, grounding both of you, his eyes closed like he’s trying to savor every second and when he opens them again, there’s no mistaking the hunger swimming there—an ache mirrored in your own heart.

You barely have time to react before Hyunjin grabs both of your wrists and pins them gently above your head, his fingers firm but careful around your wrists. His eyes meet yours, hooded and dark with want, and for a moment, all you can hear is your breathing—intertwined and uneven.

Then his free hand slips between your bodies, guiding himself down until the thick heat of his cock presses right against where you need him most. He doesn’t enter—only drags his length along your soaked core, slow and maddening, your essence coating his shaft for every time it sides between your folds. The friction makes your back arch, your body instinctively chasing more, needing more. But Hyunjin just smirks, watching the way you react to him as the tip of his cock pressing right on your clit.

“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice gravelly, lips brushing against your cheek as his hips roll forward again, grinding against you in a way that makes your whole body tense and tremble. “This is how much I want you…”

You whimper beneath him, wrists still caught in his hold, entirely at his mercy. Each slow stroke of his hips is deliberate, calculated to tease, and it works—you're writhing, eyes fluttering shut, your legs falling open for him without a second thought.

Hyunjin leans down and kisses your jaw, your neck, then your lips, swallowing every sound you make as he keeps moving, driving you to the edge without even taking you there yet.

Despite the desperate, breathless moans you let out, he doesn’t ease up. If anything, his teasing only grows more deliberate, each slow roll of his hips keeping you right on the edge, never enough to satisfy the ache building in your core. You squirm beneath him, your breaths coming out shaky, helpless—your body begging for what your lips still struggle to say.

“Please,” you whisper. Then again, more desperate. “Please… please…”

Hyunjin lowers his head, brushing his lips against your temple. “Please what?” he murmurs, voice rough with control, eyes glinting with mischief.

You can’t answer—not with words. Instead, you keep whispering his name between each breathless plea, your hands clutching at his arms, your hips lifting, chasing him. A slow, almost smug smile forms on his lips.

And then finally, you manage a broken, “I want you.”

He pauses to look down between your bodies where your need for him is obvious—undeniable. He can see it from how drenched you are, from the way your essence gets all over his thick shaft.

“Yeah?” he says, low and teasing, brushing the crest of his cock against you, slipping just barely in. “I can see that.”

You let out a choked whimper, nodding frantically, pleading again without shame. “Please. I need you.”

Hyunjin releases your wrists, only to grip your hip with one hand and steady himself with the other. Slowly, achingly slow, he pushes into you—just an inch or two—then stops. The pressure is there, intense and lingering, but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough. He looks down at you, lips parted, eyes dark and focused entirely on the way you react to him.

“You want more?” he asks, breath hitching as he holds himself still inside you, teasing you with just enough to drive you wild.

Your back arches, fingers digging into the sheets. “Yes,” you gasp. “More. Please…”

Hyunjin leans in, kissing your neck before murmuring against your skin, “Then hold on to me.”

Despite his words, he doesn’t grant your plea just yet. Instead, he moves with intention—slow, shallow thrusts that never go deeper than your entrance, but it’s more than enough. Each time he rocks into you, it sends a ripple of heat through your body, igniting something that builds faster than you expect. He watches you carefully, his hand gripping your hip tighter each time you clench around him.

You’re unraveling beneath him, your breath catching, moans spilling from your lips in broken, rasping fragments. And he can feel it—how close you are, how your body trembles under the weight of your need.

“You’re close,” he whispers, voice husky as he leans closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

You nod, unable to form words, completely lost in the feeling. Then it hits. Your back arches, fingers twisting into the sheets as your release rushes through you in waves, pleasure so intense it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs.

Your body pulses around him, and you’re still gasping for breath when Hyunjin finally moves again. He exhales shakily—almost a groan—and slowly sinks all the way in, filling you completely in one smooth, careful push. He's giving you what you want when you least expect it.

You gasp, overwhelmed, your body still sensitive from the climax. The sensation of him, so hard, so deep and still inside you, makes your whole body shiver. You can feel his heart pounding against yours, his breath brushing over your lips as he hovers above you.

He stills, just holding you, letting you feel every inch of him as your body adjusts—pulsing, vibrating gently around him. “You feel… unreal,” he whispers, brushing a strand of hair from your face, his voice raw with awe.

-

Hyunjin feels like everything.

Inside you, around you—He is all you can feel, all you can see. And for the first time, it truly feels like the two of you have become one. Every breath he takes, you feel it in your lungs. Every beat of his heart echoes in your own.

You wrap your arms tightly around him, pulling him closer, needing to feel his weight, his warmth, his reality. Your lips find his, and he kisses you like he’s been holding back an ocean of longing—eager, deep, like he wants to memorize the shape of your mouth.

You pull away just a little, breath caught, lips still brushing his as you whisper, “Hyunjin…”

The second his eyes meet yours, you know he’s listening—really listening. Like your voice is the only sound in the world.

“Take me,” you say, voice low and trembling. “Make me... Claim me.”

His brows draw together, jaw twitching like he’s trying to hold something back. You reach up and brush the hair that’s fallen over his face, tucking it behind his ear, your thumb gliding gently across his temple.

“Come inside me,” you breathe.

That’s when you feel it—something in him shifts, snaps, cracks wide open. His restraint melts away, and suddenly his mouth is on yours again, desperate, aching. He starts to move, slow at first, but there’s something different now. Every thrust is more than just movement—it’s a vow, a promise, a confession.

There’s no bedframe beneath you, just the mattress pressed against the floor, and for a fleeting second, you’re oddly thankful—because with the way he’s moving, rough and hungry, anything else would’ve fallen apart beneath the weight of it all.

His gaze never leaves you. It darkens when he sees your hands slide up to your chest, fingers teasing over your erected nipples, doubling the pleasure sparking through your body. You squeeze and cup yourself, breath hitching, and when you bring your breasts together for him, he takes them in his mouth in an instant. His tongue swirls, flicks, sucks on your nipples and on the flesh of your mounds, drawing shameless moans from your throat that echo off the bare walls.

Then he grabs your hands gently, pulling them away and placing them around his shoulders like an unspoken message—hold on to me. And you do.

Hyunjin picks up the pace, his breath turning ragged against your skin, and all you can do is cling to him, gasping, moaning, unraveling as his body claims yours with everything he has. There’s no space between you anymore, only heat, only movement, only the rush of him building toward the edge.

And when he finally lets go—when he gives you all of him, coming inside you and fill you full of him just like you asked—it feels like a vow, wordless and sacred. A promise sealed with every part of him. He collapses into you, your bodies tangled, breath shared. In that moment, he is wholly, completely yours. And you are his.

-

The bed is cold when you wake up.

The first thing you notice is the emptiness beside you—no warmth, no steady heartbeat to lull you back into sleep. Just rumpled sheets and the faint imprint of where he lay last night.

You blink against the light, slowly sitting up, the duvet clutched to your chest. It smells like him—something between fresh paint and fabric softener—and you breathe it in like it’ll bring him back. It only makes your heart ache a little more.

“Hyunjin?” you call out softly, voice rough from sleep and get no reply.

Your gaze lands on his sweater, half-draped at the edge of the bed. You reach for it, pulling it over your head, letting the sleeves hang long past your hands. It’s warm. It’s him. And somehow, it helps.

You slide out of the bed and walk through the apartment barefoot, your steps quiet. “Hyunjin?” you call again, a little louder this time and still no answer.

The silence makes the apartment feel unfamiliar like it doesn’t quite belong to either of you without him in it. You wander through the space, and your eyes land on the canvas—that one. The one covered by a white cloth. The one he said was a failure. You hesitate for only a second before stepping closer. Your fingers grip the edge of the fabric, and with one careful tug, you lift it. The breath catches in your throat. It’s… you.

A portrait. A figure rendered in soft colors and tender strokes. The way he’s painted you—it’s intimate, it’s raw. It’s real. Not just your features, but the way he sees you. The way he feels you. And he called this a failure?

Your fingertips trail lightly along the edge of the painting, your chest swelling with something deep and warm. He lied. Not because the painting wasn’t good, but because it meant too much to show. And the fact that he created this—that he thought of you like this—makes your heart ache in the most beautiful way.

Then you hear it—the click of a lock turning, the quiet creak of the front door opening. You turn just as Hyunjin steps inside, balancing two takeaway coffee cups in one hand and a paper bag in the other. His sweater hangs a little loose, and his hair is messy from the breeze outside. His eyes land on you in surprise.

“Hey—!”

You run to him, arms wrapping tightly around his torso, and he gasps as he tries to keep the coffee from spilling. His laugh is muffled against your hair as he shifts the cups to one hand.

“Careful,” he says through a breathless chuckle. “Or I have to go and buy coffee again.”

“You left me,” you say with a dramatic pout, burying your face into the soft fabric of his hoodie. “I woke up and you were gone.”

“I didn’t think I’d be long,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You were still asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You pull back just enough to meet his gaze—and then you kiss him. A soft, sleepy kiss, full of affection. When you pull away, there’s a smile playing at your lips. “Good morning.”

His own smile softens as he leans in again, placing a longer kiss on your lips, like he missed you in the hour he was gone. “Good morning,” he echoes. “Let’s have breakfast, mmh?”

And just like that, the day starts with him again. Just the way you like it.

-

You and Hyunjin settle onto the sofa, breakfast in your laps and a lazy, quiet comfort hanging in the air between you. The sun filters in through the windows, casting a soft glow over everything. He sits beside you, legs spread just enough for you to slide in closer. After finishing your pastry, you cradle your coffee cup between your hands, still warm and fragrant.

Without a word, you scoot closer to him, draping your legs over his lap and letting them rest comfortably between his. He glances at you, smiling softly, and you return it with one of your own.

“So,” you start, sipping your coffee slowly before turning to face him fully, “I saw the painting.”

His brows lift, amused, and a little sheepish. “You did?”

You nod, narrowing your eyes at him playfully. “You lied to me.”

Hyunjin huffs out a laugh. “I did say it was a failure.”

You jab a finger into his chest and grin. “It’s me.”

He tilts his head, playing along. “Do you like it?”

You set your coffee cup down on the table, then fold your arms and pout at him. “I don’t like it.”

He raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“I love it,” you say with a wide grin. “So much.”

He chuckles and shifts slightly to wrap his arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close. “It’s not finished yet.”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “When are you going to finish it then?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You pout again, exaggerated and dramatic. “Why not?”

He looks down at you, eyes soft and full of something you can’t quite name—something tender, something warm. “Why should I finish it,” he murmurs, “when I have the real one right here?”

You groan out loud, burying your face against his chest. “Ugh, you’re so cheesy.”

He laughs, a full, unguarded sound—and you can’t help but join him, laughing like everything in the world is just a little lighter when you’re together and maybe it is.

You set your coffee cup aside on the table, shifting on the couch so you can climb onto Hyunjin’s lap. He doesn’t protest—in fact, he opens his arms right away, welcoming you into them. You nestle into him, your knees framing his hips, and he takes a long sip of his coffee before placing his cup down as well. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, and you feel his chest rise and fall against yours.

You tilt your head and kiss his jaw, then press another soft one to his cheek. He turns to look at you, amused and already smiling when you gently grab his chin and turn his face toward you for a quick peck on the lips. Then you settle back into him, your head resting comfortably in the crook of his neck. His warmth surrounds you, his scent familiar, and when you glance up at him, something in your chest flutters.

“We should go on a date,” you murmur.

His thumb brushes along your cheek, soft and sweet. “Where do you want to go?” he asks.

You hum as you think. “Uhm... To your favorite place?”

He smirks, his hand playfully hovering on your inner thigh, intentionally brushing his knuckles against your clothed core. “My favorite place is right here.”

You gasp, laughing as you lightly slap his chest. “Hyunjin!”

He laughs too, that bright, boyish sound filling the room. “Just being honest here,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender.

You nod, your expression softening. “You know... somewhere that feels personal to you.”

Hyunjin leans in and places an affectionate kiss on your lips, lingering for a second before pulling back just enough to whisper, “I know a place.”

-

Hyunjin pats down the pockets of his jacket, doing a quick mental check—phone, wallet, keys and that thing in the inner pocket of his jacket. All good. He smooths down the front of his shirt and glances once at the mirror near the door, fixing his hair with his fingers before finally stepping out of his apartment.

He walks over to your door, heart thudding just a little faster than usual. It’s strange how it still feels like this with you—like he’s a teenager picking up his crush, not someone who spent the night tangled up in you.

Hyunjin knocks and when the door swings open, He blinks—once, then twice. You’re standing there, looking… breathtaking.

He lets out a soft, stunned laugh, eyes sweeping over your outfit. “Wow,” he says, leaning a shoulder against your doorframe. He says nothing else but his eyes endlessly admiring you.

You laugh, a little sheepish but so proud. “It’s our first date,” you simply point out.

Something tugs at Hyunjin’s chest at that. The honesty in your voice, the way you’re looking at him—it’s soft, real, and he’s suddenly so glad he gets to have this with you.

He grins, stepping closer. “You’re beautiful,” he says, meaning every word. Then, with a teasing glint in his eyes, “Maybe we should just cancel the whole plan.”

He nudges you playfully, pushing you back a step into your apartment, and you both burst into laughter. But before either of you can say more, he grabs your hand, warm and certain.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s go make it a good first date.”

The quiet hush of the gallery wraps around you both like a blanket, softening the sounds of passing footsteps and hushed conversations. Hyunjin walks beside you with his hands tucked in his pockets, his gaze darting to you now and then—your curious eyes, the way you lean in just a little to read the small plaques beside the paintings. He’s not sure why his heart won’t stop doing these little flips, but he doesn’t want it to stop either.

Eventually, he stops in front of a painting. It’s large, vivid, a swirling composition of shadows and light that seem to breathe if you look long enough.

You pause with him, sensing something different in his stance, the way he exhales slowly. “This one?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

Hyunjin steps closer, moving behind you and gently resting his hands on your waist. He nods. “Yeah… this one.”

You both stand there in silence for a moment, staring at the canvas. And then, in that quiet space, he begins to speak.

“There was a time I used to come here almost every week,” he says softly. “I'd just stand here and look at it. For hours, sometimes. I didn’t even understand everything about it—I still don’t. But something about it made me feel… seen. Like it understood what I was going through even when I couldn’t say it out loud.”

You listen, still and patient, your fingers brushing lightly over his where they rest on your waist.

“When I couldn’t eat, when I was too tired to sleep, when I was too overwhelmed to paint… I came here. I used this painting to hold myself together.” His voice falters for a second. “But now when I look at it, all I feel is everything I tried to suppress. Exhaustion. Pressure. Loneliness.”

He pauses. You can feel the weight of the memories in his breath.

“I want to change that.”

He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out something small. A glint of silver and a soft charm catches the light as he holds it up—it’s the bracelet you once tried on absentmindedly at that jewelry shop weeks ago. You’d joked about him buying him for you and he hadn’t said anything then, just smiled.

Now, without a word, he gently slips it around your wrist and fastens the clasp.

“From now on,” he murmurs, “when I look at this painting, I’ll remember this moment instead. You. Us.”

You turn your head slightly to look at him, your eyes glistening with emotions you can’t quite name. Happiness. Sadness. Love. Grief. Hope. All tangled up into one beautiful ache.

“Thank you,” your voice breaking at the end of the sentence.

You kiss him, just a brush of lips—but it’s enough to make his breath catch. Then you take his hands and wrap them fully around your waist, holding them there like a promise.

“You’re not alone anymore,” you say gently. “I’m here. You have me now.”

Hyunjin looks at you like you’ve just handed him the sun and then he leans in and kisses you—not in a rush, not in desperation, but with everything he’s been carrying in his heart. Quiet gratitude. Relief. Love. It’s a kiss that says, I see you. I feel you. I’m yours.

And in that gallery, under the gaze of a painting that once held all his pain, he lets it all go—and chooses to remember this instead.

The kiss lingers long after it ends, warmth spreading through Hyunjin’s chest like a sunrise. He stays there for a beat longer, arms wrapped around you, your head resting against his shoulder as the painting stands silently before you—no longer a mirror of pain, but now a witness to something new.

Eventually, you both pull away, your fingers still tangled in his, your bracelet catching the light with every little movement.

Hyunjin glances down at it and smiles softly. “Ready to go?” he asks, brushing a thumb across your knuckles.

You nod. “Where to next?”

He pretends to think, lips twitching. “Somewhere with less staring eyes and more delicious food?”

You laugh, and the sound echoes faintly through the quiet halls of the gallery.

Hand in hand, you walk out together. The doors open, and sunlight spills across the marble floors, welcoming you into the rest of the day.

And as the two of you step into the light—your shoulders brushing, your smiles easy, your hearts just a little fuller than before—it feels like the beginning of something beautiful, something real and it's just getting started.

-

✨ A bonus chapter to Cam is available on my Patreon ✨

Please support my writings by kindly reblog, comment or consider tipping me on my ko-fi!

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[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 11: Westchester]

A/N: Only 1 chapter left 🪄

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent…at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon’s right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap situationship, illness/death/hospital stuff, a Targ family gathering!

Word count: 6.2k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

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In the darkness of your nightscape bedroom—plumes of neon and incandescence floating beyond the window like man-made stars—you read Becca’s Instagram posts and blog entries about how brave Aegon has been in the wake of his diagnosis, and between the lines of course is her courage too: the caretaker, the self-sacrificial curator, the saintly hands his demise has been entrusted into, his long slow disintegration until only the bones are left, no memories, no dreams, no future and no past.

The last weeks of August float away like a balloon, carried high and quick into a sky that is dizzyingly hot and so bright it stings the eyes. On sidewalks, you hide under the shade of palm trees. On lunch dates with Chloe—running lines, trying perplexing new foods like escargot and sea urchin, giggling over celebrity gossip—you ask for tables inside or under the refuge of patio umbrellas. Each night in your apartment that Aegon now pays your half of the rent for, religiously deposited in your bank account by Brandon at a least one full week before it’s due, you lie in the bathtub reading the movie script or books on the Gilded Age until the water turns lukewarm and steam glistens on your skin; and into these infinitesimal black-ink worlds you disappear, a new name, a distant time, a different man who has stitched himself to you with dissolving threads.

Now you are in Chinatown with Aegon, and the ember-colored oscars are murderous and darting back and forth as he skims his fingers across the top of the tank, and you have devoured your moo goo gai pan but Aegon has barely touched his boneless spare ribs. His is listless and distracted. Strands of sandy blonde hair are falling out of their gel to rest across his forehead. There are dark shadows like smudges of ash under his eyes. Your own eyes are adorned with shimmering dusty rose powder to match your sundress, three shades blended together, all by Urban Decay: Liar, Stolen, Right Time.

“I really think you should see a doctor,” you tell Aegon, not for the first time.

“I might,” he says absently, still tormenting the oscars.

“It can only help at this point. They could confirm the diagnosis and get you on a treatment plan. I’ve been researching it and there are drugs that suppress tremors, and physical therapy, and antidepressants...and oh, these things called ‘dopamine agonists’ that are good for motor functions...and they even have Huntington’s support groups!”

Aegon sighs.

“If you make an appointment, I’ll go with you,” you say. “Any day, any time, I don’t care, I’ll go. I’ll reschedule whatever else I have on my calendar.” Workouts with your personal trainer, meetings with your dialect coach, calls with Dusty or Santi or anyone else from the film, outings with Chloe, a life that is growing abundant and bright like a full moon.

“Maybe.” Then Aegon studies his Chinese zodiac calendar, an attempt to change the subject. And you’ll let him; you don’t want to spend the time you have left arguing. “What year were you born?” he asks, as if you’ve never had this conversation before. “Which animals is yours?”

And instead of being offended, frustrated, startled, you just force a smile and hold up your hands in the shape of claws. “I’m a dragon, Aegon.”

He leans in close to read the description: You are eccentric and your life complex. You have a very passionate nature and abundant health. Then he laughs. “Oh yeah, of course you are. Sounds just like you.”

“And you’re a horse.”

“Do you like horses?”

“I like one,” you say, and Aegon grins and offers you a forkful of his boneless spare ribs, dripping viscous red sauce like bad blood.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Saturday, August 30th, and the wedding is exactly one week away. The Targaryens are throwing a bon voyage party for Aegon at their Malibu beach house, something planned a month in advance, although it has a certain somberness to it now. Alicent keeps dabbing at her large dark eyes with a green handkerchief, collecting herself, crumpling into tears again. Guests are murmuring gravely about their vague, archaic memories of Viserys: Saw him in a wheelchair a few times...then he just disappeared...never really asked...a Hollywood legend like that...wanted to respect his privacy...such a lovely family...how awful they’re going through this all over again.

Aegon has dispatched Becca to ready the new house in Houston, a project that she is posting about on Instagram with great frequency and euphoric triumph; she has been given a vital task. If she suspects his true motivations for wanting her two time zones and 1,500 miles away, she gives no indications of it. In Becca’s absence—and much to your own surprise—you are Aegon’s plus one on this hot, golden afternoon as salt-smelling wind blows in off the Pacific Ocean and children splash in the pool.

As your floral yellow sundress billows and the breeze tangles your hair, you smile and chat with the series of guests that Aegon introduces you to, distant relatives, industry people, the new agent he keeps trying to offload you onto, a bookish young woman named Kristen who is perfectly polite and surely very knowledgeable and yet not the one you want. Kristen didn’t agree to sign you when no one else would. Kristen didn’t put her knuckles into the wall of a Beverly Hills mansion for you.

Several of the party guests recognize you from the Maroon 5 music video and congratulate you on your starring role in your upcoming indie movie, which has just been publicly announced. Each time the conversation drifts towards Aegon—his misfortunate diagnosis, his exodus to Texas—he steers it back to you. He doesn’t want to talk about himself, of course, or his situation, or the fate that awaits him in Houston, and that’s part of it; but he’s also proud of you. He’s taking full advantage of one of his last chances to advocate for you. He’s going down swinging.

