#the first rule of the weave is not to talk about the weave

[vyncentevelyn]

I am Jack’s Netherese Orb.

[inthelittlewood]

Questions about Eyes And Ears AU

I had somebody ask for a brief interview regarding my storytelling for their university project and thought I'd lend a hand.

I thought those of you that follow the story might like the insight too, so here ya go:

When you first introduced the Listeners in Evo SMP, did you have a broader narrative or concept in mind, or were they more of an atmospheric element at that point?

The honest answer is that I didn't want to write too much about somebody else's character(s), that being Grian's Watchers. If I could write the conflict from the side of the Listeners then we could continue the narrative with a pre-designed opposing force but have them be relatively mute for the most part. Partly to build anticipation of when they might act or retaliate but it also worked for behind the scenes purposes too. If the series hadn't slowed/stopped as suddenly as it did, I definitely would have poked Grian to pick his brain about what story elements fit his original imagining of the Watchers. So it was mostly narrative reasoning but they also served a mechanical behind the scenes purpose of transporting us to a new area which was necessary due to bugs we'd encountered with world gen etc.

What inspired you to flesh out the Eyes and Ears AU more in recent years? Was that mostly a personal creative decision, or was it influenced by fan interest?

Honestly I hadn't premeditated too much their reintroduction into anything that I was working on. Sure I'd seen a little chattering here and there about the Watchers but I honestly just wanted to write an individual story beat (albeit a tropey one) of c!Martyn snapping and turning on Ren but that never came to fruition due to Scar taking us out. The plan was always to backstab Ren then say a cool line like "Red Winter is over, Red Spring has begun" or something else punny. Seeing the fevered reaction of the audience though gave me some confidence that I could try my hand at some layered or entirely post-production storytelling, so heading into Last Life I was all guns blazing.

The Eyes and Ears AU is quite open-ended — do you intentionally approach it with the idea of leaving narrative space for fan interpretation?

It really is right? Yes, it's a very mindful decision to leave it open-ended but not so much for the audience's benefit or interpretations, but to give myself creative freedom to take the story wherever I'd like to. Committing to too many power scale, multiverse or narrative shackles early can really strangle stories I've noticed (from reading comics and manga) meaning back pedalling or aggressive retcons are required to explore certain paths, which is rarely a good experience for the reader. I do enjoy their versatility and capability to be applied to any Minecraft or adjacent story too. Some might call it too broad, I call it malleable.

How do you feel about fans expanding the lore through headcanons and theories? Have any fan interpretations stood out or surprised you?

I think it's brilliant! People inundate my inbox on Tumblr seeking permission to write stories or create characters / AUs but I've literally no authority on that. I suppose it might be a different conversation if they were profiting off of those works, but 99% of people simply want to write for fun which I highly encourage!! I'll be honest that I haven't read a great deal of AUs or headcanons, my exposure to them is mostly via chat messages during lore talk streams or questions that come through regarding the Eyes And Ears AU. As a general rule I try to avoid reading too much of other people's works on the topic because I worry I'll accidentally regurgitate it in some way then stumble into plagiarism, you know? It's why I focus more on digesting stories outside the fandom whether it's manga, Sanderson books, reading old Japanese folk tales and the like. I can source inspiration from those on how to weave narrative and execute plot twists without having to glance in my front yard.

Has fan content (art, theories, animatics, etc.) ever influenced how you think about or approach the AU?

Oh for sure they have. It's literally why after every season we'll do a sit down stream and talk about the lore in detail. Figure out the puzzle and potential trip wires of plot points from the episodes and how we can neatly pack them into the pre-existing story. A lot of people wouldn't do that as they'd be precious about their work and believe their opinion is th only correct one, but I looooove soundboarding with the audience on it. I also take that mindset in game and sometimes think about the scenery of an impactful moment whenever I'm able to control / design it. I'll have little quips or quotes cooked in my mind for how I'd ideally deliver a blow or plot twist, buuuuut given the nature of the Life series you very rarely get to execute things how you'd like haha! I definitely wouldn't have done as many of the poems had their not been such a positive reaction to those. I often see individual lines or entire passages make their way into art pieces as typography or highlighted in animatics which is really gratifying. It's why I also put such an emphasis and priority on audio production in my editing. If I can craft something that feels atmospheric, driving and punctuating with music, staggering vocals or sound effects then the auditory portion is already done, they can focus solely on the visual aspect of things. I try and be as cinematic / TV like as my skillset allows for that reason.

You’ve mentioned trying not to fully canonise the AU, but still referencing it consistently — how do you balance telling your own story effectively, while trying not to involve other creators, particularly on the Life Series, when a lot of your time is spent in a group?

The easiest way to do this, is to not do it. For the most part the only storytelling done with the AU is done in post-production. I never name drop the Watchers or Listeners in world (believe me, I was as surprised as all of you when I saw that Secret Keeper statue in Secret Life!!) and in recent seasons they haven't even reared their head as an influence whatsoever. They're on holiday, they deserve it. But when they do whisper in my ear, they're motivated decisions that I would likely make as a player/character anyway because the win objective is always the thing I'm striving towards. I can just pepper angst around it to make things seem more manipulated rather than selfish ha. I think that's why the open ended nature of the Watchers has served me well because as much as they have a singular motive which is to feed on negative emotions, that can be achieved in so many ways ranging from bloodlust to deception, heartbreak to panic. It's versatile for storytelling. It can be in your face, or a slow burn.

What do the Watchers and Listeners represent to you, symbolically or narratively? Do they serve a specific function in the stories you tell?

The Watchers used to represent the audience when Grian first introduced them, but after departing EVO I've definitely breathed more of an egotistical and sinister air into them. They