Now Aegon is eating hors d’oeuvres with his other recent clients, Steve, Fatima, and Angus, all of whom have found new agents with Aegon’s assistance, and you are sitting on the ledge of the swimming pool with the hem of your dress tucked under your thighs and your legs submerged to the knees. Helaena has children, which isn’t something Aegon ever mentioned before; there are four of them, wreaking havoc in the pool as they play volleyball with their friends, hurling a beach ball back and forth over a miniature net. You are keeping score for them and serving as the cheerleader, which is much preferrable to making small talk with self-important industry executives or listening to people sigh over how selfless Becca is for assuming this burden.

Aemond wanders over to you, dressed in his version of casual: a full suit, but beige instead of black or navy. He doesn’t say anything. He observes the kids playing for a while, though you have the sense he isn’t really seeing them. You peek covertly at the scar that cuts down the left side of his grim face, and you remember what Aegon told you about Viserys: He’s the reason my mother still has nightmares. He’s the reason Aemond lost his eye.

“You’ll watch out for him, right?” you say anxiously to Aemond. “Even when he’s in Texas?”

He gives you an impatient look, like you’re stupid for asking. “I’ll always make sure he’s taken care of. There’s nowhere he could run that would be far enough to keep me away.”

You are relieved. “Good.” You glance over at Aegon to check on him; he is still mingling with his former clients, and he seems happy. Then you find Alicent in the crowd. She is ever-encircled by Helaena and Daeron, who appear to be trying to distract her. The beach house is besieged by blue balloons. A DJ is playing artists that you recognize from Aegon’s extensive Spotify playlist: Alanis Morissette, Pearl Jam, Third Eye Blind, the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

“I really wish he’d see a doctor,” Aemond says after a while, his voice low to be discrete. “We have great specialists here at Cedars-Sinai.”

“He has an appointment on Wednesday morning. I finally got him to make one.”

Aemond stares down at you, mystified, suspicious. “Who are you?”

“What do you mean? I’m a client.”

“Yes, I know that,” Aemond says; again, like you might be a little slow. “Why do you always know what he’s up to? Why does he care what you think? He doesn’t care what anybody thinks.”

You aren’t sure how to answer. You avoid the question by lobbing away the beach ball when a child’s spike sends it hurtling at you.

“He talks about you a lot,” Aemond says. “He insists that you’re a good actress. He asks me to help you. And then he forgets that he asked, and he asks again.”

“I don’t know why he cares what I think.”

“Sure you don’t.” Aemond’s brow is furrowed and his eyes narrowed: one real, one eternally unseeing. “Are you going with him on Wednesday?”

“I am,” you admit.

“Give me your phone.”

You comply immediately, digging it out of your floral Patricia Nash purse. Aemond Targaryen is not an easy man to refuse. He types something quickly as he stands beside the pool. One of the children giggles as they swim up to the edge and splash him with chlorinated water, wetting his beige suit and brown leather Gucci shoes. Aemond sighs irritably.

“I put myself in as a contact,” Aemond says when he returns your phone. “After his appointment, call me and tell me everything the doctor said.”

“Okay.” Aegon probably wouldn’t approve of that, but it’s good for him.

Then Aemond does something unexpected. He reaches out to you, and for a second you instinctively flinch away, but his hand is gentle; Aemond’s palm settles on the back of your neck, and you blink up at him, bewildered. “I’m sorry you’re losing him too,” Aemond says, soft and strangely tender. Then he swipes something off his right cheek and leaves, weaving through the crowd to join his mother, who is pretending to fret over a rapidly melting ice sculpture—a Texas Longhorn—so she won’t have to think about Aegon instead.

A child is tugging at you, grappling for your hand with slippery, dripping fingers and then trying to drag you into the pool. “Come swimming!�� a little girl, maybe eight or nine years old, is crowing with a missing-baby-teeth grin. “We’re going to play Marco Polo. You can be the person who shouts Marco! and tries to find us.”

You laugh. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t have a swimsuit. I didn’t know this was a pool party.” Aegon neglected to mention that part.

“Please?” she begs, and now the other children are joining in, a chorus of reckless encouragement. You have the impression they aren’t often able to cajole the adults into playing with them. And the little girl looks so much like Aegon—same eyes, same hair—that you find yourself thinking: When he’s gone, will there really be nothing left of him? Is that possible?

“Alright, I’m coming in!” you announce, and the kids cheer. You shove your purse far enough away from the pool that your phone should be safe, and then you slide off the ledge and into the water: brisk blue currents that thrash as the children flee away from you, giggling as they hug the curved cement corners, poised to bolt again if you venture towards them.

“Now close your eyes,” the little girl demands, and you cover them with your palms. You feel her shoving you and it takes you a few seconds to realize what she wants: for you to spin around. You do this as quickly as you can until you are completely disoriented, stumbling, blind, laughing as you reach out with your eyes squeezed shut, your yellow sundress flowing around you in the cool water like the fanlike fins of a koi fish.

“Marco,” you say.

“Polo!” the children yell, and then squeal as you lunge for them. Waves swell through the pool, water droplets from their kicking feet spray across your face. There’s sun on your bare shoulders as your legs traverse the rough concrete floor in slow motion, your steps heavy and silent. You can hear adults muttering in scandalized disapproval: Who is that? What’s wrong with her?

“Marco?” you call out again.

“Polo!” a gaggle of children hurl back, too many; the voices seem to come from everywhere. You can’t pinpoint a direction, so you choose one at random and dive.

“Marco!” you shout, then yelp as you bump into the side of the pool and stun yourself.

Someone grabs your outstretched hands. “Polo,” Aegon says, and you open your eyes to see him kneeling at the edge of the water. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks, but he’s smiling; he helps you scramble back up onto the ledge of the pool.

“They wanted me to play with them.”

“You could have said no.”

“I can never say no to kids. They walk all over me.”

“You’re too nice.”

“I’ve heard that before.” Though it doesn’t sound so much like a criticism when Aegon says it. He sits down beside you on the ledge of the pool and lets his legs dangle in the water; he has kicked off his flip-flops to rest haphazardly beside your tan wedges. He is wearing white cargo shorts and a powder blue short-sleeve Oxford that is at least a size too big for him. He’s losing weight, you think, forlorn. He’s disappearing.

Helaena arrives with a towel—very thick and soft, doubtlessly expensive—and gives it to you. She is one of the few party guests who do not seem horrified by your antics; instead, she titters and tells the children not to entrap you again, that you’ll play with them later. They resume their game of Marco Polo with a new blind explorer. As you wrap the towel around your shoulders, Aegon takes a corner and uses it to dry your face. Then he gazes out over the patio towards the Pacific Ocean, ignoring the children. He never really interacts with kids, you’ve noticed; even when he watches them with a transfixed sort of wonder, he keeps an expanse of space between them like an alcoholic trying to stay away from the drink.

“You could have done IVF,” you say, and Aegon looks at you, eyebrows raised, a how did you know what I was thinking? sort of expression. “They can screen the embryos for chromosomal defects and only implant the ones that are healthy. So you’d know the baby wouldn’t have Huntington’s.”

Aegon shrugs, kicking his feet beneath the rippling crystalline line of the water. “I think that takes a lot of trust, you know?”

You aren’t sure what he means. “To do IVF?”

“To leave a kid with someone,” he clarifies. “If I’m going to be out of the picture in a few years, I’d have to feel really confident that the mother would be the kind of person I’d trust to raise the child the right way. Not use them as a prop or something. Not raise them to be fucked up like I am.” Or like Becca is, he leaves unsaid.

And although it is ludicrous and forbidden and impossible, instantly you are doing math in your head: I’ll be done filming by winter, we could start trying in the spring. You always envisioned doing it the other way around, chasing dreams in your twenties, settling down in your thirties, but if Aegon doesn’t have much time left...

You turn to him, searching. But Aegon is in his own world, oblivious to your uninvited machinations. Of course he wouldn’t expect any discussions of the two of you staying together. You’ve already offered. He’s already declined. Now the song on the stereo is Keith Urban’s You’ll Think Of Me, and Aegon’s oceanic blue eyes begin to glisten. Everyone is crying today, you think.

“This was your dad’s favorite song,” you say gently.

Aegon nods. “Did I tell you that?”

“You did.”

He chuckles bleakly. “Fuck, I don’t even remember.” He wipes his eyes with the heel of one hand, and you wish you could touch him; but everyone at this party knows he’s getting married in a week, and to a woman who definitely isn’t you. “When I was really young, my dad was always telling us: You are Targaryens. You have to be extraordinary. You have to be extraordinary. And to me, that meant inhuman, or unnatural, or something else that I would always be incapable of. What about the real people? What about all the people like me, we were just supposed to vanish into cubicles somewhere, or hate ourselves enough to change our bodies, our faces, our souls? No, I couldn’t stomach that. Then my dad got sick, and for the first time he tried to understand us, and we had a few good years. Then he was gone again. But it was so goddamn slow.”

You are desperate to touch him, to console him. “Just because Viserys became a monster doesn’t mean you will. Just because he was a curse to your family doesn’t mean that’s how I’d feel about you.”

Aegon swipes at his eyes again, then brightens. He pretends he hasn’t heard you. “You’re coming to the wedding, right? I told Brando to send you money for the plane ticket.”

You spent it on eyeshadow palettes and books about the Gilded Age. “I don’t think so.”

“I really want you to be there.”

“You want me to watch you standing at the end of the aisle, and then Becca frolicking to meet you in her perfect Instagram-worthy dress, and then you exchanging adorable vows and kissing while people whistle and applaud, and then I’ll endure a whole night of celebrating your wedded bliss on the beach, all so you can get a glimpse of me in the crowd and maybe talk to me for five minutes before I fly back here alone, devastated that I’ll never get to see you again?”

“Yeah,” Aegon says.

“That’s an insane idea.”

Aegon throws his arms wide, exasperated. “It might be! I have a brain disease!”

“And why would I do that?” you demand. “Because I’m so happy for you and Becca?”

“No, because I’m doing you a favor,” he hisses, sudden hushed vitriol. “Because I am sparing you from everything that will happen next.”

I want to be there. I want it to be me. You shake your head, your throat burning. “I can’t watch you marry her.”

“Okay,” Aegon relents. “It’s fine. Sunshine, it’s fine. I don’t want to fight with you.” What he means is: I don’t want to waste the time we have left.

And for a moment he rests his head on your shoulder—your pulse thudding hot and red and feverish, pool water dripping from your hair—not caring who sees.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I don’t want to be here,” he says.

“I know, Aegon.” The exam room at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Beverly Hills is sunlit but cold, curtains drawn back from the glass walls, frigid air conditioning gusting through the vents. Your eyeshadow is a dark blue to match your sundress: Equilibrium by Natasha Denona, Madness by Urban Decay. You take Aegon’s hand and hold it tightly. He is perched restlessly on the edge of the exam table; you are standing beside him, too anxious to sit in the requisite chair for a spouse or a parent, and of course you are neither of these things.

The doctor returns, knocking politely before opening the door. He closes it behind him as he enters the room. He’s in his early-fifties, pudgy, receding reddish hair and pale skin that has been turned pink by too much time spent in the sun. He is a family man—he’s already mentioned his wife and kids several times, you imagine the desk in his office must be adorned with their ever-smiling photographs—and an unassuming, slightly nervous disposition. He’s one of the best neurologists on the West Coast. When he heard Aegon’s last name, he fit him in immediately.

Dr. Gallagher turns the computer screen towards you and brings up images from the MRI scan. He takes his pen out of the pocket of his white coat and uses it to point at the bluish specter of Aegon’s brain. His voice is soothing, sympathetic, practiced in delivering bad news. “Unfortunately, what we’re seeing here is consistent with what I would expect to find in a patient with Huntington’s disease that has progressed to the moderate stage.” His pen leaps between pertinent locations. “There is already some striatal atrophy visible, and slight frontal horn dilatation as the brain matter around it shrinks. A lot of the time, we can’t even see that on scans in people who’ve been recently diagnosed. But you...” He looks at Aegon, gives him a soft subtle nod, casual catastrophic confirmation. “You’ve had symptoms for a while, as we discussed.”

“Yeah,” Aegon says quietly. You’re still clasping his hand, like he’ll vanish if you let go.

“I’m very sorry,” Dr. Gallagher tells him.

“Not your fault, doc.”

“But there is some good news,” Dr. Gallagher says. “Now that you’re in treatment, we can get you set up with a regimen that will alleviate your symptoms as much as possible. There are prescriptions—and I’ll go over each of those with you, so you understand what they are and the possible side effects—and also excellent therapists who have experience working with patients like you, Aegon. We want to keep your quality of life intact for as long as we possibly can.”

“I’m moving to Houston,” Aegon replies, and for some reason every time he says this you feel the loss of it all over again, as if you don’t already know, as if he’s not almost gone.

“Texas, huh?” Dr. Gallagher says, like he doesn’t understand why anyone would want to spend their final years there but is determined not to be judgmental about it. “Well, best wishes to you! I have some very capable colleagues at Houston Methodist, I’ll reach out to them and transfer your records over so you won’t have to worry about any of that once you get settled in.”

“Thank you,” Aegon says, quiet, distant. Dr. Gallagher glances at you curiously; he keeps doing that. Aegon didn’t introduce you. You didn’t introduce yourself. What are you supposed to say? You aren’t his wife. You aren’t even his fiancée or his girlfriend. You’re a mistress, and soon you’ll be nobody. Better to let the gaps remain unfilled. “How long?” Aegon asks after a while. “I mean, I know it can be unpredictable, but...”

Dr. Gallagher sighs and contemplates the MRI results again. “It really is impossible to say for sure. You said your father passed away at fifty-five?”

Aegon nods. “Ten years after he was diagnosed. And he must have gotten it from his dad. My grandmother lived to be really old and was healthy up until the last few months, but my grandfather died in a car accident, and that would have been before any symptoms were obvious.”

Dr. Gallagher considers this. “So we have multiple generations of the gene being passed down patrilineally, which does exacerbate anticipation. And with these MRI results and the symptoms you’re already experiencing...memory loss, involuntary movements, difficulty working and driving, problems with sleep, loss of appetite...” He shrugs, an acknowledgement of fate’s unknowable design. Then he looks at Aegon with eyes that are deeply apologetic. “I do suspect it will be relatively quick. You’ll probably have another year or two that are decent. And then...”

“And then,” Aegon echoes bitterly, not a question but an agreement. No one knows this better than he does.

“I think you’ll see forty.” Dr. Gallagher steals another glimpse of the MRI results. “But not much beyond that.”

“Okay,” Aegon says, trying to be stoic. And then, gingerly but very deliberately, he untangles his hand from yours.

At an In-N-Out Burger down the street, Aegon pays in cash, a habit he got into not just so Becca can’t track where he is; it’s so that if she asks where he’s been and he can’t remember, she won’t think he’s purposefully lying when he tells her the wrong places. You sit together in a quiet corner booth slurping your Cherry Cokes and picking at your burgers and Animal-Style fries, the silence both heavy and weak, anemic, listless, immovable. Aegon is typing around on his phone. You are trying to imagine what the world will feel like without him in it.

“Forty is good,” Aegon says abruptly. “You know, Becca will still be in her thirties. She’ll definitely be able to marry some other guy and have kids.”

“Aegon,” you begin, but he cuts you off.

“I wouldn’t want to waste away for a long time anyway. I hope I don’t make it past forty.”

“Aegon,” you plead. “The doctor said you could have a few good years left, so shouldn’t you spend those here with your family?” And with me?

Aegon stands up and slides his iPhone into the pocket of his shorts. “My Uber is outside.”

“Your what?” You are alarmed. “I can drive you back to your office, it’s not that out of the way for me—”

“No, I should go.” He gathers up his barely-touched food and stuffs it in a trashcan.

“Aegon...”

“I’ve been really selfish,” he says hurriedly, like if he doesn’t get it out now he might not ever. “I’ve been holding on to you because you make me feel better, and because I didn’t want it to be over, but I...now I have to do the right thing. And this is definitely the right thing.”

“You don’t have to go yet—”

“You’ll be taken care of,” Aegon says. “The people working on your movie...they’re legit. They’re trustworthy. And you can always call Brando or Aemond, they know they’re supposed to take care of you, they’ll get you anything you need, money, a place to live, help navigating the industry, whatever. And Kristen will be your new agent.”

“I don’t want another agent.”

“I set you up as well as I possibly could have,” Aegon tells you, curt, clinical. “And now it’s September, and I’m leaving Los Angeles. That was the deal. I never promised you more than that. I explicitly warned you there would never be more than that.”

“But...” But I didn’t love you then.

“Don’t make this any harder. Say goodbye and move on.”

“Goodbye, Aegon,” you reply, unconvincingly, not meaning it. But it must be enough; he walks out of the In-N-Out Burger, and through the clear glass of the windows you watch him climb into a stranger’s car, and you think numbly, because it seems so impossible: I’ll never see him again?

You stay in the booth for a long time, sipping your Cherry Coke as tears well up in your eyes and spill over, ceaseless rivulets you dab away with napkins that your eyeshadow turns from pure white to a smudged watery blue. Then when you leave and start your shimmering gold Honda Accord, you call Aemond. He listens intently, asks a number of highly technical medical questions you can’t answer, and gets impatient. You apologize, your voice breaking. Aemond sighs, says he’s sorry, tells you with a strangled tension in his own words that he has to go and will call back in a few days to check on you. You’re his new pet, after all; Aegon has assigned you to a different Targaryen, a new agent, a life still orbiting his gravity even in his absence.

At home, your apartment is empty. Jace is at one of his PhD classes. You don’t turn the tv on, you don’t listen to any music. You lie down on the living room couch as afternoon light slants in through the windows and the muffled sounds of Harbor Gateway bleed in through the walls: car horns, shrieking sirens, pedestrians’ shouts, revving engines, stereos and their rumbling bass beats. You can’t stand this, the knowledge that life continues on uninterrupted for everyone else. Becca will get to keep Aegon for years. His family can fly east to Houston to visit him. He is only dead to you.

You pick up your phone and call him. Aegon answers after a few rings; he is startled, like he hadn’t expected to ever hear from you again, like something bad must have happened: your car broke down and you’re stranded on the side of the freeway, you got heat sickness and are trapped in a store somewhere. He says: “Hey, are you alright?”

“I miss you so much and you’re not even gone yet.”

There’s a pause that feels much longer than it is. “Are you at home?”

“Yeah,” you reply, a quivering whisper.

“Okay,” Aegon says, gentle, warm, like you’re friends again and always will be. Due north in his office in Elysian Park where there is no more work left to be done, you can hear his chair scrape against the scuffed hardwood floor as he pushes it out from his desk. “I’ll be there in about a half hour.”

“Okay. Bye.” You hang up, mop the tears from your face, and begin getting ready.

When Aegon knocks, you answer the door in your pajamas, no illusions of propriety: just a L.A. Dodgers t-shirt, black sweatpants, and nothing underneath. Aegon does not pretend to be any more noble. He is through the doorway—swiftly, soundlessly, like a shadow—and then he’s here in the sunlit living room lifting away your shirt and kissing you, deep and wordless, as you stumble together towards your bedroom, you staggering out of your sweatpants as he yanks them down to the floor, you fumbling with the buttons of his green short-sleeve Oxford shirt, and you wonder: Did Becca fasten these buttons this morning? Is that why he didn’t miss one?

“Oh, thank God,” Aegon sighs when he knows he’ll be able to do it, that his body is not yet a stranger to him entirely, and as you sink into the mattress his weight settles on top of you, opening you, filling you, not disappeared yet, not long-lost like a childhood dream that turns to cynicism, only warm and sweet and real. And just like the times before, when you believe you won’t be able to finish with him, you’re wrong. Your eyes brim with tears, like Aegon knows happens when it’s good, and as he whisks them away he murmurs: “Find somebody who does this for you.”

“There’s no one else.”

“Find somebody you love.”

“I love you, Aegon.”

“You can’t, you can’t,” he moans, like he knows it’s hopeless, like he’s already lost the same war.

Not just once, but twice, and then you are exhausted—your muscles unraveled from your bones, your resistance crumbling like eons-old earth—and the world is quiet and fading, used condoms in the trashcan beside your nightstand, the sheets damp with sweat, and you’ll never have him like this again. You’ll never have anything like this again. Daylight, weakening from yellow to gold to amber to blood, pours in through the window and cascades across your bed.

“Remember me like this, okay?” Aegon whispers, kissing you one last time: lips, forehead, the apple of your cheek. “Now look away.”

You turn to the window where sunlight beckons, leaving him in darkness. You hear the bedroom door click shut as he leaves.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Saturday, September 6th, the wedding day. You have nothing planned. This is a mistake, although it isn’t exactly your fault; filming starts on Monday so everyone has this weekend off as one last respite, Chloe’s parents are in town for a visit, Baela is wrapping up the new Yorgos Lanthimos movie in Paris. You wake up ridiculously early, groggy and miserable. You wander aimlessly around the apartment. You glower at the red-ink note in the box on the calendar: Aegon’s wedding. You stare at the vase of dried sunflowers and feel like crying.

You open Instagram and scroll blindly; the blue-white glow hurts your bloodshot eyes. Becca has posted numerous stories in the past twenty-four hours, which is typical: Pinterest-worthy plates of food, teasing glimpses of her dress and shoes, selfies with her friends and family. There is a wheezing Pekingese in the background of one of her videos from the luxurious hotel suite, and you think, rather disparagingly: She flew her dogs to the Caribbean?

What’s not-so-typical is that Aegon has posted an Instagram story too, something he doesn’t do often. After several minutes of deliberation, and against your better judgment, you click on superstargaryen’s story. It’s 4 a.m. here, so 7 a.m. on Turks and Caicos. The sun has already risen there. And Aegon’s story is a simple photo of the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean, as if taken from a balcony. There is no caption and no frivolous emojis: a ring, a bouquet, toasting champagne glasses, a cartoonish yellow couple. Instead, there is only a song added, a fifteen-second snippet that plays on a loop each time you re-watch the story, which you do about ten times. The song is Hard To Concentrate by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

And instantly, you are there again, the night after you shot the music video in Beverly Hills, the night after Aegon saved you: flying in his convertible southbound on the 110, streetlights and headlights and neon that cut through the indigo ink of the world, Aegon’s hair flying, his right hand on the steering wheel, bruises on his knuckles, a ghost of a smile on his lips as he keeps looking over at you, as if he’s feeling the same things you are: This is right, this is real, I want this forever.

I have to be there, you realize abruptly, like a lightning strike or the jolt of an earthquake. I have to try to change his mind.

You close Instagram, open Google, search for flights from LAX to Turks and Caicos. You find one with two seats left, both in First Class. My parents are going to kill me, you think, and then put them on your credit card. You get Jace’s full name and date of birth from the driver’s license in his wallet, which he left on the kitchen counter.

You go to Baela’s bedroom and shake Jace awake. He glares at you blearily from beneath chaotic dark curls. “What do you want?” he groans.

“Do you have a passport?”

“Yeah...?”

“I have to fly to Turks and Caicos.”

“What? Where...?”

“It’s for a wedding. I don’t want to go alone. Will you go with me?”

You wait for him to say no. Instead, Jace mulls it over and then drags himself upright, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “Turks and Caicos...that’s in the Caribbean, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a long flight. When are you leaving?”

“In twenty minutes. I already called the Uber.”

Jace blinks a few times, then stands up. “Island vibes,” he mutters in a Jamaican accent as he shuffles off towards the bathroom.

You throw some essentials in a carry-on bag: toiletries, makeup, clothes, TOMS wedges. The only wedding-appropriate dress you have that’s clean is the electric yellow gown you wore to the Maroon 5 music video red carpet premiere. You yank it off the hanger and stuff it in your suitcase. Jace rolls his luggage into the living room just as the Uber is pulling up outside. You urge the driver to hurry as you glide northwest on the 405 towards Westchester, home to Los Angeles International Airport. It’s early enough that traffic is thin, and the lines are short at the TSA security checkpoint. Jace is momentarily stopped for further inspection; he accidentally left a vape pen in his pocket.

Will we make it there before the wedding starts?

At the gate, passengers are already lining up to board the plane. You check the time on your phone and do some quick math. It’s currently 5:30 a.m. here in California. If your flight leaves on time, you’ll be in the air at 6:00. Turks and Caicos is three hours ahead in Eastern Standard Time, so that would be 9:00 a.m. The flight is almost nine hours long, including a brief layover in Atlanta, which means—if everything goes perfectly—you’ll touch down at Providenciales International Airport shortly before 6:00 p.m. The wedding ceremony begins at 6:30, sunset on the beach, very romantic.

“It’s going to be close,” you tell Jace as he slurps on a venti-sized Lavender Crème Frappuccino from an airport Starbucks.

It’s going to be very close.

[cookieloveschoochip]

The Quiet Between Us

𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚ sixthyear!Draco Malfoy x fem!reader

Summary ; After months of silence and distance, she finds him beneath the weight of shadows, secretly fighting his own demons. In healing his wounds, she unknowingly tends to the fragile threads still tying them together—where unspoken apologies and lingering hopes drift quietly by the library.

Warning ; Draco might be out of character, bad/wrong grammar, mentioned of blood, self harm.

Wc ; 2,8k

Genre ; angst (with comfort)

A/n : Once again I'm really sorry for all mistakes here (for bad or wrong grammar). Story was made cz I found a fanon from Tiktok saying Draco tried to remove the Mark by hurting himself. For those who experienced the same, pls never b scared to talk bout it with someone and hope yall feeling better soon, xoxo.

0:00ㅇ─────────10:26

It was late at night. You couldn't sleep. You kept thinking about him. The blonde guy with blue iris you always lose in. Maybe they were right, he'd changed, or maybe he was just tired of things back in his manor.

Burying your body deeper inside the blanket. You never knew what happened, what could have been wrong. It's not like you weren't trying to notice, of course you were, but he never gave signs, which made you lost in your own thoughts.

You asked, multiple times. You tried, wrapping your arms around him, saying he could just pour his heart out at you.

He believes you, right? Of course.

It would be pretty dumb if you think he didn't. You trusted him with your whole heart. Telling your parents about him through the messages you sent by the owl.

Never passed in your mind to ignore him, no, never. You tried to notice, or maybe finding signs of him. But he's just, closed. Felt like he was closing the door between you and him.

Merlin knew you were trying. So you closed your eyes, letting it sank in.

0:42 ─ㅇ──────── 10:26

You sat near your friends in the Great Hall. You're not that type who got excited when the foods appeared right in front of you. But you're also not the type of person who barely eat.

Thoughts from last night kept running through your mind. So your food in front of you went untouched.

Steam curled off roasted vegetables and stew, but the smell made your stomach twisted. You hadn't eaten since lunch yesterday. The pumpkin juice tasted like nothing.

Your eyes flicked to the other end of the Slytherin table. Where he sat.

Draco Malfoy. Back straight, face pale, eyes empty. Talking to no one. Laughing at nothing.

Not looking at you.

He hadn't in days. Hadn't walked you to class. Hadn’t answered your notes. Hadn’t touched your hand.

You realized you were lost in your thoughts once more, so one of your friend nudged you, bringing you back to reality.

"Are you okay?" said one of them, which made you nodded. You lied.

As you took a bite of your dinner, Draco stood up from his seat, walking outside. Questions mark above your head.

You walked, trying to approach him. Several times you bumped into other students who either wanted to leave or had just arrived.

The stone corridor just outside the Great Hall stood nearly empty. Only the sound of rain—soft, steady, relentless—echoed beneath the arches.

You stepped through the heavy oak doors and stopped. He was already there.

Leaning against the cold stone pillar just beyond the entrance, his cloak pulled tight, arms crossed. Rain misted through the open archway, darkening his sleeves and clinging to the ends of his pale hair.

He was waiting, like he knew what you would do next.

He didn’t flinch when you said his name. “Draco.”

He turned slowly, but he already knew it was you.

You walked toward him, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Wet gravel crunched under your boots.

"Can we talk?" you asked, voice careful, hesitant.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said gently. “You barely look at me anymore. You don’t show up. You don’t write. You just… disappear.”

His jaw tightened. He didn't speak—at first. The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of water dripping from the roof above them.

“I know something’s wrong,” you said, stepping closer. “You said you wouldn’t lie to me. Didn't you believe in me?”

“I’m not,” he said quietly.

“Then talk to me.”

His breath hitched. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” you whispered. “With me, you always can.”

He looked at you—really looked at you—eyes dull, exhausted, and soaked with something heavier than the rain. Something cracked in his gaze, and it nearly pulled you to him. Nearly.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said finally, voice rough and barely above the rain. “Not with you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I still look for you in every room—I still reach for you when I sleep. But I ruin everything I touch, and I can’t do that to you again.”

Your heart dropped. A coldness even deeper than the rain settled in your chest.

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I need to let you go,” he said, quieter now, like the words broke apart as they left his lips. “Before I ruin you.”

You stepped back slightly, rain slipping down your face like tears you hadn’t yet shed. “Draco…”

“I thought keeping you close would make it easier, but it doesn’t. It makes it worse. Every time I look at you, I think about how much worse I’ll make things. How much closer danger will get.”

“You think I care about that?”

“You should,” he snapped—then caught himself. His voice softened again. “You should.”

Rain pattered harder on the stones between you, soaking the silence that followed.

“I love you,” he said, like it hurt to admit. “That’s why this has to stop.”

Your eyes glistened, and you couldn’t tell if it was rain or heartbreak stinging worse.

“You think walking away protects me?”

“It’s the only thing I have left to offer.”

You stood still, water dripping from your sleeves, hair clinging to your cheeks. The ache in your chest bloomed, raw and splitting.

Draco took one step back.

“This… this is me doing the right thing. For once.”

And before you could stop him—before you could plead, or scream, or simply reach for his hand—he turned.

He walked past you, slowly and unsteadily, splashes of rain soaking through the folds of his robe, into the silence he left behind.

You didn’t look back.

You noticed how your cheeks turned wet, but you were guessing, was it your tears, or was it the rain.

There was him behind you, Draco paused as he reached one of the steps, as he tightened his fists, making his nails dug into his palms, turning it pale.

Just for a second.

He didn’t look back.

But he never forgot the look in your eyes.

Rain kept falling. And so did everything else.

3:35 ──ㅇ─────── 10:26

You met his eyes sometimes. Walking past him, being in the same class as him, looking at each other while eating dinner or maybe seeing him between dark green uniforms in quidditch.

You began to notice how tired his eyes were becoming and to be honest you hoped he noticed yours.

It had been months. Months of pretending.

Of passing each other in corridors like strangers who once shared something more than just glances. But you never forget how he used to look at you, how his perfume smell.

He looked worse lately.

There was some sort of sadness in his looks.

And the kind of weight on his shoulders that couldn't be seen—only felt.

It was late at night and as a prefect, your patrol shift stretched longer than usual — the kind of quiet that made the corridors felt too wide, too empty. A low winter wind howled faintly outside the stone walls, and your wand tip glowed softly as you wandered through the dim second-floor corridor near the unused classrooms.

Just as you rounded the corner near the trophy room, you stopped.

The faint sound of hurried breathing. Movement. Pain.

It was coming from the alcove behind the old tapestry — the one that led into the long-forgotten dueling chamber.

You stepped forward carefully, wand raised. The sound grew louder. Someone was muttering—barely audible, but cracked with frustration.

And then you saw him.

Draco.

His shirt sleeve was pushed up, his back to you, arm braced against the wall. His other hand clutched something sharp — a bit of broken mirror — digging it into the skin just beneath the Mark. His wand sat discarded near his feet, and blood dripped silently to the stone.

“Draco?”

Your voice wasn’t loud. Just there. And that was enough.

He froze.

Turned, slowly.

His eyes were wide, panicked — not with fear of you taking points away from Slytherin even though you couldn't, but with shame. He quickly let the shard drop with a clatter and stepped back, like he could hide the damage before you saw it.

Too late.

You rushed to him, grabbing his wrist before he could pull away. He winced, but didn’t fight you.

“What the hell are you doing?” you whispered, voice shaking. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Let go,” he muttered. “Go away—”

“You’re bleeding, Draco.”

He tried to pull his arm back again, but you held on.

“You think this will fix it?” you hissed. “Tearing yourself apart won’t make it disappear.”

He didn’t say anything.

Just looked at you — eyes rimmed red, teeth gritted, jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might shatter.

“I thought it would help,” he finally choked. “I thought if I could just… hurt it enough, it would stop feeling like it’s part of me.”

You didn’t know whether you were angry or heartbroken. Maybe both.

You reached into your robe pocket, pulling out a small healing balm Madam Pomfrey had given you earlier that day for your kit. Without a word, you gently cradled his arm, dabbing at the broken skin, even as he looked away.

“Stop,” he said quietly.

“No.”

“I don’t deserve this.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

He finally looked back at you — and there it was. The ache. The regret. The pieces of him that he'd buried ever since he took the Mark.

You wrapped the cloth around his arm slowly, bandaging the wound with shaking hands. You didn’t ask if he was in pain. You knew he was.

“You’re not alone,” you whispered. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

The touches he'd been craving for months made him remained silent, "You're still you, maybe not the one that I know then — but the one who always try."

"It's okay to reach up on me for everything. I always stay."

He said nothing.

But when your fingers lingered on his, he didn’t pull away.

He stared down at you — this girl who used to be his, who still saw him under the dark ink and cracked skin — and something in him crumbled.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For everything.”

You stood up.

"There's no need to apologize,"

"I expect you at Hospital Wings tomorrow before your first class, for better treatment." you said ignoring what he said earlier. Still holding his hand, tracing the Mark while he remained silent.

"I won't tell them, I promise." you added as you let go of his hand. "You should go back, before someone, especially Professor Snape sees you."

He nodded. You leaved, you never wanted to. You were expecting him to hold your hand, not wanting you to go away like what happened in the past.

And for a moment, the war outside — and the one inside him — went quiet.

6:30 ─────ㅇ──── 10:26

The next morning you waited at the Hospital Wing entrance, fingers fidgeting at your sides.

Your head stood up as you heard footsteps — Draco walking toward you. "Let's head inside."

You stepped in. The Hospital Wing smelled like antiseptic and fresh bandages. A pale sun filtered through the windows, and the school was still quiet — not yet awake enough to ask questions.

"Good morning Madam. We are really sorry to disturb you this early but Draco really needs a treatment for his hand." You showed how his left hand was covered.

“What in Merlin’s name—Miss [Last Name], he should’ve come to me last night!” Madam Pomfrey hissed as she saw you.

Draco shifted behind you, eyes down.

“He didn't want to disturb your rest,” you murmur. “And he… didn’t know how to ask.”

The matron narrowed her eyes.

“I ought to alert Professor Snape—”

“Oh there's no need,” you said, louder now. “I can take care of it. Just this once.”

She hesitated. Then, to your surprise, sighs.

“Five minutes. And I will check your work. He’s lucky it’s you.”

You led him to the bed tucked furthest in the back — the one with the curtains drawn. It’s quiet. Private. Safe.

Draco sat stiffly on the edge.

His sleeve was already pushed back. You opened the cloth you used last night, exposing the now-cleansed but still angry-looking skin surrounding the Mark. The edges were red and scabbed. The center — the Dark Mark itself — looked darker somehow. Like it’s burrowed deeper now that he tried to scrape it away.

“This will sting,” you murmured.

“So did last night,” he said hoarsely.

You gently dabbed healing salve over the raw skin, using soft gauze and your bare hands. His arm twitched once, but he didn’t pull away. He watched you — not the wound.

Like he’s not sure he deserves this.

Like it’s strange to be touched with kindness.

“You don’t flinch,” he said quietly. “When you see it.”

“I see you. Not just the scar.”

His lips parted slightly. His eyes soften — but also flickered with something like grief.

“You could’ve left me there. Last night. You saw what I did to myself.”

“Like I said, I stayed.” You looked up at him, gaze steady. “I’ll keep staying.”

He closed his eyes like it physically hurt to hear.

You finished wrapping the gauze around his arm — slow, gentle, no rush.

“There,” you whispered. “All done.”

7.59 ──────ㅇ─── 10:26

That afternoon, you tucked yourself into a quiet corner of the library — a secluded nook by the tall, arched windows where sunlight spilled across the floor in warm slants. You were lucky you didn’t have classes, so you convinced yourself to enjoy the moment; reading books, letting yourself be still.

Dust motes floated in the golden light. The scent of parchment and ink lingered in the air. You turned a page slowly, eyes steady on the words of the novel Hermione had lent you.

Then — footsteps. Slow, hesitant. Drawing closer.

They stopped just beside your table.

“You’ll get cramps just standing there,” you said without looking up, voice soft but knowing.

“I didn’t mean to bother you. I just… needed to say something.”

“You better say it in your free time if you’re in a hurry.”

“I’m not in a hurry—”

“Then sit.”

Draco sat beside you, an apple in his hand. He leaned his back slightly into the backrest behind him, looking out the window. “I was just here saying thank you. And sorry.”

The silence that followed was a hushed one — not awkward, not tense. Just... waiting.

You didn’t look at him yet. Just turned one last page, then closed the book carefully, resting it atop a small stack beside you.

He shifted. His fingers tightened around the apple. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“No,” you said gently. “Stay.”

He did. And the quiet felt more peaceful now — like the space between two breaths.

“There’s no need to apologize,” you said at last, still not facing him fully. “Why?”

“I never blamed you.” You paused, then added, “But I’ll take it if you mean it.”

He exhaled a dry laugh. “You should’ve. I shut you out. I walked away. I—” his voice cracked slightly, “I did a lot of things I regret.”

“I know,” you replied. “I saw it in your eyes, even when you pretended not to look at me.”

He looked at you properly this time.

“I never hated you, Draco. I was hurt, yes. But I understood. I still do.”

He frowned. “How could you possibly understand that?”

“Because I know what fear looks like. I know what it feels like to be told that power matters more than people. I know what it’s like to lose pieces of yourself just trying to survive.”

Your hands began to touch his; soft, and cold. You gently lifted the sleeve of his robe, softly stroking the scar you had treated this morning.

“I didn’t understand what you were going through until I saw that—until I saw the scar,” you said.

He didn’t answer. He was focus, at you, at how soft you were treating him.

You let go of his hand and began to look down at your lap. “You let me go because you thought you had to. I won’t hold that against you.”

“But I didn’t want to let you go.”

“I know.”

He turned a little more toward you, hair falling into his eyes. The light from the window gave his pale skin a ghostlike glow.

“I’m not saying what happened was okay,” you added. “But I am saying it’s not too late. We’re still here. We still get to choose.”

Something flickered in his expression — not quite a smile, but something softer.

“I don’t know how to fix it.”

“You don’t have to,” you said. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

He stared at the apple for a moment, then offered it to you. “It’s a bit bruised. Like us.”

You took it anyway.

“Then it’s perfect.”

The two of you sat quietly for a while, side by side in the warm hush of the library. The candles glowed low. A few pages rustled nearby, but the rest of the world seemed far away.

“So,” Draco said at last, breaking the silence. “You’re not going to take points from Slytherin?”

You took a small bite of the apple and raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“I sneaked out last night.”

You snorted. “If only I could.”

The light beginning to fade around you — and for the first time in months, it didn’t feel heavy anymore. It felt like the start of something new.

10:26 ─────────ㅇ 10:26

ⓒ cookieloveschoochip, do not copy, translate, or repost

[jes3icasriley]

Tangled Threads - Spiderwoman au

Chapter 3:

Synopsis: Abby feels you slipping away—distant, different. But when chaos hits the school and you pull her to safety, bleeding and breathless, everything cracks. In a quiet classroom, you kiss her like it’s the last time. Then you run. And Abby’s left aching, heart racing, and more confused than ever.

Parings: Abby Anderson x fem!reader/ nerdy Abby x Spiderwoman!reader

Warnings: slow-burn, childhoods best friends falling in love, slight angst.

Abby was quiet—too quiet.

She sat on the edge of the lunch table, elbows resting on her knees, eyes unfocused as she stared down at a scuffed spot on the floor. Nora noticed first, of course. She always did. With a sly nudge of her shoulder and a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, she leaned in toward Abby.

“You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?” Nora teased, voice just loud enough to cut through the casual chatter of the cafeteria.

Abby blinked, lips parting like she might deny it, but then Alice laughed—bright and knowing—before taking a sip of her drink. “Trouble in paradise?”

Manny cocked an eyebrow, ever the instigator. “Come on, what’s the deal between you and Y/N, huh? You two have been glued at the hip since forever. And now?”

Abby’s cheeks flushed a soft pink, and she quickly busied herself by adjusting the strap of her bag, trying to look indifferent. “She’s just… different lately,” she muttered. “I don’t know. She’s pulling away. Like she’s hiding something.”

Nora’s teasing faded, replaced by a small frown. “Maybe she’s just finding herself, Abs. People change. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t care.”

Abby nodded, but the heaviness in her chest didn’t lift. She didn’t like it—this feeling of losing grip on someone who’d always been a constant. You had always been her safe place, her person. And now it was like you were floating out of reach, one step away from slipping through her fingers entirely.

Alice, ever the chaos-bringer, pulled out her phone and showed a ridiculous cat video—everyone erupted into laughter, even Abby managing a small chuckle. For a moment, it felt good again.

—

“Abby!”

Your voice sliced through the air like a whip, frantic and breathless.

Abby looked up just in time to see you sprinting toward her, eyes wide, face pale. Your hand wrapped around her wrist with such urgency that her heart stumbled.

“Come with me. Now. Please, Abby.”

She didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.

“What? What’s going on?” she asked, already standing, already following as you tugged her through the crowd. Behind her, she heard Manny call out—“Yo, where you going?”—but you didn’t look back, and neither did Abby.

Your grip was firm, trembling slightly. Something was wrong.

You didn’t stop to explain. The halls buzzed with a strange tension—murmurs, the squeak of sneakers, a static buzz that clung to the air like pre-storm electricity.

And then everything exploded.

A deafening crash shook the ground beneath them as a section of the wall ahead blew inward. Screams echoed. Dust and rubble clouded the hall. A towering figure—a villain Abby had never seen before—emerged through the smoke, laughing with guttural menace, eyes sweeping the crowd.

Abby turned in time to see a chunk of concrete debris sailing toward her. And then—

“Abby, down!”

You shoved her hard, your body slamming into hers as you both hit the floor. The debris struck you instead, a sickening thud and a yelp of pain leaving your throat. You gritted your teeth, groaning as you held your side, blood already starting to stain your shirt.

“Y/N—Y/N, oh my god—” Abby’s voice cracked, hands fumbling to hold you. “Are you okay? Look at me!”

“I’m fine,” you lied, voice tight, body trembling as you pushed through the pain. “Come on, we have to go—now.”

You dragged Abby to her feet, your arm looped protectively around her waist, and pulled her into the nearest classroom. You kicked the door shut behind you, locking it. The chaos of the school faded to muffled screams beyond the walls.

Abby turned to face you, chest heaving, blue eyes wild with panic.

“You’re not fine—your shirt’s soaked. You’re bleeding. What happened?” Her hands gripped your shoulders, shaking slightly. “Tell me what’s going on. Please.”

You staggered back a step, pressing your palm to your side, trying to breathe through the throbbing ache. You shook your head, avoiding her gaze.

“I can’t—I’m okay, I just—Abby, please just stay in here. You’re safe here.”

Abby’s voice broke. “I don’t care about safe! I care about you, Y/N. Look at me!” Her hands cupped your cheeks now, trembling. “You’re scaring me. You’re always pushing me away lately and I don’t know why. I miss you—I miss us. What are you hiding?”

Your breath hitched. The weight of your secret threatened to crush you.

You swallowed hard and slowly raised your eyes to hers. You could see it all there—every ounce of care, confusion, hurt. Your hands covered hers gently, your fingers curling over hers as you leaned into her touch.

“I want to tell you everything,” you whispered. “I swear. But I can’t. Not yet.”

Abby’s eyes brimmed with emotion, tears pooling as she stared at you like you were slipping through her hands.

You took a shaky step forward, rising on your toes as your fingers brushed her jaw.

“Abby…” you breathed, and she melted beneath the sound of her name.

Your hands moved to her shoulders, then slowly up to her face. “You’re the one thing I’ve always been sure of.”

Her breath caught.

And then you kissed her.

It started slow—uncertain, full of questions. Her lips were soft, warm against yours. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t even breathe for a second. Then you felt her arms wrap tightly around your waist, pulling you closer, grounding you.

You deepened the kiss slightly, cheeks burning, hearts racing. It was everything—gentle and aching, sweet and desperate. You felt her lean into you, her hands splayed across your back, fingers shaking slightly. You tasted salt—tears or sweat or both—and your heart cracked open right there in her arms.

When you pulled away, your forehead rested against hers. Her eyes fluttered open slowly, gaze still dazed, lips parted.

“I’ve never…” she whispered, cheeks flushed.

“Me neither,” you whispered back. “But I’ve always wanted it to be you.”

Abby’s chest rose and fell like she couldn’t believe any of this was real.

“You’re bleeding,” she finally murmured, brushing a strand of hair from your face, voice fragile.

“I’ll be okay. I promise.”

You pulled her into a hug, one hand gently cradling the back of her head as she sank into your chest.

“I’m gonna need you to stay here, Abs. Just for a little while.”

She didn’t want to let go.

But she nodded.

You gave her one more kiss—shorter this time, pressed to the corner of her mouth—and whispered, “I’ll come back. I promise.”

Then you slipped out the door, the echo of your heartbeat louder than the chaos outside. You ran, ducking behind lockers, until you found your hiding place. And then, slipping on your mask and suit, Spider-Woman was back in motion.

But somewhere deep inside, you were still Y/N.

Still hers.

And now she knew, even if just a little.

[psychostxr]

𝐣𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐚𝐧 𝐥𝐢 | emotions

PAIRING. jordan li x gn! reader

WORD COUNT. 0.7k

WARNINGS. cursing, mentions of death, marie bashing (i'm sorry)

NOTES. i have also hopped on the jordan li train, and my god, i've never had a character chokehold me so tightly

Since Marie Moreau joined Godolkin University, everything has gone downhill. After the death of your friend Luke and the murder of your favorite professor, your life has gone through a ball of shit. You didn't want to blame Marie. The poor girl got caught up in Luke's drama — drama you didn't even know existed — she's just as traumatized as you are.

That's what you would've said before news spread around school that Marie and Andre were the ones that stopped Luke, not Jordan. Your partner who actually fought Luke while Marie ran at the first sign of danger. The thought of Marie frustrates you to no end, but you have other things to worry about, such as Jordan locking themself in their room since classes ended.

For as long as you've known Jordan, they've always been competitive. They climbed up the school's student ranks at Godolkin, beating almost anyone and everyone who tried to get in their way. They were one stop away from being first-ranked. But because of Marie and Andre's 'courageous act' of stopping Luke, they've been pushed up the ladder, while Jordan has to settle for fifth. It hurts to see Jordan so angry at the world and themself.

You knock gently on Jordan's door, hearing the muffled sounds of what you presume to be Marie's interview with Hailey Miller. The room goes quiet, and you wait a few moments for Jordan to open the door. But they don't.

"I know you're in there, Jordan." You turn the doorknob, rattling the door in your unsuccessful attempt to get in. You sigh and lean your head against the door. "Please open up, baby. I'm worried about you."

There's a moment of silence until the door cracks open. You take a step back, seeing Jordan's somber expression.

"Hey," you say, smiling softly. "Can I come in?"

Jordan hesitantly returns your smile. "Sure."

They open the door wider, allowing you to enter their dimly lit room. Their room is nothing from the usual, with clothes strewn over their couch and textbooks scattered on their desk. You pull your bag off your back, setting it down on Jordan's bed to retrieve your laptop and the takeout you bought from Vought A Burger.

"I was thinking we could maybe watch Property Brothers and have dinner together?" you suggest. "Or any other show if you want?"

Jordan shakes their head, their lips quirking upwards. "That sounds really nice, actually."

You pass Jordan the takeout, unsure if they've eaten anything since having lunch with you earlier today. You quickly set up the laptop on the coffee table before sitting on Jordan's bed.

Leaning against the headboard, you open your arms wide. "Come here."

Jordan doesn't hesitate, settling themselves in your waiting embrace. Their arms wrap around your torso, pulling them closer until their head finds a comfortable spot nestled against your stomach.

Feeling the weight of Jordan's emotions, you hold your partner close, your arms enveloping Jordan's shoulders. You softly kiss the crown of Jordan's head, your lips brushing against their ink-black hair.

"I'm sorry you're having a shitty day," you whisper, threading your fingers through their silky strands. "It's not fair."

"It's not your fault," Jordan says, sighing. "Shit happens."

"This school is shit," you explain, your anger spiking. "You've worked your fucking ass off to become second-ranked at Godolkin, but because of Marie and our asshole of a principal, you've lost your spot."

Jordan lifts their head to look at you. "It sounds like you're more upset than me."

"I'm sorry, it's just..." You shake your head before staring lovingly at Jordan. "I love you so much, Jordan. So much that I feel everything you feel. When you feel angry, I feel angry. When you're sad, I'm sad. So when you go through these obstacles in life, you aren't alone. I will always be there for you, baby."

Jordan crumbles at your words, and a small smile plays on their lips. They lift themself and lean towards you. Their lips press against yours gently before pulling away, leaving you no time to savour the kiss.

"I'm lucky to have you," they admit.

As you grin, you pull Jordan closer into another kiss. But this time, you can feel the intense emotions radiating off them, and you soak in the passion and love from Jordan's kiss. The rest of the night is spent in each other's arms, binge-watching Property Brothers and devouring greasy takeout.

© psychostxr — all rights reserved. please do not repost, copy, translate, or claim any of my works as your own.

[sectumsempraaa]

Being coworkers w/ the Slytherin boys (headcanons)

feat. Draco, Mattheo, Theo, Blaise, Lorenzo

this one’s for the working folks bc you KNOW these guys would make work so much more fun!! :)

Draco:

- extremely punctual

- judges you for how you write emails

- picks you up in his car before your shift every day

- has a kettle plugged in AT his desk for maximum tea drinking

- will often leave you a cup on your desk too without you asking for it

- writes 95% of paperwork by hand

- kisses ass to your boss but vents to you later about how much he hates them

- overdresses even on casual fridays

- takes his lunch break with you every day and has your meals delivered (doesnt even ask what you want, he’s just good at this)

- gets turned on when you sit on his desk and look down at him

Mattheo:

- consistently 5-10 minutes late but everyone’s just kinda used to it

- takes mass transportation bc he keeps failing his drivers test

- stops to get you both coffee before work (thats why he’s late!!)

- will respond to emails you’re too scared to answer

- similarly will pick up the phone when you don’t want to

- office pranks galore with this guy

- calls you from his desk (it’s next to yours) to ask you to meet him somewhere so y’all can makeout

- also calls you when he sees someone he KNOWS you hate trying to talk to you at your desk to get you out of it

- post-shift treat several times a week

- most likely to pleasure you from under your desk 🤭

Theo:

- gets distracted easily and falls behind on work

- is so quiet no one really even knows he’s there

- bribes the office manager into making you his secret santa

- has a private email thread between the two of you that goes on and on all day with complete nonsense and memes

- visits your cubicle and sits there for like an hour at a time

- holds your hand under the table during meetings

- “ugh can we go home now” “theo we haven’t even clocked in yet”

- hacks the system to change the schedule around so you always have the same shifts

- cooks your lunches at home and brings them to work for you

- 100% takes naps under his desk when you’re out sick and he’s alone/bored

Blaise:

- gets along with everyone

- often leads meetings and presentations bc everyone trusts him

- winks at you from across the office several times a day

- has everything in his desk from stain remover to first aid kit to microwaveable ramen

- checks each paycheck (and yours) to make sure y’all get paid RIGHT

- hugs you from behind your chair like 1000 times a day (ft. neck kisses)

- flies paper cranes into your cubicle with cheesey pick up lines

- knows how to get your fav snacks from the vending machine without paying

- will randomly do some of your tasks bc he’s so ahead on his

- LOVES a business trip and gets you two ALL the travel upgrades

Lorenzo:

- does not give a fuck about getting anything done

- but somehow is pretty much always caught up/in good standing

- does the bare minimum but makes up for it by being extremely charming

- faxes you (yes, faxes) memes when he is extra bored

- steals people’s things off their desk if he doesn’t like them

- never abides by the dress code

- lies to your boss to get you out of meetings and leave work early

- convinces you to call out with him so you can spend the day together

- has a keycard that opens every door in the building, don’t ask how he got it

- switches nametags/IDs with you and thinks its the funniest thing in the world

- headphones in 24/7

ALL of them love to say “if you ever leave i have to quit too. i can’t work here without you” and they MEAN it!!

[typicalopposite]

sunday sentences... a lot of 'em

i have been tagged in many things by many people... I just have not been writing much. Until... well this

while the majority of the fandom is clowning about Buck and Tommy getting back together... I'm out here clowning about not starting a new wip before I finish another one... another MPREG wip at that!

I got a whole chapter for y'all! <3

Chapter One

He is up before the sun… like always. 

LA is still dark out at 4 AM, no matter which side of daylight savings it is– it’s as quiet and as calm as the ever busy city will possibly get. Tommy chose this as his starting time many years ago for that very reason, and it has never changed. He slips on a pair of running shoes and a thin windbreaker that he’ll probably end up tying around his waist at some point, and heads out the door. 

The air nips at the top part of his face, his grown out stubble guarding his cheeks and chin… He needs to shave today, so he decides to cut a mile from his run to account for the extra time needed and turns a few streets sooner than his typical route. This way takes him by Mrs. Hardett’s house– he wonders if she’s even still alive, he can’t remember the last time he took this way. She would surely be asleep so he has no way to know, however he does see her old station wagon parked in the driveway and the freshly bloomed Buckwheat bush he helped her plant a couple years back, as he passes…

Buckwheat makes him think of Evan– well, everything makes Tommy think of him... but that is a given– the rest of his run back to his house.  

He is still lost in the thought as he decides on a simple breakfast; nothing too fancy, because it’s just him… A bagel with some smoked salmon cream cheese and a bottle of water is what he grabs as he passes through the kitchen, heading to his room. It makes him think of a meme in a group of them that Evan sent him about a person not wanting to find other fish… because they want the emotionally insecure salmon… or something like that.

Was that supposed to mean something?  He’s sure Evan would have said so if it did…

He plugs his phone in and flops onto the bed, unlocking the screen and is instantly met with last night's text thread… between none other than him and Evan. Tommy sighs, reading over the last message— sleep tight! don’t let the bedbugs bite!

He’s like a giant child… Tommy kind of— no… he completely loves it. Isn’t that just… great. 

He doesn’t know how long he just lies there staring at the message before he takes note that he has another unread message. It’s from Ravi; it’s a link. He follows it to a YouTube channel Ravi told him about a few days prior, when they met for lunch. The topic had started veering into Evan territory and Tommy was on the cusp of shutting down, packing it up, and bolting. Ravi, bless him… must have picked up on the mood shift, because suddenly he is talking about listening to these strange, dark, and mysterious stories on his drives to and from the station. 

“I’ll send you the guys channel,” Ravi had offered when Tommy seemed interested. Tommy pulls up the latest video, and pauses it to watch on his ridiculously long drive— 

“Shit,” he hisses out loud realizing he has blown right through his allotted extra time; he still has to get ready! The last bite of the bagel he saves for Soot— an old stray cat that took up with him many years ago. Back when he was still with Abby; she never cared much for cats, so Soot came with him in the break up. It was the only time he left a relationship with anything besides a broken heart… He’s been his little crotchety rock through all of the ones he’s left with that followed. 

A quick shower, a much needed shave, and the smell of salmon scrubbed from his tongue— the man looking back at him as he checks his teeth in the mirror is, in theory, ready to face whatever today brings… 

Damn… looks can be so deceiving, can’t they? 

He grabs his phone, and the last bite of bagel, as he heads out of the room. Soot is sunbathing in the reading chair— more like his sleeping chair, really— flipped over on his back like a dog… Tommy’s surprised his tongue isn't hanging out. He perks up the moment Tommy drops the food into his living room bowl. (“Living room bowl?” Evan had teased Tommy. “Sounds like an excuse to spoil him…” he’d concluded, after Tommy argued that Soot is old, and the kitchen is far from his chair… Evan had rolled his eyes, but the next visit forward he began to leave a little treat in both bowls before he’d leave… Soot seems to miss him, too…)

“I’ll be back later,” Tommy says, scratching behind Soot’s scarred left ear and rubbing down his back. “No parties while I’m gone.” He laughs when the old cat stops eating and gives him an incredulous look like he understood the request. 

Tommy locks the door, walks to his car, and just as he’s about to climb inside his phone dings. A text from Evan. Shift starts soon… but I just wanted to say I’m actually super stoked for Thursday. :)

He pulls the text thread down, going back just a few messages to where Evan asked if he was planning to play basketball Thursday… and that if he wasn’t, would he be open to going biking with him. As if Tommy could tell him no— it was maybe even the fastest of course Evan has gotten out of him to date. Me too ;) he sends back, and unfortunately doesn’t catch his error until he checks the thread again after he arrives at his destination. He sent a wink?!

The message has been read; it has not been responded to. 

Fucking great! 

Tommy sighs, turns his car off, and gets out.  

~~~

Logically Tommy knew there would be a lot of paperwork. He did not, however, expect to have an entire novel worth of forms he would have to fill out. There are so many personal questions he’s not entirely comfortable answering and some he doesn’t really have answers for— any family medical history is as unknown to him as it is to the doctor. He is vague with a lot of it… just says he’s a first responder, not what branch. He gives his PO box, not his physical address. He uses a What’s App number instead of his actual one.   

It’s not like they can really complain about him not being entirely truthful… or entirely trusting of them… the whole thing is very sketchy, and he is sure they know that. Still, he signs off on the bottom of another page and flips it over. Blood type? He thinks he’s B Positive– which is hilariously ironic, because when has he ever been– so he puts B Positive. Has he ever taken drugs? Hah! Wouldn’t they like to know. He puts no… it was a lifetime ago anyway. Are you sexually active? Does a hand and or a dildo count? He unlocks his phone, sees the still unanswered text and begrudgingly puts no– want’s to dramatically add and never will be again, but he doesn’t.

Page by page he answers the questions: his allergies (dust, roses– which was a hilarious and unfortunate discovery the first time Evan ever bought him flowers– and some types of pollen), any medications he’s taking (he’s not… he probably should be), and any serious illnesses he has. 

Well that’s the whole reason he’s here… isn’t it? 

Life has the ability to drive even the strongest most level headed people into the ground, and Tommy has never been  anywhere near a strong, level headed person— regardless of what anyone might think. He had never wanted to follow in his dads footsteps; drinking was never something he enjoyed… The military is a brutal hell hole, however, and he needed something to dull everything going on around him. 

He stopped when he got out… and then he joined the fire academy. He was drinking again a few weeks into life under Gerard. Again just after Abby… again just before coming out. He can’t even remember exactly when he started getting sick… he only remembers the doctor's words. If you don’t stop… you’ll be dead in a year. So he stopped. He got better… A few casual drinks now and then but he was not willing to lose flying– lose helping people– his only escape from life. Then he broke up with Evan… Then he hooked up with Evan… Then he made he idiotic self-punishing decision to just be friends with Evan after everything with the outbreak and the dramatically terrifying Bobby scare… Somehow just being friends has been exponentially worse than being nothing to him…

He was quickly slipping back into a very dark place, and he couldn’t afford to start craving the mental release of a bottle. He also couldn’t afford to run into Bobby at another AA meeting– he had years ago… Bobby is the only other person who knows about his alcohol problems… and his liver– so he went outside of LA… he went quite a ways outside of LA actually; a couple of hours away, close to where Sal had moved to. The meetings were standard, just something to get the weight of it all off his chest… “I’m worried about needing the escape,” he said at one. “Sometimes I just need to forget the hell I’m stuck in– that I keep putting myself in– but I know my body can’t handle it.”

When the woman in the business suit— three inch heels and thin frameless glasses— sat down beside him, at first Tommy thought she was a therapist… ready to offer her support for the sad sack of a man who just poured his heart out about his health fears to a room of strangers. Instead she leaned in and began to whisper to him. They were in the back and the room was clearing out and yet she kept her voice so low Tommy could barely hear her even right by his ear. 

An experimental drug. 

Hope for a clinical trial one day.

The possibility to reverse illness and disease no matter how severe— to keep you from losing quality of life for fear of causing harm to your body.

Groundbreaking.

Life altering… Changing… Saving!

Tommy teasingly asked if she worked for some alcohol company… that she seemed to be trying to bribe him with the opportunity to freely drink again with no health risk. She only laughed and patted his knee, stating she was only using that as a topic point… she would never encourage anyone to do something inherently bad… but the risk of illness shouldn’t be the reason people don’t do things in life. 

“You said you help people, in your line of work…” she continued, cocking a brow and giving a slight smirk. “So do I. This drug will help society… It can save society.” 

He was left a card with a number, a request to seriously consider it, and a hinted offer of it being worth his time— mostly he was left torn. 

Torn much like what he did to the little card once he got home and fished it out of his pocket, tossing the pieces into the trash can. Which is where it stayed for a few days and almost got thrown out forever had it not been for the call from his landlord— he had decided to sell the house. Tommy had to move or buy. He had been begging his landlord to let him rent-to-own the house for years… Now if he wanted it, he had to buy it in full… or pack up and start over somewhere new? Maybe it had been the universe's slap in the face to him turning down Evans offer, he thought bitterly. 

He complained to the void… and to Soot, who seemed very unconcerned. He contemplated for a few more days… Then he fished the card out… and called the number. “Just how worth my time are we talking,” he asked, trying to ignore how he could hear the candy apple red lipped smile as she asked what changed his mind, how he could hear it stretch wider when he admitted he was curious about the compensation. She assured him it would be very generous– half up front half when he returned after the six week expectane trial window. 

He thinks must be crazy to be doing this, and yet here he is… signing the last of the papers and returning them to the desk. A nurse calls him back, she takes a urine sample, a blood sample, checks his vitals and sends him to a room to wait for the doctor– Diana Reddin, she had informed him on the phone. The woman walks in, now donning a white lab coat over a nearly identical pants suit (save for the color) from the day he met her, and a very pleased smile. She shakes his hand and leans back against the counter looking over his paperwork. She questions his blank family medical history and he explains he hasn’t spoken to his family in quite a while… She doesn’t press. 

She asks how he is with needles and he tells her not too bad… “Good,” she laughs. “‘Cause this one is a bit of a doozy…” She closes his chart and smiles. “I’m sure you did your research on the company–” which he had… call him old fashioned but he’d be damned if he was going to blindly trust a lady in a pants suit just because she gave him a heartfelt speech and a fancy business card. They were well known scientists– trained in modern medicine, researching ways to assist with a multitude of diseases; Dr. Reddin was even featured many times on the site. If it wasn’t legit, they had gone beyond all out to make it appear as if it was. 

“I can’t express enough, on behalf of our entire team, how appreciative we are for you, Mr Kinard,” she said. “You’re going to help us make history. We are going to change the world.” 

Tommy hums– it sounds very noble, very intense… when put like that. Maybe he should have considered this more… The room has gone silent and he’s aware it’s apparently his turn to speak, Dr. Reddin’s brows lifted as if waiting for an answer to a question he didn’t even hear her ask. “Uh… Sorry… what?”

“Would you like to get started today?” Dr. Reddin asks, and damn they are wasting no time it seems. “We can get the ball rolling, if you’d like. We will get the big scary injection for the drugs stimulant out of the way, get you set up with the six week supply of the expectane, and I will have the first part of our agreed upon payment waiting with Louise up front.” Five thousand dollars– ten in total– it is all he needs for a downpayment on the house.

Tommy swallows, feeling like there is a fist in his throat making it extremely difficult. He pulls out his phone, unlocks the screen and checks the message. Still nothing… and so he slides the phone back into his pocket, and says he will start the trial. 

<3<3<3<3<3

gonna be a different kind of mpreg this time! if you have seen the movie Junior you'll get it, and hopefully get all the references too!

a few tags: @30somethingautisticteacher @sunnywithachanceofbi @nine-one-wanton @herrmannhalsteadproduction @judymarch15

@loversinmalta @somethingaboutfirefly @dum-amo-vivo9 @lovetommyactually @quintessenceofdust88 @rosyhoneydew

@ladyeyrewrites @cafe-con-letty @beanarie @unhingedangstaddict @leashybebes and anyone else who wants to join in!<3

[ppushable]

276 times i died for you

jean kirschtein x fem!reader / oneshot / wc: 9.0k

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Love. Of course I love him.

(YOU'RE OBSESSED WITH HIM.)

I'm infatuated.

In which my dreams come true. (IN WHICH YOU LIVE IN A FANTASY.) In which I kill myself this many times over. For *him*.

This time around, it will all work out.

IT WILL ALL WORK OUT!

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ao3 tags:

this has been sitting in my drafts for months because it's edgy but what the hell sure / Reincarnation / Angst / Unrequited Love / Implied/Referenced Abuse / reader is kind of a loser / no y/n / Hurt No Comfort / Reader-Insert / POV First Person / Present Tense / Inner Dialogue / Self-Hatred / Implied/Referenced Suicide / But its chill / Reader Is Crazy / reader is obsessed / you freak / Bad Ending / Cross-Posted on Wattpad / Cross-Posted on Tumblr

hi!

i'm not really sure what culminated in this? maybe i woke up a touch more delusional than usual.

reader has her flaws but don't we all. (killing-yourself-275-times-for-a-fictional-man kind of flaws. also she's a total loser. but i think a lot of you guys can relate.)

you reincarnate, you fail, rinse and repeat. the sections are pretty short. that's pretty much all of it.

also up on ao3 and wattpad

enjoy, as always <3

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prologue

The clicking of the keyboard. The rhythm of my fingers against the caps, words a constant steady stream from my mind to the glowing document. It comes so easy to me, recording the thoughts and desires that have been running through my mind for so long they’ve eroded a deep cavern through my consciousness. Fancies and yearnings that have since become a fundamental part of me, threaded into the fabric of my being. Same fandom, same character, same love.

“And then I just… understood. How it’s the little moments you hold on to the most.” And then he grins.

“Maybe,” I murmur, swiping my thumbs over his palms, “it’s the other way around.”

He blinks. “Yeah.”

Losing my train of thought, I lean back dangerously in my chair. It’s one of the swivel ones that can go way back, but I’ve fallen over before. I lean back as reality comes rushing in, flushing away the comforting warm waters of fantasy.

Rent’s due next week. Fuck, I have to work today. Did I make a lunch? Well, whatever. Maybe I should call in, haha. When’s the last time I cleaned the floor? Laundry? Should I fix the AC or just buy another one? Need to call the mechanic about that weird noise in the car. And renew my license before it’s too late. I need to wash dishes before I leave. I need to keep track of my income. I need to start thinking about my retirement. I need to I need to I need to—

The computer screen whisks out of view as my stomach lurches from its safe spot — I’m falling, fuck! My body prepares for a landing

that never comes.

Nothing comes.

I can’t hear the buzzes and sighs of background noise I didn’t even register until they’re gone.

I can’t see, I can’t open the eyelids that are supposed to be there, can’t search for the light.

I can’t feel. The breeze against my skin, the tickling of my hair on my face, the weight of a human body.

I can’t breathe, but I have no desire for air, nor pain from the lack of it.

Everything is… still. Paused, stale, bated. Nothing.

Am I dead? I’m dead, aren’t I?

Never would I have expected this. All the jokes and profound thoughts lying in bed, thinking about what lies beyond without fear. Well, I’m fucking fearful now. Everything is over, nobody will know who I am, I’ll never amount to the person my younger self would have imagined (but who am I kidding, I never would have), the shift manager will curse my name when I don’t come in, my computer is still running, the state they will find my body in is nothing short of deplorable. I’ve squandered my chance.

Did I… do what I wanted in life?

Did I? Did I?

No, I never did what I wanted. I only ever did what made me comfortable.

And the realization eats away at me, turns me into a yawning cavern mouth that leads to naught.

I just wasted myself.

OH WELL.

It is what it is, right?

IT IS WHAT IT IS.

At least I was happy when I was writing.

AT LEAST.

I could’ve had it a lot worse.

YOU COULD’VE.

I could…

YEAH?

That voice wasn’t always there. That echo of my internal monologue. Unbearably loud yet inaudible. Identical in nature, so seamlessly me that I haven’t been noticing that it’s not.

I’m not alone.

YOU’RE NOT.

And it’s this that makes me feel as if I should be afraid, if I had the body and capacity to do so.

IT’S HARD TO BE SCARED WHEN YOU’VE NOTHING LEFT TO PROTECT.

What is this, some kind of joke? Am I already going crazy?

NO.

I don’t know where I end and when… that begins.

IT DOESN’T MATTER.

Oh my god.

And then it’s quiet.

WHEN WAS THE LAST TIME YOU WERE TRULY HAPPY?

Was I? What kind of question is that?

YOU WERE, WEREN’T YOU, WHEN YOU WERE WRITING THOSE STORIES.

I… was happy. Happiness isn’t a constant state of being, it’s— it comes in little moments. I was happy enough.

DO YOU WANT A CHANCE?

… What?

DO YOU WANT TO LIVE IN A FANTASY?

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1st reincarnation - modern au

I nearly fall over when I’m slapped in to this body, and I nearly collapse again when something bumps into me. But my fall is broken by something soft and hard and solid.

“Woah… there.”

Neon lights, stale and heavy air. Out of reflex I suck in a huge breath. Puke and alcohol and bad breath and sweat and body odour. Silhouetted bodies writhing before me, all around me, in tune to the gaudy noises blaring from all corners of the area that’s supposed to be music.

I’m at a club. I’m alive and in a club.

“You okay?”

And that voice…

I spin on my heel, nearly tripping — since when was having a body so difficult? — and he’s there.

Jean. Jean Kirschtein.

The man I’ve been fantasizing about since the sixth grade, the man I’ve broken keyboards writing for, the man I’ve loved over a thousand lifetimes. It’s him.

I know things about you that you don’t even know about yourself. I’ve fucked you. I’ve killed you. I’ve had your children. I’ve seen you at your very worst and cheered for you at your best. I’ve held you as you breathed your last breath, my name on your tongue, and you’ve done the same for me.

And now you’re here, in this club, with me… drunk out of your fucking mind.

Real. Real. Your eyes, unfocussed, the strands of your hair against the light, your posture. Just as I’ve described, hundreds of times over, except no words can truly begin to explain the entity that is you.

“Why are you staring? Like what you see?”

And that voice.

LET’S DANCE.

I push my palm flat against his broad chest, I’m fucking touching him, and bring the rest of my body closer. And dance.

I was never much of a dancer. I’m still not. But if I let it all get to me, the music, the vibration of the ground of others’ feet, the feeling of Jean against me… I don’t have to worry at all. My body moves without discretion, and the music and noise envelopes me completely.

I notice too late that he’s gone. So I stop. And it doesn’t take long to find his tall frame poking out of the crowd in another part of the club.

He’s bathed in a red light, dazed, but not drunk-dazed. In-love-dazed. And I would know, because I’ve imagined and written that expression so many times before.

Only it was always directed at me, the reader, and not the girl he’s looking at right now. The girl who dances without care, the girl who is more beautiful, stronger, the girl I could never hope to be.

No. This isn’t happening.

Blood in my mouth — I’ve been biting the inside of my cheek. There’s nothing left inside except a sinkhole, one that yawns impossibly wider with every second and threatens to take me over entirely. Breath comes shaky. That’s supposed to be me. That’s supposed to be me! Right?

Right?

She twirls with this unearthly kind of grace and Jean takes her hand midway, leading her through the action, and end off in a close embrace. And it’s like it’s scripted.

They lean in closely for a delicate kiss.

A friend — Connie — approaches.

They break it off nervously.

End script.

I mean, who am I kidding? Of course he would go for her. She’s perfect, and I’m just… the warmup. Someone jostles into me from behind and now there’s nobody to catch me; I land hard on the linoleum, arms numbly blocking my fall. Fuck. Fuck. My hands curl into little fists, collecting grime. What the hell am I doing here? Who the hell do I think I am?

Eager, blissfully unaware feet land on my dress. I need to go. I can’t stay here.

But when I try to stand a sudden swell of bodies comes rushing in and knocks me back down. Well, fuck you then, just let me die here.

A high-pitched, obnoxious laugh reaches my ears. With another quick look-around I heave myself up. Damned if I die here. Before anyone else has the chance to move me I haul myself to the wall and stick to it.

The two of them and Connie are gone now.

I just… my only chance.

Look at me, playing the heartbroken maiden.

Bathrooms… I shuffle along the wall until I find it and slip inside.

Contrary to everything else, it’s brightly lit in blue. The sinks are decently clean and the stalls, for the most part, appear empty. It sounds empty, anyways. The music here is muffled and echoey; even the smallest movement seems to be exemplified by the tiled walls.

I enter the closest one and lock the door, sitting on the seat even though a thousand people’s asses have touched it. Whatever.

When I saw you here before…

What am I doing here.

Couldn’t look you in the eye…

Who the hell plays this song at a club?

You looked like—

The door bangs open; feet barge in. A feminine gag, a stall door smacking against the wall. More gags, vomit slapping the toilet water, an acrid stench.

“You’re okay! You got this…”

That’s a guy’s voice. How sweet, he came to the bathroom to help her out. Maybe I should pop out of here and yell at him. Haha.

Gently, so as not to make noise, I press my palm flat against the door.

They’re probably taking a cab or something. Leaning against each other in the backseat while Connie gabbles on about whatever to the driver. I smile for about a second before I have to clamp my lips between my teeth again.

I’m not their friend. I’m an imposter. (Among us!) I’m the one that fantasizes in the dark of their companionship. Writing all the time. I’m… well, frankly, I’m a creep.

And I’m a weirdo…

Holy fuck.

YOU GIVING UP?

No.

AND HOW DO YOU SUPPOSE YOU FIND THEM?

Go away. How did this happen?

YOU’RE THINKING IN LOOPS.

It’s not a big deal.

RIGHT.

Shut up. It’s not a big deal, I can just come back here. Maybe it’s a slowburn.

OR MAYBE SHE’S ENDGAME.

DID YOU SEE THE WAY HE LOOKED AT HER?

JUST LIKE HE’S SUPPOSED TO LOOK AT YOU.

IF YOU THINK THAT’S PLATONIC YOU’RE KIDDING YOURSELF.

Let me think. Just let me—

The stall door suddenly jolts as if hit from the outside; my hand comes flying off.

What—

“OPEN IT.”

What?

“OPEN IT.”

The voice in my head. That’s the voice in my head, someone’s talking with it—

“OPEN. IT.”

I stare at the latch.

“YES, THERE, RIGHT THERE.”

Fuck. Fuck, this is the moment Jean swoops in and saves me—

“OPEN THE DOOR. NOBODY IS HERE TO SAVE YOU.”

The puking couple—

“I WON’T ASK AGAIN.”

I try to swallow. Open. I raise my hand — when did my fingers start trembling? — and unlatch the door.

Cli-cli-click.

It swings open to… a brunette with puke dribbling down her chin.

…!!?

Oh my fucking god.

What the hell is this?

??!

“STAND UP.”

I do, leaning heavily against the wall.

“COME.”

We walk to the sink. She pulls something out of her purse. A needle.

My voice is but a tremble. “What?”

“IF YOU WANT ANOTHER CHANCE, YOU HAVE TO DIE.” She mimics inserting the needle into her arm. “THIS IS ONE WAY.“

“I can’t do that. I don’t do that.”

She turns fully to meet my eye but I drop my gaze. “IF YOU INSIST.”

“Wait, no—”

On the marbled counter is a pocket knife.

What if I don’t want to die?

“WOULD YOU RATHER LIVE LIKE THIS? IN THE SHADOWS, WATCHING ANOTHER LIVE YOUR DIRTY LITTLE FANTASY?”

THINK ABOUT IT. HAVE YOU TRULY DONE ANYTHING WITH YOUR LIFE EXCEPT PRETEND?

Stop.

“TAKE THE BLADE.”

When I look into the mirror, she’s not there.

Death by blood loss.

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92nd reincarnation - canon

Breathe. Breathing in. The human scent.

Temptress is the smell, reeking over the wall, always unreachable.

But now… wall is now open now… and the smell… the smell. The presence of man.

Cannot control myself

cannot.

GOD, YOU’RE A REAL BEAST.

Others push and shove. Claustrophobic between… buildings. Buildings crumbling on my shoulders.

The humans try. They buzz around like birds. But more of them are crushed into red pulp under my feet. More of them scooped up and put into my mouth. More, more, more. Warm and writhing and in my mouth, crack open.

It’s right. It’s the right thing. I do it again and again. The only right thing.

Another bird-human, buzzing up to my face. Too slow, I cannot grab it. Too fast, it soars closer.

Prick! Eye! It pricked my eye! But I close it, and it’s stuck. The prick is stuck in my eye.

I take it and put it in my mouth. Crack open.

More bird-humans now. Fast bird-humans. Screeching. Pricking.

DID YOU SERIOUSLY JUST EAT HIM? I HOPE YOU CHEWED.

Too fast. Too fast!

“Bastard! You’ll pay!”

Bird-human… who…

“You’ll fucking pay!”

Bird… Jean? Human? On my back. Crack. Bird—

Jean?

Chest feels prick but no bird-humans are in it. Mouth doesn’t crack. Mouth makes noise. Mouth says…

“…Jean.”

Prick!

“I’m sorry.”

Death by spinal cord injury.

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165th reincarnation - canon

Nobody told me the steam would make noise.

It doesn’t come in puffs, but continuous streams, each with the force of a newly-awakened geyser, raw with festering rage.

His voice is nearly inaudible over the hiss that just about renders me deaf, just a strained whisper.

“Here! Over here!”

Out of complete reflex I bring my hands to point at the behemoth bone structure that is Eren and shoot. I don’t hear the ODM but feel its mechanic workings against my lower back, the painful tightening of the straps against my skin, the pressure in my head and gut as I’m jerked forward. The horror and chaos of the world shooting past.

I’m coming…

Someone screams again and I’m yanked forward, limbs and neck snapping back uselessly, painfully, the back of my head hitting my spine. Pulled like a yo-yo. Straps digging into skin. Everything turns into a whirl of heat and steam and sky and blackness. Everything mixing together as my brain and eyes, most trusted, can’t comprehend what’s going on around me. Can’t tell up from down. The breaths I try to take in are sucked out before I get a chance to replenish my increasingly burning lungs. It’s too tight. It’s too fast. I can’t— I can’t move.

The cord… a bone titan grabbed my cord…

Fuck,

   fuck,

      fuck, 

I’m getting closer,

it hurts,

I’m getting closer!

Fuck!

!!???!!!

The impact, as much as I might try, I can’t brace for the impact. With a crack! I hit the bone chest-first, and in that little moment before the pain inevitably comes I know it’s all… punched in and wrong inside and bad bad bad.

The titan doesn’t stop dragging when everything blooms into fresh agony, it hurts, it hurts, it’s all wrong inside it hurts it’s wrong I’m hurting someone please help me please fuck I’m hurt someone get me help help help

And then it all… goes still. And the pain comes back in a fresh new wave. Breaths come now, ragged and holey and painful, I don’t want to look at myself, my grimed hands scratching at the bone I’ve landed on, searching for purchase so I don’t fall off. Which, frankly, would be a better fate. I’ll let go and start again. Yeah. Yeah…

It hurts. If I could scream, I would.

“Hey!”

Fuck, not now. I swear my nails are splitting. Is my chest… wet? Not now…

But he appears anyways, despite it all, always despite it all, in the familiar garb of canon and that brushed-aside hair that’s screwed over to hell and back, eyes wild and pupils dilated, mouth wired in an unreal smile. Painful to look at. Falling to his knees at my side.

“Hey, look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay, alright? Alright? Hey!”

The way he speaks, so desperately. The way he looks around for help. The way he sees none, because how could there be any, so he focusses back on me.

Helpless.

Absolutely helpless.

“Hey…”

There’s a different peal to his voice now.

“Look at me, would you?”

But I am…

“H— hey. Come on. You— you’re strong, huh?”

Oh, Jean.

My breaths come a lot shallower than before and my muscles burn with the effort. Jean notices, it seems, from the way he cranes in close, blotting out the steam-scattered light. “Don’t…”

What happened to the proud, selfish boy who was hellbent on joining the MPs? The one who laughed at others’ misfortunes and bragged about his feats, the one who started more fights than he could finish. The man in front of me now is crestfallen; everything is falling apart, and here he is trying to comfort even a small part of it. Holding back a tsunami with his trembling, bloody hands.

Thanks, Isayama…

When I try to inhale deeper, I only inhale faster. Nevertheless I open my mouth like I have so many times before, croak out the words because it’s natural.

“I love you.”

And for a moment, just a fleeting moment, he’s confused.

Confused. Not relieved, or heartbroken. Completely, utterly, childishly confused. He smiles, though his expression is just about splitting in half.

And that’s how I know.

“I— I love you too.”

LIAR.

Death by internal bleeding, blood loss.

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

274th reincarnation - past

June 16, 1921 2:04 PM

“Can you believe it’s been three years since the war ended?”

I look over at Sasha from under my veil. “I really can’t.”

“And now you’re getting married.” She giggles like a schoolgirl behind the basket of flowers in her gloved hands. “Oh! The music’s starting!”

The knells of the organ behind the curtains in front of us rip through me like a wave. It’s happening. It’s finally happening.

I’m getting married to Jean Kirschtein.

It was a rough ride. Getting with the times, learning how to housewife, staying up late reading and re-reading the odd letters sent home from my… friends. Yes, they are truly my friends.

I’ve been living here for over seven years.

I haven’t heard that… voice in over seven years.

I’ve been alive for over seven years.

Perhaps the toughest part was the war. Watching Jean and Connie and Eren and Armin and everyone else disappear, never knowing if they would come back.

Most did. The expected ones.

At least Sasha is still alive.

But we still have to get through the depression, not to mention the second war. Provided this is… a strictly historical account.

But enough of that.

Erwin offers his remaining arm to me and I take it. Another technicality.

Without restrain, I grin.

Today will be the best day of my life.

July 30, 1921 7:43 PM

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

My breaths come in small, doglike pants as he towers over me, silhouetted by the socket light behind him, still swinging from when he clipped it with his fist.

“Fuck, I’m sorry, okay?” He’s trying to be quiet, trying to suppress the screams he had let but a few seconds ago. “I just— you know how I get angry, right?”

Breathing but never getting any air.

“Fuck, would you look at me?!”

July 31, 1921 10:08 AM

“Don’t mean to pry, but you look like hell. What’s gotten into you?”

I look up from the tea I’ve been stirring for the last… I don’t know. Children scream in the background and the sun beats relentlessly on the concrete around us. “Just a little tired is all, Connie. I haven’t had a great sleep lately.” Not a complete lie.

He smacks his lips. “You were doing that research stuff again, huh?”

“Research stuff?” Sasha pipes, looking up from her eggs.

“Yeah, this little cheese—” he points at me with his spoon— “is hellbent on buying a whole farm. Isn’t that something?”

One of many, Connie.

“Can’t say I blame her.” Putting another scoop of eggs into her mouth, Sasha raises her eyebrows haughtily. “Your own unlimited supply of food? Fancy that.”

“Of course you would agree with her,” Connie mutters.

“Nothing wrong with having a little— a little cush to fall back on,” I smile.

“Don’t be a bunny. Nowadays, we’re all rich men.”

“And women!”

For now. Provided this is a strictly historical account, it won’t be long until the economy’s going to crumple in on itself. I’m just making preparations, because I’ll be damned if any of you die during the depression.

I just don’t know what to do about the second world war. The tea leaves swirl with my spoon. And Jean…

“By the way, where’s your other half?” The buzzed man blurts, jolting me from my unborn stupor. “Don’t suppose you came out here all the way on your own?”

“I took a cab— a boiler with Reiner.” I smile again, heart fluttering. “Jean’s out with his father today.” Again.

“Father, eh,” he muses. “Never heard much of the guy. What’s he like?”

Connie’s eyes are imploring and innocent— well, as innocent as they can be for a war veteran.

Jean’s father. There’s a reason he wasn’t around in the canon.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say breezily. “Only what little I hear from Jean. You know. Men.” The last statement is mostly directed at Sasha but she’s looking at Connie. He doesn’t respond right away.

“Well.” He puts his hands on the table. “This ol’ grifter could stretch his legs. What’dya say we take a little walk by the water?”

June 16, 1924 3:06 PM

Armin had bought me a carry-on bag for my birthday. It’s heavy and leather, perfect for carrying paperwork. Something that belongs in an antique shop. It’s funny. Even after ten years of living in the past, I still find it hard to call it my present.

Also, it’s our third anniversary. That is, of Jean and my wedding. Three years… together. I purse my lips and focus on the road.

Prep, prep, prep. That’s been my entire life these past few years. Of course, given the day and age, it hasn’t been easy. But it’s possible, and that’s what matters. What’s become of my hard work? I run my thumb along the waxed leather of my bag. Gardens, seeds, non-perishables, connections with experienced farmers… Really, everything I think I need for self-sufficiency. But who even knows. If it all ends up going south…

Truthfully, I don’t know if I’m doing the right things. I know that in five years everything goes down, but that’s about as far as my history knowledge takes me. I’ll just have to keep as much real money on me as possible and prepare for the worst. Just enough for my friends to get by. They think I’m crazy sometimes, but they’ll understand.

All that aside, I somehow got myself into real estate. Do I know what I’m doing? No. But I’m making bank.

God, I really miss Google.

But hey, I’m making it big! Even if it’s technically cheating, I learned and studied and did everything on my own. It’s a little surreal, sometimes. I would never have made it this far in real life.

Real… life. What was I doing all that time?

This world has turned me into a completely new person. I’m— I could be really happy. Except for the promise of impending doom. That, and the man I live with.

It’s our third anniversary. So why, whenever I remind myself, do cold drops of dread form in my organs?

What a stupid question.

I turn into the familiar driveway. Our driveway. Of our house. That we bought with my money. That’s the only reason he keeps letting me do as I please.

Killing the engine, I step out of the car. I hardly expect Jean to do anything for our anniversary, or even remember. I… I don’t know where it all went wrong. The war? The times? The lack of his mother and presence of his father?

Me?

I don’t know.

In any case, I bought this tin can for us. For our special day. The flowers by the path leading up to the door are big and strong, full from the rains of spring and soaked in the sunlight of early summer. Beautiful little things.

I raise the key to the keyhole and pause.

Maybe a note would do. A little memo stuck to the drivers’ seat. I don’t even have to go inside. There’s a million other places I could go for a million different reasons. I could avoid him altogether.

But it’s our anniversary and I might as well… be present. Right?

I grip the bag strap. Right. Right. It’s the right thing to do, given my… history.

Jean Kirschtein. I know him. It’s fine. Fuck it.

I slip the key in and swing open the door.

The bar of light from outside illuminates a strip of the wooden floor. Empty. Okay. I slip off my shoes—

Shoes.

Those… are not my shoes, or Jean’s. And we never put our shoes down outside the carpet.

No. The drops turn into a flood of cold terror. No, no, no. No, I’m just assuming the worst. I slip off my shoes and pad to the bedroom. If I’m employing stealth, I’m not doing it on purpose.

The hall splits off into three. Bathroom, closet, bedroom. A dead end, decorated with a small, discoloured blotch from Jean’s knuckle all those years ago.

Silence. My insides, suddenly much heavier than they’re supposed to be. Wake paralysis.

How many times have I stood here? It… fuck.

Fuck, no, no, no…

If Jean is truly having an affair, wouldn’t it be best if I never found out? Slowly, carefully, I lay my palm against the wallpaper. Fuck.

So the only reason I’m here is to save my friends from the inevitable.

‘My friends’ being… what? A hallucination?

No. They’re just from another universe. AU. That’s— that doesn’t make them any less real.

ARE YOU DOUBTING AGAIN?

No, no, no, no… My nails scrape against the hardened paper. No. I’m going to stay for them. It doesn’t matter about Jean or about me or about if they’re fucking real or not. I’m staying right here. No. I’m happy here. You can’t convince me to leave. No.

HAPPY? YOU’RE HAPPY AS LONG AS YOU HAVE SOMETHING TO DO. BUT WHAT AFTER?

Well, I have my business—

AND IF IT FAILS? IF YOU FAIL? WHAT, ARE YOU JUST GOING TO GIVE UP?

PICTURE THIS. YOU GO BANKRUPT AND LOSE ALL YOUR ASSETS. WHAT THEN?

I would get them back—

YOU WOULD GIVE UP. FACE IT, YOU ALWAYS TAKE THE EASY WAY OUT.

No—

EVEN IF IT MEANS ABANDONING YOUR FRIENDS.

That’s not true.

THEN WHY HAVE YOU ALREADY KILLED YOURSELF TWO HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FOUR TIMES? HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU LEFT THEM FOR DEAD?

YOU GOT LUCKY THIS TIME AROUND AND YOU’RE STAYING FOR THE LUXURY.

Shut up.

NICE HOUSE, NICE CLOTHES, FREE TIME, NEW CAR. IN ANY OTHER SCENARIO YOU’D BE OUT OF HERE.

I worked hard, I fucking earned my right—

YOU GOT LUCKY. YOU WOULDN’T LAST A WEEK LIKE THIS A BEGGAR.

The door swings open.

The door fucking swings open, and the man’s beefy frame is uncovered and on full display.

Blond.

Tall.

Sweaty.

The taxi cab driver, Reiner.

In the bedroom with my dearly wedded husband.

I… can’t do this.

Reiner breathes a curse under his breath and squeezes past me.

I stand there for a moment. Not moving, not averting my gaze from where Reiner’s eyes used to be. Knowing he’s laying there in bed, the dark shadow in my peripheries. He doesn’t move, either.

Somehow, he still knows that he fucked up. Irrevocably.

SO, YOU THINK HE’S TOPPING?

When I speak, my voice is steady, cleared of knots. “I’m doing this for my friends.”

End scene.

November 6, 1935 8:37 PM

The storm isn’t letting up, but we’re warm inside by the fireplace. Sasha and Connie are playing Jenga, except it hasn’t been invented yet, so it’s just ‘stacking blocks.’ I just brushed it off as something I played in my childhood, which is technically the truth. I couldn’t help myself — they always play Jenga.

Armin is reading in a barely audible murmur to Eren and Mikasa, the inseparable trio, their reflections against the snow-covered pane.

Erwin and Hange are trying to do something with the radio, Levi inputting periodically with mild annoyance (at the device. He’s not one for these ‘newfangled things’).

Annie’s trying to teach Reiner how to knit, but his big hands keep getting in the way. Needles click together awkwardly and often drop altogether, clattering on the hardwood. Christa and Ymir sit nearby and the latter spares no insult when it happens.

At the opposite end of the room, I’m curled up in Jean’s arms.

We have more than enough to keep us for the next six years.

I did it.

And if I close my eyes and try to forget, if I try hard enough… I can be so happy.

September 9, 1938 7:47 AM

The doctors are impressed. To be fair, I’ve been crushed, diced, torn apart, and chewed into pieces. You should be impressed.

“Congratulations, Mrs. Kirschtein. It’s a beautiful baby boy!”

It looks just like its father.

I’m going to be sick.

March 8, 1938 4:36 AM

The clock keeps ticking. It’s always ticking. Marco unlatches and starts to whine, and I coo in somewhat of a comforting voice. Jean doesn’t stir.

He never stops crying. It starts as a shrill call and builds up until his lungs empty and his face turns a belligerent shade of red and I’m afraid and somewhat hopeful he might die, but he stutters, sucks in air in choking steps, and does it all over again, building up in volume until his cries are raw and throat-burning and every cycle makes my brain rattle in its jelly cage. Over and over and over and over and over and over…

I’ve lost all my assets. We’ve moved into a crumbling apartment that might be a little bigger than our old living room. The clock never stops ticking.

“Shh, you’re okay,” I murmur, but to whom is a mystery. None of us are okay.

Marco cries anyway and it’s high time I start too.

Why? Why why why?

I did everything right, so why did everything go so wrong?

Sasha died that winter in 1935. How? Speared through the stomach by an angry bull. She just wanted to see the calf.

The irony of it all is… I take a deep breath, of sweat and mold. It’s inevitable. The narrative is going to kill them all, no matter what I do.

Jean stirs behind me, pulling the sheets as he turns away. “Shut up!”

I don’t know what to do anymore except wait.

Wait for the draft.

October 30, 1940 7:10 AM

“Um. Goodbye.”

Jean’s looking sharp in his uniform.

“Wave bye-bye to Daddy,” I croak. Marco only stares.

His Adam’s apple bobs, indicative of swallowing. I wonder what he’s feeling right now. Sad? Regretful? Fearful? How many times have I relived this scenario under such different circumstances?

“Goodbye,” he says again with a note of finality. I stare at his nose, his brow, his ears, perfectly as I described them, but never his eyes, and move on.

“Goodbye, Armin.”

He smiles with his mouth and big blue eyes that should never see the horrors of what lies before him. “Goodbye. And goodbye to you, Marco.”

“Don’t forget to write.”

“I’ll write every day.”

I smile. “Take care of the boys for me.”

He huffs a little in amusement. “That I will.”

Eren’s standing next to him. I wait until he’s done saying goodbye to Mikasa before coming in. “Goodbye, Eren.”

“Don’t you ‘goodbye’ me,” he grunts. “Everyone’s so gloomy. I’m coming back, whether you like it or not.”

I smile. No, you’re not. “I expect you to follow through with your word, then.”

“I will. Right after I take care of those bastards.” He sticks his fingers within arm’s reach and Marco grabs on as he wiggles it. “‘Till we meet again.”

“Don’t forget to write.”

“Yes, mother.”

I bump his shoulder. Next.

“Goodbye, Connie.”

The man turns upon hearing his voice and melts into a small smile. It never was quite the same, quite as full, after Sasha’s passing. “Goodbye.” The second half of the word drowned out by the horn of the approaching train.

Oh, Connie. You shouldn’t have to go out there again. I bite the inside of my lip. None of you should.

I open one arm and he takes me up on the offer, engulfing us with his familiar, comforting embrace; his warmth, the roundness of his chest, the way his ribs move as he breathes, the realness of him. Perhaps for the last time.

“I’ll miss you. Write to me.” I swallow down the waver that threatens my voice. “Good luck.”

He smiles, waves to Marco. “I’ll see you later.”

Then they leave, and I’m there on the platform, and I should’ve brought a heavier coat because a sudden chill breaks through.

YOU’RE NOT ALLOWED TO GET SENTIMENTAL. JUST KILL YOURSELF!

I hug Marco tighter to my chest and find Mikasa.

November 6, 1940 10:10 PM

The silence is just about settling in my gut like a cold stone. No footsteps or loud breathing or high-pitched whining in the apartment today. Marco is actually asleep today.

For now, it’s just me and him.

Silently, I move to the radio and switch it on.

—joining the war effort despite his extensive injury, here at the East coast we see Commander Erwin and his secon—

I shut it off.

Maybe now’s the chance. My opportunity to get away from it all. While Jean’s out, I can just… up and leave. I have five years. How hard can it be to fake you and your infant’s deaths in the 1940s, in the middle of the war, no less? I can scrape up what I have left and write a will. No, that’s suspicious… well, maybe not too suspicious. I’m sure the men had to do it too, so it wouldn’t be too far-fetched—

“Mama?”

Heart sprinting, I spin on my heel. There’s Marco, chubby little fist curled against the corner, hobbling forward in his striped onesie that looks almost black under the dim light. “Ma-ma?”

This… has never happened before. He’s never walked forward like this.

Marco takes one step forward—

bom

—and his head slams against the floor.

He doesn’t move.

And as much as I might want to, neither can I.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale… “Mar…co?” Inhale. The wooden edge of the radio bites into my fingers. “Marco? Marco?”

The— our— my child stirs, putting his hands flat on the ground and lifting up his heavy head.

There’s a dent in his forehead.

His mouth opens, little pearly teeth gleaming.

“POLO.”

My arms tremble, weak and static.

No.

No.

“Get out.”

Marco flexes his fingers with none of the childlike clumsiness of a toddler. “YOUR CHILD IS ALREADY DEAD.”

“Get out.”

“DARLING…” He steps closer and I shrink into the radio as if I can phase through it, as if I’m a vapour. “SO ARE YOU.”

Death by stroke.

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

275th reincarnation - band au

Screaming. The rise and swell of voices like an ocean wave of titan proportions, light flashing and glaring from every possible angle as if illuminating a microscopic specimen casting bizarre and animated shadows everywhere I dare look, the sweat, the hollowness of the ground below me, the way it vibrates. The weight of a bass guitar slung over my shoulders.

The weight of thousands of eyes pinpointed on me.

“Aaalright, Toronto!”

The crowd screams louder at Connie’s mechanically projected voice blasts through the loudspeakers that poke through the crowd, echoing through the dark and damp and open air. 

“You ready for this one?”

Rise and swell. Individuality chewed into a paste and spat back out into the dedicated mass whose cries pierce into me. Into us. Connie — alive and breathing, alive — separates from the mic and shoots me a grin, skin already glaring with sweat. My hands come up, brushing the electric strings of the bass; a metallic shriek replaces the sound of the audience.

No. No, no, no, not this. Not this.

The first step is the hardest, breaking the ice that seals me to the raised stage. The rest come easy and before I know it, before I can get in a single coherent thought the crowd and the lights and the sounds are all behind me, and I’m running into the dark pocket of solace that leads offstage. Somewhere. Quiet. Away.

Hardly do I make it into some pitch-black equipment room and attempt to shut the door behind me before I’m intercepted and the door swings wide open again.

“Hey?”

Guitar strap half-over my head, I freeze.

“What’s going on?”

I dump the instrument on the ground and turn slowly. Brown strands turned red near the edges from the backlight, large, concerned eyes that are hardly visible yet distinguishable. Always distinguishable. Hell, I’d be able to tell her apart from a million plastically altered faces engineered to look just like her.

“Sasha.”

She scans me up and down, analytic, whole, and the single action makes me want to crumple in on myself. “I knew the new schedule was too much,” she murmurs, and I want to hug her. “Damned director never listens, though.”

I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, and I’m sorry I’m going to leave you again.

“Do you think you can get through this one concert? Then you guys'll have a break before we tour the US.” She smiles as if it's the most normal thing ever, as if she's not a ghost or absurd or a figment of my imagination. “I'll make Reiner buy us something really nice to eat, too. I hear the maple syrup here is good.”

How can you talk about maple syrup? How many times have I watched you die, powerless? How many times have I died without you? Can't you see the blood on my hands? Can't you see the blood on my hands? And you're talking about maple syrup?

“Are you—”

“I'm sorry.” The words spill out of my mouth before I can stop them. “I'm kidding myself. I'm stupid and weak and delusional and I never grew up past sixteen because I’m here. Despite everything I’m here. How many times now? I’m here. I’m—”

Everything wound up so tightly inside me like a coil snaps as the anchor is thrown overboard, chains clinking and echoing in the hollow frame called my body. The anchor is never going to touch ground. It’s just going to keep falling, violently accelerating, spewing out every piece of sea gunk and sewage caught in the rusted metal links, endlessly, and I find it in myself to smile because I really don’t know what else I’m supposed to do, I can’t scream, I can’t run, I sure as hell can’t cry. I sputter like an old car because my intestines unwind at Mach fuck.

“This is a secret between you and me, okay?” And vaguely I know I’m sullying her, I’m turning her impure, I’m exposing her to my indulgent sin, but since when did sinners care about that? “I need to kill myself.”

Connie’s voice is somewhere, muffled, trying to appease the crowd. Sasha is still. “What?”

“Jean. I need to kill myself so I can have a chance with him. I need to.” And the sound that comes out of me next is somewhere between a cough and a sob and it makes me feel so shitty I step toward her, the idea of comfort. “This is it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, okay?” And I touch her and squeeze her shoulder so hard with my strangely calloused fingers that it probably hurts, but she doesn’t flinch.

“Hey... Look, you’re not gonna do that!” she chuckles, and I’ve written her enough to know it’s a fake one, a nervous one, one she keeps tucked away in the deepest parts of her only to come out for emergencies. Glaring emergencies, and that’s how I know she cares so much. “Uh— Jeanboy? He’s such an asshole. You’d want his horse face carved onto your grave?”

Why did I write her like this? I should have made myself detestable. A piece of scum hated by the entire universe, because that’s what I am, a detestable piece of scum that leaves everyone behind over selfish pursuits. Hate me. Hate me. You’re like this because of me.

“You’re... not gonna do that. Right? You don’t— there’s other guys, you know? Or girls!” She pulls out the emergency laugh again and it’s a siren to my ears. “You have so many options! Thousands— no, millions of fans! You don’t have to settle for—”

“You don’t understand. Nobody will understand.” I cough again. “I know I sound like an edgy thirteen-year-old. I— I am edgy! Look at how I’m dressed!” The bracelets and bangles on my arm jingle when I jerk it and now she twitches. Something crashes in the background. “The fact is, you’re not real! The band isn’t real! Everything you know, your life, your friends, the world you live in, is just a figment of my fucking—”

“Calm down. Hey. Calm.” And she says my name and I’m sure it leaves a wound on her tongue. “Look, I think we need to take a break. Let’s shut this concert down, and—”

“You were never there for me.”

She stops talking.

“You were never there for me because you always died first.” My other hand flies to her shoulder before I fall over with the weight of whatever just came out of my mouth. What, what. Wow. I really am a piece of shit! So hung up over Jean. Is this love or something else? Something sinister? Should I have gone to therapy? And here I am destroying the best thing that’s ever happened to me— who am I kidding?

She’s only here because I made her. She should be somewhere else, enjoying korean barbeque. No, she shouldn’t exist at all. She never told me this was okay. I just took her and ran with it. I made her like this. I made her care for me and now I’m kicking out the bricks of her foundation that I laid down so painstakingly, one by one. But the anchor’s falling and nothing can ever stop it. “Sasha. You're never going to fit in. You're right when you think that Connie or Jean or Marco — is he alive in this one? — you're right when you think they don't actually like you. They think you're annoying. And no matter how many crazy jobs you take up— no matter how many you take you'll never really find a place to fit into this society. You should just go home and work in a convenience store because you're embarrassing yourself and your family.” The last sentence ends with an upward turn like I'm asking a question. “You're socially stunted, and…” I taste blood. “I'm sorry you exist.”

She's just a blur because she was never real in the first place. “I'm really fucking sorry.” She's just a blur because the salty tears leak into my mouth. Land ahoy, we're anchored.

“Sweetheart…”

“I need you to hate me.”

Warm hands brush away the hair that falls onto my face. “I could never.”

“That's the pro—”

“What the hell is going on?”

The voice, the rough-around-the-edges arrogant melody lined with a faint hum of baritone. My muscles petrify at the sound.

“Jean—” Sasha starts.

“Hey, we have a concert to do, yeah?” The light is almost completely blotted out now because he's here. “We need you out there.”

“Jean, give us, like, five minutes.”

“We don't have five minutes.” His steps come closer and suddenly there's light again. “What's going on?” Against my ear. “Tell me.”

Bzzzzzz. The whine of a mosquito. That's hysterical. Uproarious. A mosquito, here? Here? Here.

It's here.

It's time!

I've done more than enough here. I need to go. I need to go back to nothing. So without turning my head, I say, “I need to go,” and release Sasha. But Jean's big hands hold me back.

His hands. He holds me in place. What have those hands and I been through together? Every vein, every wrinkle, every tendonous ridge. How many times have we escaped death? Caused it? How many times have I seen them clasped in shaken, silent prayer, praying to an invisible god for a mercy that will never, never come? How many times has Jean wrapped himself up in those hands, clinging to the last semblance of ignorance and bliss and sanity left in his curled-up body?

"Back on stage, right?"

His hands. On my shoulders. Not painful, not gentle, but a third neutral option that somehow hurts the more than of both of them. Friendly.

“I’d rather you hate me, too.”

“What?”

Fuck, who cares? I’ll just kill myself and start over! “Back then. You acted like you loved me when you just hated me. But even then!” Like magnets my eyes lock into his and I nearly puke. He’s so close, I might blush. “Even then! Ha! You still stuck around for me! You screamed, you ignored, you fucking cheated on me with Reiner—” at this his face contorts— “but you still stuck around. You did love me. You always fucking loved me, and— and even if Marco was never born, you still would have stuck around.”

His eyes narrow into slits. “Don’t fucking say his name.”

I smile. “That was our child, by the way, but it’s not like you’d know, or care, because he’s dead. And you don’t exist anymore. And you know what! I should have killed your dad. I should have taken a cab right after you and went to his house and fucking stabbed him.”

“What the hell are you on—”

“Jean.” Sasha makes a motion and he grimaces.

“Concert’s off.” He snaps his head up as the light is blocked out once more, but not as much as when he stood there. The cords in his neck pop. “Concert’s off!”

“What’s—”

“Damn it, Connie, just go tell the audience.”

“But we need you guys—”

“Connie!”

I touch the side of his face and his pupils roll back to me.

“Veggie omelet. Your mom made it for you since you were little and it’s your favourite food.”

“What?”

“It’s also the only thing you’re able to cook, but you know, if you applied yourself, you can be a great cook. Michelin-star level. When you were six you fell off a swing and broke your arm but you told everyone you were fighting off a robber. Your dick curves a bit to the left. Your greatest fear is being abandoned. You can’t stand the idea of being left by people you thought you loved, which is kind of understandable, like I get where that comes from. You’re a big sleeper and a bed hog. You always take up as much room on the bed as humanly possible. Sometimes when you stand up you can’t move right away because the blood drains from your head too quickly. You say you’re a cat person but you love all animals and you think the discourse is stupid. Sometimes you get sad when you see a show you used to watch on TV as a kid but you would never admit it. You saw an emo kid once and seriously considered dying your hair black because you thought it would give you a glowup.” And here the torrent is corked.

Jean is shelled. Thrown overboard. He doesn’t lean in to my hand where I touch him; he treats it like an alien. “What are you doing?” 

“You guys? What’s going on?”

There she is. Holding her guitar, disheveled, perfect, framed in the erratic backlight. There she is. “Connie said the concert’s off? Is that true?”

Bzzzzzzz…

It flies so close to the side of my head my eardrum might rupture. Batting around the air with its tiny wings. The crowd screams. It lands on the back of my hand and sticks there when Jean tilts his head away, his beard brushing against my palm. My hand hovers.

“Are you happy?”

The mosquito doesn’t move. Jean moves his lips but says nothing.

“Is this what you wanted?”

It whines again, the slapping of its wings spelling out a rhythm, words that I only hear from the inside of my head.

YOUR LIFE IS WHAT YOU MAKE OF IT, it buzzes. MAYBE YOU’RE THE PROBLEM.

“You just want to see me suffer. You took me from my life and put me through all this. Psychotic piece of shit.”

“Is she okay?” someone says through a wall of water.

YOU HAD EVERY OPPORTUNITY TO GO HOME.

“How could I?” The force of my words might blow the insect away but I bring it closer anyway.

“You guys go back… stage… take care of it…”

“After what you showed me? How can I go back? You showed me what happiness could be but you hang it on a string above my head. Are you a sadist? Is that it? You— you like seeing me miserable? You wanna see me cry?”

I CAN MAKE YOU FORGET.

FORGET EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS. ALL YOUR LIVES. FORGET ABOUT HIM ENTIRELY, AND THE SERIES AS A WHOLE.

WHAT THEN? WOULD YOU DO IT? WOULD YOU FORGET EVERYTHING AND RETURN TO YOUR OWN LIFE?

…

WOULD YOU DO IT?

My hand trembles.

I NEVER MADE YOU MISERABLE. YOU ALWAYS WERE MISERABLE. AND YOU ALWAYS WILL BE.

YOU SHATTERED THE FIRST TIME YOU SAW HIM WITH SOMEONE ELSE AT THAT DANCE CLUB. BECAUSE YOUR EGO IS WEAK. YOU SAW HIM WITH SOMEONE ELSE AND YOU JUST COULDN’T STAND IT. YOU JUST COULDN’T LET HIM GO, SO YOU PLAY THIS GAME OVER AND OVER AGAIN.

“Oh, fuck you. Fuck you.”

TOO BAD YOU’RE TOO MUCH OF A COWARD TO TRULY KILL YOURSELF.

I slam my hand against the wall and it stings, it hurts my bones.

YOUR DESIRE TO FULFILL AN IMPOSSIBLE AND SELFISH SCENARIO IS OVERCOMING YOUR HUMANITY.

I do it again. It’s just a small brown stain.

YOU’RE LAUGHABLE.

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

YOU KNOW AS WELL AS ANYONE ELSE.

The metal stands fall over when I crash into them. “Where are you?” Spit landing on the corner of my mouth.

THAT’S WHY YOU ALWAYS WROTE THOSE STORIES.

Warm, strong hands wrap around my shoulders.

HIM, AND AN IDEALIZED VERSION OF YOURSELF.

“Die!”

NOT YOU. NEVER YOU. ALL 276 TIMES.

“Hey!”

And the world becomes nothing before I’m slammed into the wall. By Jean.

YOU DON’T LOVE HIM. YOU LOVE THE IDEA OF BEING WITH HIM.

“What the fuck?” Jean snarls. “Are you on something?”

YOU LOVE THE IDEA OF FULFILLMENT. OF BEING WANTED.

“Fucking talk!”

WHY DID YOU STICK AROUND FOR SO LONG?

The pressure in my shoulders suddenly increases tenfold and I swear my bones creak under the sudden weight. Jean’s eyes are wide, his teeth, previously bared, now gleam as his lips curl into a cold upward crescent. His jaw unhinges and he speaks.

“BECAUSE YOU’RE JUST A SAD PERSON.”

I’M JUST A SAD PERSON!

Death by strangulation.

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

epilogue

I went back home. I finished falling out of my chair, and that was it.

I closed all my online accounts. Ao3, Tumblr, Instagram. All my words and my connections.

I never had that much merchandise in the first place but I trashed it all. Leaving empty spots.

I cleared my camera roll. All the little doodles on scrap pieces of paper left lying around. I scrubbed out every trace of it.

I haven’t heard the voice since and I’m a little afraid to admit I miss it.

How many years have I spent there?

It doesn’t matter.

In the end it didn’t burn my memory. It’s fine. It’s fine.

I found a man. A real one. He’s nice. He likes ice coffees and sports cars. He doesn’t want kids and that’s fine. The only kids I’d want to have anyways are with— they’re with—

I wouldn’t want to have kids with anybody. It’s fine.

He’s a brunette but he dyes it blond. I never asked him to stop. I think it looks good on him anyways. I love him with all my heart and I know he loves me back.

We live in a condo by the 7-11 just like the one from—

I don’t know any convenience stores like this one.

We have a dog. A chocolate lab called Sasha. He loves hot dogs. My man says it’s a Russian name that means “defender of mankind.”

I think that’s sweet.

He calls him “defender of hot dogs.” I think that’s sweet, too. I love him a lot.

When we walk across the street, hand in hand, he suddenly lets go and shoves me aside. Squealing of tires. Plastic crushing. Out of instinct I reach for my ODM—

I don’t reach for anything.

I fall to the ground empty-handed.

Where we were standing there’s a truck. It’s a big one and it blocks out the sun. I can’t see him. I’m stuck to the ground. The drivers’ door opens and—

Nobody steps out. Nothing is there.

I want to puke.

“DO YOU WANT TO LIVE IN A FANTASY?“

⋅ ⋆ ─────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────── ⋅ ⋆

okay we're done! i already kind of regret posting this but that doesn't really overcome the shame of posting anime boy x reader does it. oh well. sorry to everyone who's here for daily jean i'm never gonna stop doing this shit

[arislary]

Brewing Chemistry (2/5) Han Jisung x (f) reader

Synopsis: Reader and Jisung are excitedly preparing for their long-awaited date. Both of them are eagerly getting ready, but a series of unfortunate events begin to unfold. Reader, despite her excitement, is dealing with a particularly rough day—facing work stress, and a series of minor mishaps that has shaken her confidence. She begins to feel insecure about how she looks, wondering if Jisung will still find her attractive or if her bad mood will ruin the night. She tries to push these feelings aside, but they linger, causing anxiety about whether she'll end up actually going on the date.

Pairing: Han Jisung x (f) reader

Genre: fluff, eventual smut, strangers to lovers, coffee-shop au, non-idol au, meet-cute au

Warning: fluff, smut, unprotected smut (wrap tf up!), slight dom/sub, slight Dom Jisung, slight Sub reader, cute nicknames, spit kink, makeouts, dry-humping, i lied about it being a slow-burn, moving too fast?, insecurity, slight body-image issues from reader, pants don't fit, crying, whiny Jisung, whiny reader, reader is forever clenching.

WC: 2.2k

AN: this could totally act as stand alone drabble, but I enjoyed writing about coffee shop Jisung x reader way too much. If you want to see more too, let me know please and I'll try to set up a taglist. Be patient with me as I do not have a schedule out for chapters yet! UNEDITED

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Part 1 <- Part 2 -> Part 3 -> Part 4 -> Part 5

I wiped my makeup off for what felt like the fifth time and almost started crying. My date with Jisung was in less than 30 minutes and I felt like everything that could have gone wrong that day, had. I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, wearing just my robe and undergarments. 

From the spilled coffee on my desk, to the passive aggressive email from my fellow team lead, to my favorite lunch spot unfortunately being closed. By the time I got home, it felt like the universe was laughing at me as my favorite pair of pants felt too tight to be comfortable and even if they did, none of my shirts felt right and I didn’t even want to look at the offending dresses on the floor. 

I looked over at my phone and almost pouted. For the better part of the week since meeting last Tuesday, every text exchanged between Jisung and I, I had been able to continue being this self-assured, confident woman, but right now I just wanted to cry and be snuggled in my bed. Conversation with Jisung flowed too easily; the very awkward and cute boy from the coffee shop was replaced with this funny, flirty, charming guy. Still slightly awkward and cute though, but now I didn’t know if I could do this date anymore, it all just felt too much. It was way too early for me to show him any of this, I just didn’t want to do it today. I grabbed it with shaky hands and pulled up our last message thread. 

Jisung 🐿️👀🥴: Really looking forward to tnt! Pick u up at 7!

I looked at the time at the corner of my phone. The 6:40 glaring at me. I went back to our thread before pressing on the call button. It barely rang before the soothing sound of Jisung’s voice rang through. 

“_______! You know we’re about to see each other in like 5 minutes,” the chuckle he released had your insides twisting and left a large desire to hear it again. “That excited for our date?” That did it. I could feel the ball beginning to form in my throat. 

“Jisung…”

“What’s wrong?” My stomach dropped hearing the immediate worry in his voice.

“I, uh- I’m gonna have to reschedule actually on tonight”

“W-why? Is everything okay?” And now it felt like I had been kicked, I grimaced my hand coming up to cover my throat, the lump growing even bigger in my throat. I cleared it. 

“Actually-“ I took a deep breath before a small whimper escaped. “I’m so sorry Jisung, I just- I had a horrible day and I feel so awful. Nothing has gone right, fuck-“ the first hiccup escapes before I can’t hold it back anymore. “-And then my coffee spilled, a-and my favorite pen stopped working, a-and fucking Kevin, god he’s such an asshole! It wasn’t even my client!” I gasped out, sucking in air harshly through my nose, eyes starting to feel so swollen. “My clothes don’t fit and my makeup looks awful and now I’m saying all of this to you. God I must sound like such a loser-“

“Okay, hey, no, don’t say that, ______.”

I sniffled and wiped a hand across my eyes. 

“It’s true-“

“No, baby, it’s not.” 

Baby? It was the first time he’s called me that. Granted we’ve only known each other for a week, but I felt the weight of it all the same. Don’t get me wrong, he was a flirt and made it very clear throughout our conversations to know what his intentions were, but to hear him call me such a name. The intimacy of it left me feeling a tingle in my stomach and had me clenching. 

“It’s okay, trust me. It sounds like today was really hard huh?”

I sniffled and sank down to my plush rug. My left hand rubbing at the smooth fabric. It was like with just that sentence, a cooling wave washed over me. 

“Yea.”

“Kevin is also such an asshole!” A giggle bursted from my lips, falling to the side, keeping my phone pressed tightly to my face so that I wouldn’t miss anything from his velvety voice. “But most of all, I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable on our first date.”

I rubbed a finger under my nose and pouted. God, could he be more perfect, he was just so nice and sweet, no one has ever been that way with me before. 

“Baby?”

“Hmmm?” I hummed out to him, feeling myself slipping into that fuzzy feeling. 

“C-could I-“ he cleared his throat, “could I maybe come over still? Would you like that?” 

I bite my lip, one hand playing with the strap of my robe. 

“Please.”

“Thank God, I’m downstairs in the parking lot-“ I sit up up quickly from where I had been laying down, eyes flashing to my bedroom door.  “I’ll be up in a second okay?”

I whimpered and nodded my head, before rolling my eyes, he can’t see you. 

“Okay- b-but stay on the phone, okay?” Rising to my feet, rushing to put my slippers on to head out to the front door. 

“Of course, baby.”

It was less than a minute before there was a gentle knock on my door, but hearing his breathing on the other line helped ease my stress and finally Jisung cooed at me to open the door. I ended the call and rushed to unlock it to meet him. Worried brown eyes met mine before I was suddenly wrapped up in a warm embrace. Jisung’s arms wrapped around the tops of my shoulders, pulling me tightly against his frame. 

He was dressed comfortably in a black hoodie and sweats. His wired frames sitting crookedly on his nose. I breathed in his comforting scent, my own arms wrapping around his tiny waist, face burrowing into his chest. 

“Hi,” he whispered against my head, his warm breath fanning against my ear and the side of my neck. The shiver that ran through me shook even him and he only pulled me tighter to him. 

“Hi.”

He let out a small groan and pulled back to look at my face. His bottom lip tug tightly in between his teeth. There was a faint blush on his face and from where we were pressed against each other, I could feel the rapid speed of his heartbeat. 

“And to think I would’ve missed out on this,” his hands curling at the satin fabric of my robe. A blush rose to my cheeks as I realized what I was still dressed in. I let go of his waist, my hands coming up touch the tie still tightly secured. I scurried out of his embrace, calling out to him.

“Give me two seconds!” I popped my head out of my bedroom to peer back at him from down the hall. “Oh! Also please make yourself at home!”

In less than a minute, I rush back out, this time dressed in shorts and a large graphic tee. I found Jisung looking at the collection of albums and books on my shelf. I had to stop for a second and stare. He just looked too good. God, seriously who looks like that!

“Coffee?” He startles, turning around to face me, eyes wide and mouth open. I wince, hands going up in a surrender position. “Sorry, I-“

“Yea, I’d love some,” he sounds breathless and my eyes flash up to meet his. He hasn’t looked away from my legs. I squirm in place before walking over to the kitchen area. I start up the stove top coffee maker, fighting everything in me to chew on a fingernail as his presence enters the kitchen. I could feel him come up behind me before the hesitant touch of his hands on my hips occur. 

“Is this okay?” He asks as he pulls me back against his chest, arms wrapping further around me. I nod and lay my hands on top of his covered arms, hands forming fists in his sleeves. His head comes down to snuggle into my neck. “Do you wanna tell me more about your day?”

I pinch at his sleeve, my head falling back on his shoulder as he begins to sway us. 

“It was just- it was so tiring. I felt like it was a lot of small things that normally don’t bother me, but…” I trailed off, feeling a lump forming once again in my throat. 

“But it was too much today?” I pouted, nodding my head, wanting to turn myself in his arms to bury further into his warmth. 

“Yes,” it was cracked whisper that had Jisung turning his head, nose digging into my hair and tightening his arms around me. “Sungie,” I whined out causing him to gasp and grip me even harder. 

“Baby,” he rumbled in my ear, turning me around. His forehead rested against mine, nose lightly brushing against mine. “Thank you for being so honest with me today. You didn’t have to, but I’m so glad you were. Thank you for letting me know and be with you today anyways,” he squeezed me to him, his hands feeling needy and desperate on my body. “I can’t tell you how much I was looking forward to today, I really don’t care how we spend it, I just- I want to be with you and honestly being like this with you, I just- ______, I- baby please tell me you feel it too? I’m not alone in this right?” I shook my head already before he could finish his sentence. My hands gently ran up his arms, feeling the muscle that lay hidden underneath the thick fabric, to his shoulders before entwining behind his neck. I brought my face closer to him, lips grazing his. 

“No, I- it’s not just you,” he whimpered, his hand now dragging my face close to finally have our lips meet. I pushed myself closer to him as he wasted no time to grabbed at my thighs and lift me up on to my counter. Fuck, would kissing him be like this every time? Jisung’s hand dug into my hip, bringing me flush against him as his other hand found its home nestled in my hair at the base of my neck to move me as he wanted. I could feel the heat pulsating in my core, tingles shooting all throughout my body begging for a release. I panted as his lips left mine, no doubt bruised from the dominating pressure, only to gasp loudly as he began to harshly suck, lick and bite at my neck. I pulled roughly at his hair feeling his hips rut against mine. “Fuck.”

Jisung gave me a harsh bite, mumbling against my neck, “language, princess.” 

I moaned loudly, my own hips now thrusting up against him. Jisung hissed, not hiding the hard length in his sweats as he began a sensual roll of his hips to meet mine. I could feel the rough drag of my underwear with each thrust against my clit, the fabric helping to bring me closer to where I wanted to go, but it just wasn’t enough. My hand slid from his hair, nails dragging down his chest, catching lightly at his right nipple through the fabric of his hoodie, causing a deep groan to leave his mouth. My hand continued further down, fingers just beginning to play with the straps of his sweatpants when a sudden loud bubbling noise and water hissing sounded from behind Jisung. 

I gasped withdrawing my hand and sitting up straight to push Jisung off so I could turn the stove off. He stilled my movements, grabbing my hands that pressed into his shoulders, and placing a rushed kiss to my knuckles. He quickly turned, reaching over to flick the dial off. Turning back to me, chest heaving. I must have looked like a mirror-image of him as I tried to calm my own rapid beating heart. My lips felt swollen and neck felt exceedingly warm. There was a steady leak trickling out of me and I clenched my legs to stop it, hands gripping at the ends of my shirt.

“So…”

“Coffee right?” He looked at me with a slight smirk, his eyes playful as he came back towards me, pecking my lips. He pulled back to gaze at me. So many emotions rushing through his eyes that it was hard to focus on any of them, but it all left me feeling warm and sharp pings in my lower stomach. I wanted to rub my thighs together, but a part of me also didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of just how much he affects me. He leaned his hands on either side of me, his face same level as me. His brown eyes were blown wide as he continued to stare at each detail of my face like he was trying to memorize it. I tilted my head, a content smile coming to rest on my face. Oh yea I could definitely get used to this. 

[sameschmidtdiffname]

And now, for some shit ain't nobody asked for... *drumroll please...*

Fanboy Futturman Headcanons That Hardly Make Sense Unless You're Deranged

(because it's fun)

Tags: just rawdog it bruh, idk what this is. I got fucken murmed.

Notes: Special thanks to @luverstream for going insane with me. This list is based off of our oddly specific thread. Love you pookers <3

                        °☆>》¤●¤《<☆°

• 100% started writing fanfiction for 'Biotic Wars' because there was only two works in the whole fandom and they were both illiterate/ooc

• It started as a challenge because he likes writing as a hobby so he made a random account on Tumblr and wrote a one-shot from Tigers POV just for shits and giggles

• He didn't expect literally anyone to read it, maybe a couple notes

• Then around his lunch break the next day his phone won't. Stop. Dinging.

• Long story short, he ends up with an account with like. 1.1k followers

• Once he realizes he has a serious reader base, he takes his blog seriously

• He spends a weird amount of time perfectly curating his blogs aesthetic with mods and whatever extentions he can find

• Personally commissions other fans for his fanfic borders, proper gifs, etc. He has one fanfic actually illustrated for Kinktober and it stays at the top of the 'Biotic War' tags for months

• Speaking of Kinktober, literally will not make plans for October/late September because he knows he's gonna aim to post everyday

• Will stay up for days writing when he gets hyperfixated

• Hates posting short fics. If the number doesn't end with a .k he doesn't post it until it does

• Also has a bunch of Easter eggs from his favorite movies and such in his works as well

• Knows an insane amount of copywrite laws because he's had to deal with people illegally selling his works/uploading them on other platforms

• When he eventually gets a partner he initially lies and says he wanted to become a lawyer when he was a kid, thus why he knows so much

• That works for about 12 minutes before he finally breaks down and tells them the truth, then offers to show them his work because he's told literally no one in his personal life about it

• His partner eventually becomes his editor and co-author on certain works (mainly smut)

• Half the time when he's actively working on smut he's gotta stop midway to "test the accuracy" w/ said partner

• Writes OUTRAGEOUS smut that makes him unable to look in the mirror while he's writing it

• Deadass hides under his blankets in total darkness with tape over his computers camera because of the shame

• Has a collection of proofreaders/consultants because his first smut included cervix penetration and he got dragged by basically everyone on Tumblr for it

• Had a work get popular enough one time one of his friends sent it to him because they figured he'd get a kick out of it

• Which made him panic and stop writing for like a month to lay low

• Has a completely different Spotify account for writing because his mom uses his "normal" account even though he has a family plan (side note: they make little playlists for each other :))

• Has like 50 different playlists dedicated to his fics that's available for his readers to listen to

• The artists all range from Deftones to dodie depending on the work

• His top artist is Ayesha Erotica with 2000+ minutes spent on 'Yummy'

• (Also has an impossible amount of hours logged on said Spotify account)

• Has a whole panic attack when he leaves his phone in the 60s because he had a whole new chapter ready to publish in his 20 part hurt/no comfort/slowburn fic that was over 10.k words in his notes app

• Wolf finds his Ao3 account one time and becomes... concerningly obsessed with Futturmans work without realizing Futturman is the author

• It gets to the point Wolf will legit go on 30+ minute rants about the stories while Futturman is just hyperventilating in the corner because he doesn't know how long he can keep up the facade

• It gets worse when Wolf makes an account and starts actually commenting on the works

• However he ends up getting impressive tips from the rants and ends up incorporating his suggestions into his works

• Wolf never stops bragging about this

• His most popular work/series follows a female oc that originally started as a one-shot request for a oc x Wolf fic (which Wolf hates because he says it's OoC. Futturman does not agree nor care.) But ended up getting popular enough there's well over 20 parts

• At some point he, Wolf and Tiger get into a massive argument because he finds a bound copy of all of his works amongst their supplies and no one will confess who's it is and keep blaming each other

• (It's Tigers)

• When he gets to his final timeline he manages to get his all of his drafts back through Susan (who had a lot of questions, and was given no answers) and just publishes his work as an original series since Biotic Wars no longer exists

• "Orginial series" gets insanely popular and now he has like five burner accounts so he can read fanfiction of his own fanfiction

• Writes fanfiction for his own series purposely to fuck with the fanbase

• Usually will make it ooc but well written, but once in awhile comes up with a "headcanon" that will come true in his next book so he can watch the readers implode

• And last but not least

• He casts his other self in the final timeline as the male lead in the eventual movie adaptation. Because of course he would

(Bonus: in the OG timeline when Futturman ends up disappearing, his biggest series ends up never being finished, nor his blog updated. Leading to a weirdly thorough four hour video docuseries made by Wendigoon about the rise and disappearance of the mysterious author and how the 'Biotic Wars' fandom eventually finished the fic themselves and created their own spinoffs, leading the work to get more popular than 'Biotic Wars' ever was and like five different people falsely claiming they wrote it, only to be disproven within an insanely short amount of time. Yeah, kinda a full on My Immortal.)

                           >¤》○《¤<

Don't ask me what this was, I think I got possessed. Anyways, bon achoo sweet.

Taglist:

@cassiecasluciluce @gh0u1ishly @joshhutchersons-slut @schmidtsbimbo @sugarevans @wompwompwomp57 . Thank you for your support pookies!!! <3

               •▪︎Masterlist▪︎•

[the-most-humble-blog]

“INCEL: WHAT IS A SOUL UNREQUITED?” (The Timeline Curse, The Mirror We Refuse, and the Boy You Were Almost Born As)

What is a soul unrequited?

Is it a joke? Is it a crime? Is it something to mock? To quarantine? To throw memes at until the ache shuts up?

Or is it closer to home than you want to admit?

Let me tell you about the man you call “Incel.”

No, not the Twitter caricature. Not the ragebait headline. Not the avatar yelling on YouTube comment threads.

I mean the real one.

The boy who zigged instead of zagged. The one born two degrees sideways from the version of himself who got the girl, had the kids, kissed the forehead of someone who never looked at him with fear.

In this timeline?

He didn’t get that version.

Maybe his teeth weren’t straight. Maybe his timing was off. Maybe he got bullied one too many times and decided his voice had no safe landing spot, so he stopped using it altogether.

And now?

He watches.

He reads. He scrolls. He listens to sex being talked about like he’s a ghost at the feast.

And when he speaks?

You call him a monster.

But monsters are born with claws. This one was born with hope. And that’s the difference.

He didn’t come into this world to hate. He came to connect. To touch. To build. To be wanted.

But society taught him early:

You are only a man if a woman says you are.

And when none did? He disappeared.

Not violently. Just… invisibly. Internally.

You think he’s not human. That he’s some sad internet creature.

But he’s your classmate. He’s your cousin. He’s your coworker who doesn’t speak during lunch. He’s your brother who used to draw dragons in notebooks before the world told him love was a game he couldn’t afford to lose.

And if you’re a woman?

He’s the man you were taught to fear instead of grieve.

⚠️ You’ve been lied to.

“Incel” isn’t a monster.

It’s a diagnosis.

It’s what happens when a soul is denied mirrored intimacy for so long that its sense of self starts eating itself just to feel something.

And let’s be honest:

Most men are one or two rejections away from that place. And many women are one moment of disillusionment away from it too.

Because “Incel” isn’t a male issue.

It’s a human condition of erotic exile.

To be alive, desiring, aching, and told:

“You’re not just unwanted. You’re dangerous for wanting.”

Where does he go?

Where does that boy put his love when it has nowhere to land?

Where does that man place his instinct when even saying “I’m lonely” gets turned into a threat?

You can’t murder him with mockery. You can’t sterilize him with shame.

Because he’s not some outsider.

He is you. The version you missed by inches. The fork in your own road that could’ve broken the other way.

If you're a man:

He’s the kid you might’ve been had you lost the dice roll.

If you’re a woman:

He’s the classmate who never said a word but loved you harder than the boy who cheated on you in junior year.

If you’re neither:

He’s still human.

Still here.

Still trying to prove he’s more than the silence that shaped him.

So next time you laugh at an “incel” post?

Ask yourself:

“If I was born two minutes later, in a different neighborhood, with a slightly lower jawline… would I be him?”

And if the answer scares you?

Good.

That’s your empathy waking up from the coma culture put it in.

🔁 CALL TO ACTION

💔 Reblog if you’ve ever felt like love was a party you weren’t allowed into.

🧠 Save this if you’ve ever had to lie about how long it’s been since you were touched.

💬 Comment: “He’s not a monster. He’s a version of me.”

🔗 Tag someone brave enough to say: “This one made me feel something I didn’t want to.”

[skyheld]

set after the end of this thread

When the sleeping draught wears off, there's a faint chill sitting at the base of his spine, spreading through the spiderwebs of vessels and nerves into every inch of his being. Hakkon is working his magic again. His heart is beating steadily to send it into every damaged muscle, every weak joint and failing organ; his lungs are drawing air with perfect rhythm. The pain is down to a level where he's grown to expect it, constant but not overwhelming, a reminder of weakness but not a weakness in itself. He turns his head without his neck protesting and finds the infirmary empty, but a plate of food and a teapot kept warm under a towel on the bedside table. There is an orange, already peeled. His heart gives a lurch.

But there is one thing he needs to do before he thinks about anything else.

He spends the day resting. Casadh comes to sit with him, as do some of the others, and he tries to be straightforward about how he feels despite his age-old habit of hiding any discomforts. It gets easier by the fact that he isn't in so much discomfort. He feels... tender, like the hours after a very strenuous activity with the muscles still recovering, but nothing is actively wrong. He feels well enough to join the others for lunch in the dining room and to sit outside reading after. Sometimes he feels Hakkon's consciousness rising within him, as if the war-god would try to talk to him. Ameridan pushes him down. Hakkon puts up a semblance of a fight, but avoids a true battle of wills.

He goes to sleep in his own bed, without a sleeping draught. There will be no dreamless sleep this night. He lies down and closes his eyes—

—and before him is a wintry forest on a steep mountain slope. The trees are dark evergreens with snow weighing their branches, or small birches so narrow and straight they seem like a forest of spears without their leaves. But the snow isn't the pristine white of the newly fallen; it is trampled, muddied and turned pink with blood. A battle has stood here. The slain are nowhere to be seen, but so are the imprints of their bodies in the snow, their bloodied footprints and handprints, their spilled guts.

And their killer, Ameridan assumes, is standing in front of him, with the red slurry of snow up to his ankles.

They still mirror each other. Even in the Fade, in a dream, Hakkon wears his body, his wretched, worn-down body, and Ameridan can see it. In spite of the thick Avvar coat on top of it, in spite of the haughty stance, in spite of the way Hakkon eating for him has filled out his cheeks to how they used to be, he can see it. He looks unwell. Maybe not so unwell as before Hakkon, but not better, either. It has simply changed from plain weariness, allowed to exist, to the immense strain of ignoring it.

His strength is a thin paper, stretched over a fragile frame. He is a ghost before he's even dead.

But he shows none of his discomfort. Instead he lifts his chin and stares his reflection down. "So you have chosen this."

He has never seen Hakkon in this shape before, so it is difficult to read him—but he thinks the war-god seems defensive. More defensive than he has seen him before. "Chosen what?"

"We had an alliance", Ameridan says, his voice flat, his enunciation precise, his expression calm. "You were to keep my body together physically, so that together we could take the up the fight against the Evanuris. You went against those terms. You tried to rewrite our alliance to better suit your own interests."

"I did not—"

"And so now there must be hostility between us." His voice strikes like a lash. "Now I must distrust you on every turn. I must expect you to turn against me again, to change the terms at a whim again. This is what you have chosen."

"I have no intention—"

"Your intention has no bearing. What matters is what you have done."

Hakkon snarls, and snow whirls around them, already speckled with red as though the very sky is bleeding. "I have chosen nothing, changed nothing. I needed to make a point. The Warden would not listen. Next time perhaps they will."

"And what did you choose to make a point with? Me. My body, my pain—"

"Would you have rather I use theirs?"

You should not have used violence at all, Ameridan wants to snap, but this is Hakkon. What else does he have? What else does he know he can do? At times he can see a strategist in him, a leader, even a diplomat—all those things are part of war. But they are tiny specks in the force of destruction, the press of armies, the slaughter on the battlefield.

"You make this into something it is not", Hakkon says, stepping closer. The snow melts into the white streaks of his hair, bleeding some of its old colour back into it. "If there is hostility between us, if there is distrust, then that will be your choice. For me there is no difference."

"You can say that! There is no threat to your well-being, not as long as it is needed for mine!"

"And there is no threat to yours. You were never in danger. I kept a close watch on your heart rate, even though you could not feel me."

The crack of thunder is instant, the lightning freezing them for a moment in time; only then does Ameridan realizes it has gotten dark, and what's falling from the sky is no longer snow but blood-stained ashes He swallows a scream of frustration and fights his anger down with long, deep breaths. He doubts any spirit would dare trespass in Hakkon's part of the Fade, but that is no reason to risk it.

"You do not understand", he says. "And I suppose that is not your fault, because you are a spirit. Pain, of the kind you put me through, is not something I can brush off once it's gone. It is not something I can forget."

"Is it not? You do it all the time."

The snow has melted. Now the blood is black on a thick layer of mud. At his feet a banner lies torn and trampled, bearing the heraldry of some long-dead ciriane house, and around them rises the crumbing walls of a long-besieged city.

He wonders if this is where it began. When people now, in this age, speak of the siege of Cumberland, they only remember that Drakon enlisted the help of mages to break through it, and paved the path for the signing of the Nevarran Accord four years later. They envision a heroic charge through the darkspawn, the emperor at the head of a cavalry attack, the city gates opening for the first time in six years to let the last remaining warrior's out to meet him. They do not know, or understand, seven months of battle before that charge, inching forwards with their dug trenches and their palisades and their camps, pressing the darkspawn further and further up against the walls. They do not know or understand advancing a hundred yards on a good day and coming to the edge of what was once a village, setting up a new perimeter line through an old tavern, breaking through a trapdoor into a cellar to look for foodstuffs preserved for six years and instead finding the villagers, huddled together, a pile of bones surrounded by emptied waterskins.

They will never know losing Little Dread. The dagger that was a mercy because the other option was the taint.

Forgetting pain and weariness and fear, brushing it off—it was necessary then. It was the only means for survival, his and others. He simply never picked it back up.

In the dream, Ameridan brushes a layer of ashes from the front step of the tavern and sits down heavily. "You came to Casadh without my knowledge, while I slept. Because you knew I would not have wanted it."

"What should I have done?" Hakkon asks, kicking at a plank half-buried in the bloodstained mud. It was the sign hanging above the door once, the fanciful lettering cut in half. "You would not have gone had you known."

"You should have asked."

"And gone against your wishes, rather than your knowledge?"

He glares until the other him tosses the plank to the side. "You might as well, do you not? You have shown clearly what you care for my wishes, or my comfort. If they ever become a nuisance to you, you can simply dispose of them."

"You insist on reading it that way?"

"How else should I read it?"

Hakkon shrugs. Ashes are settling on his shoulders, smearing the red across the winter coat. "Is this how you want it then, Inquisitor? Hostility. Distrust. You say I chose it, but I offer you a different choice. I can do no more than that. It is up to you to take it."

Ameridan's eyes narrow. It is a clever deflection. The strategist, the ruthless diplomat at work. He nods as though to acknowledge it and sighs, like one defeated. Hakkon watches him, not convinced, but not anticipating the next step either.

"Casadh says that before you left, before you let go of your control, you stood up", Ameridan says, and as he says it he stands himself, as though to illustrate. "You were sitting down and you stood up so that I would fall. You wanted to cause me pain."

"I wanted to shock them."

"And what did you want to shock them with?"

Silence. The ashes are falling like snow, white and clean.

Hakkon's gaze falls away. "Your pain."

A wind moves lightly through the spruces on the mountainside. And they stand in front of each other, mirrors, old and worn down, as the snow settles on the ground, covering the blood stains.

Ameridan looks into his own face, a face that has seen so much death, so much grief, so much pain. There was a time, not long after their alliance had been established, when he thought he might be able to influence Hakkon in some way, that his spirit might change the other—not into something gentle, never that, but perhaps into something more honourable, something better. There have been times when he has thought it is happening. Times when he has felt Hakkon's magic at work before he's even registered the pain of an enemy's hit, times when he has worried for Casadh and the war-god has assured him they will be fine, they are capable enough.

Now he thinks of how war must stain his soul like ashes. How could he expect him to find honour in the memories of darkspawn? What gentleness is there to rest in among so many graves?

"It does not make you right", he says. "You acted maliciously, and you know it. But I recognize that you treated my body the way I treated it, without regard for my own comfort or health."

Hakkon meets his gaze. It is still hard to read his expression, but it has lost all its bravado. "It was not my intention to change the terms of our alliance. It stands. I want it to stand."

"Then you will respect it?"

"I will." A pause, a flicker of doubt. "Will you listen to the Warden?"

"I will listen to their suggestions."

Hakkon is quiet a moment. Then he lowers his head. He bows, just slightly, as the snow melts in his grey hair. It is not a spoken apology. Maybe it is more a recognition of a game well played.

Ameridan nods once, then turns. As soon as he does the winter forest is gone, and he is awake, blinking into the dark of his room.

[pure-ablution]

Kitty's mega magazine list?

New and old, from all corners of the globe.

Vogue, Tatler, Harper’s Bazaar, Numéro, Point de Vue, Paris Match, Purple, Arterritory, The Idler, Jalouse, Peddler Journal, Madame Figaro, Areté, Communio, Reorient, Current Obsession, Lapham's Quarterly, l’Officiel, Cabana, Falstaff, World of Interiors, Garland, Madame, Դյութէ, Parabola, Archipelago, Fare, The Lamp, Popeye, Apollo, The Scofield, Bidoun, Little White Lies, تندیس, Neue Rundschau, Vestoj, Lunch Lady, JCK, The Gentlewoman, FMR, The Hedgehog Review, Magnifissance, Rigas Laiks (Русское издание), Strange Attractor Journal, Profil, Gnosis, The Peak, Emel, Kunstlicht, Plough Quarterly, خردنامه صدرا, Obscura (HK), Reliquiae, The Fence, N+1, Playboy (for the articles, I’m serious), Revizor, Zyzzyva, The Paris Review, Seismopolite, نامه فرهنگ, EastEast, Dappled Things, London Review of Books, In Situ, The Face, Sufi, Wilder Quarterly, Gramarye, Uppercase, The Point, Connaissance des Arts, Archivist Addendum, قلمرو, La Gazette Drouot, Gastronomica, Mood, Ювелирное обозрение, Minerva, Suitcase, Lula, Modern Age, Orientations, Holiday, Lux, Lares, Театръ, The Field, Magnificat, Weltkunst, (امروز) زنان, Piecework, PpR Journal, Magyar Krónika, Slightly Foxed, First Things, Sinn und Form, Whetstone, Ինքնագիր, A Magazine Curated By, Ambrosia, Abraxas, Merian, Antiquariato, حرفه: هنرمند, Konfekt, بخارا, Elite, Surface, Second Spring, Prestige, Grey, Gafencu, Epicure, Diapason, The World of Fine Wine, BranD, Image, Decanter, Rustica, Aramco World, Kinfolk, Ruminate, Al-Jadid, Luncheon, Noble Rot, Blau International, The New Criterion, Nez, Parnass, Mozgó Világ, Wespennest, Криткика, PPC, Sacred Architecture Journal, Studio International, Gagarin, Country Life, Res Publica Nowa, Seitenblicke, Kunst & Auktionen, Flavour and Fragrance Journal, Springerin, W, Paper, Home & Garden, The Lady, Threads, Eaten, Nők Lapja, Good Housekeeping, Town & Country, Műértő, Lettre International, Diva, The White Review, Table, Frieze, Artforum, Texte zur Kunst, Cartography, Radio Times, e-flux journal, Cabinet, The New York Review of Books, Fashion Studies Journal, Encens, Apartamento, The Gourmand, Parkett, Road to Emmaus, Toothache, The Carton, Merkur, Granta, The Believer, The Threepenny Review, Búvópatak, Selvedge, Embroidery, The Cleaver Quarterly, Divine Ascent, مناظر, Revue des deux Mondes, Monocle, Private Eye, New Eastern Europe, Life, Nest, Architectural Digest, Sacred Web, Servus in Stadt & Land, Steppe, Звезда Востока, Hali, Marg, هيا, VO+, Burlington Magazine, Baku, The Plant, White Fungus, The Alpine Review, Lodestars Anthology, The Weekender, TLS.

Plus all the main auction house magazines, the little zines published by students in my university city, and the journals of the societies I’m in.

[abiiors]

hot chocolate ☕ // matty healy x reader

promptober '23 - day 19

a/n: for all my girlies with the big sad, the cold months approach :/ cw: discussions of mental health, mentions of depression wc: 1.1k

matty has a pit of worry in his stomach. he’s had it for about two days now, for as long as the house has been unusually quiet. he’s alone in their dimly lit kitchen, barely any sunlight streaming in. whatever manages to sneak in through the parting of the clouds, gets diluted by the sheets of rain falling from the sky. 

it’s dull and grey. exactly the kind of weather she hates. 

matty gives the brewing pot of coffee another look and decides on abandoning it. 

he knows what he will see when he walks into the bedroom—she will be in bed, in the same three day old pyjamas, messy and unbrushed hair, “taking a nap”. not that he cares about how she looks. it’s just the niggling pit that doesn’t let him sit still. 

“darling?” he calls from the door, watching for any signs of movement under the duvet. “you awake yet?”

she should be, he thinks to himself. it’s nearly noon. he wants to make them some lunch but she doesn’t move, doesn’t reply to his question. matty gnaws on his bottom lip and walks in. 

“i’m making something for lunch…” he says again, sitting by her side of the bed and resting a hand on her back. matty knows she’s not asleep. her breaths are nowhere near deep and even. 

“i know you’re awake,” he says softly, moving his hand to her forehead, checking for any signs of an illness just in case. but deep down he knows the illness is not physical. 

when matty threads his fingers through her hair, it’s not the usual soft and smooth strands he’s met with. his fingers get caught up in the greasy knots, accidently pulling on some hair. she winces.  

“go away, matty, ‘m not hungry,” she mumbles into the pillow, voice feeble and barely audible. “‘m sleepy.”

he tuts. it’s a lie—if he’s right, and he suspects he is, she hasn’t properly slept in days, tossing and turning at night. and yet she has left the bed only a handful of times in the last few days. 

he’s tried giving her space, to let her sort things out on her own because that’s usually what she prefers. but he draws the line at skipping meals. 

“sleep after lunch,” he counters, and goes to draw the duvet off her. 

it’s not even a moment later that matty fliches, appalled when she slaps away his hand. 

“i said i’m not hungry!” she snaps, turning away from him, cocooning herself further, shut off from him, from the world. 

he stills and for a moment the only sound in the room is that of the rain hammering against the window. it’s haphazard, nowhere near a soothing beat. this rain sounds more like an anxious heartbeat—loud, odd and out of sync. 

then he hears the sniffle and his heart breaks. 

“baby…” he approaches again, trying to at least slide the duvet off her face. “hey, look at me please.” 

he doesn’t care that she snapped at him or slapped his hand away. right now, he cares that something is deeply wrong, and he’s ready to beg if that means she’d tell him. 

“g-go away, matty,” she tries again, tries so hard not to let her voice waver or crack and yet he hears it. 

matty decides enough is enough, and pulls the duvet off her entirely. 

her pyjama top is wrinkled and bunched up around her waist, and if he’s being honest, she smells a little bit but he can take care of that later. showers and perfumes and oils can wait. everything else in the world can wait. 

“i won't,” he declares firmly. “now you can either keep fighting me or you can tell me what’s wrong. either way, i’m staying right here.”

she looks at him through dull eyes that widen slightly with every word, jaw clenched to keep her chin from wobbling even as her eyes turn pink first, then watery until the tears fall one by one. matty doesn’t shush her, he just quietly pulls her into his chest, letting her cry it out. 

“i’m so cold…” she says after a few minutes. her voice is already hoarse, a whispery shadow of what it’s like on the good days. today it’s barely more than a squeak. “so cold. all the time. i just…i’m just so tired, i can’t. i don’t know what to do. and whatever i do, i can’t g-get, can’t get warm.”

she breaks into another round of tears by the time she’s done—loud, gut-wrenching sobs that break his heart but he lets her be. his only job is to be there and hold her. he just needs to be the sun.

“i know what will help,” matty mumbles into her hair, pressing a small kiss to her head. “give me two minutes?”

and he does return two minutes later as promised. matty practically makes a mad dash to and from the kitchen, balancing the mugs in his hands and his socks sliding on the wooden floors around the corner. but the liquid in them stays unscathed. 

“there we go,” he announces as soon as he’s back in the bedroom. a tiny pang goes through his chest when he sees her sitting up in bed, arms hugging her middle. she looks small, smaller than he’s ever seen her. but there’s a miniscule spark of curiosity in her eyes. 

he’ll take that spark. he’ll nurture and rekindle it. 

“chef matty’s hot chocolate,” he presents it with a flourish smiling at her raised eyebrow. 

“i know you said you weren’t hungry and you were cold. so i thought this would be a good compromise?”

for a moment she doesn’t say anything, only takes the mug from him and cradles it close, lets the steam waft over her face. hot chocolate won’t do anything for a cold that goes bone-deep. but it’s a start. he can do the rest of the work. 

“take a sip?” he nudges, sitting back in the same spot as before. he brings his own mug up to his mouth, nudging her to mimic him. together they drink their first sip. 

instant sweetness floods his mouth, comforting warmth creeping down his throat and settling into his stomach. he can only hope it does the same for her. 

and he will be there for the rest of it. for all the cold days that come after this. 

lemme know what you think <33

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add yourself to the taglist

[trickricksblog08]

Holy 🐄💫 This THREAD!!

CNN's @abbydphillip: "There's no evidence Joe Biden was involved in Hunter's business deals."

@mattgaetz: "Are you actually trying to say Joe Biden wasn't involved in Hunter's business deals?"

16 times Vice President Joe Biden met with Hunter's business partners below...👇

🚨Vice President Joe Biden meeting Hunter Biden's foreign business partners.

November 2010: Joe Biden had a sit-down meeting with Eric Schwerin - the president of Hunter's private equity firm - in the West Wing.

November 2011: Joe Biden met with Chris Heinz — a co-founder of Hunter’s private equity firm — in the West Wing.

March 2012: Joe Biden met with Andres Pastrana Arango — the former president of Colombia who Hunter was doing business with — at his personal residence.

December 2013: Hunter flew with Joe Biden aboard Air Force Two to China, where he introduced him to Jonathan Li, a Chinese businessman.

February 2014: Joe Biden had lunch with Hunter and two of Hunter’s Mexican business partners and was pictured giving them a tour of the White House.

June 2014: Joe Biden met Manuel Estrella — Hunter’s Latin American business associate. After the meeting, Estrella emailed Hunter: “Hunter, I just met your father! So exciting!” Hunter replied: “I'm glad it all finally came together.”

August 2014: Pictures show Joe Biden golfing with his son, Hunter, and Devon Archer while they were both serving on the Burisma board.

April 2015: Joe Biden attended a dinner in Washington, D.C., with Hunter’s business partners from Russia, Ukraine, and Kazakhstan.

[slut-for-sterek-and-thiam]

I've had this idea for an autistic Scott McCall AU thing for months, and I have all these ideas. I'm not sure where to go with them, but I'll list a few here and maybe I can come up with more solid stuff later.

Imagine, for example, being able to detect the lies of even those trained in controlling their heartbeats because he's just that sensitive to sound.

Or imagine him having this "if it doesn't seem like it'll help, i'm not doing it" attitude that extends even to shifting under extreme duress. Like he's being electrocuted Derek-Hale-style, and they're trying to see how far they can push him to induce a shift, and he's just . . . not shifting. The hunters are wondering wtf is wrong and if maybe he's not a werewolf after all, but if any of them bother to just ask him what's going on he's all "would it help me get out of this? no? then why would i do it? you're not making sense." and they're just like "how tf are you even doing that? it's not supposed to be voluntary." And then he does shift, but only like . . . the middle finger or something. "there, you happy?"

I have more, but I gotta get to bed so I'm at least a little bit lucid for my lunch plans. It felt good to get some of my preliminary thoughts down. I'll write more later about other characters and some of the plot threads I'm thinking of(like making the Anuk-Ite the villain that pushes Scott into "true alpha" status - something about bravery being about being afraid but doing the right thing anyway).

I dunno what I'd call this Au tbh, but I think Scottistic sounds stupid so I'd probably go with something like Dis/Connected or In/Sensitive.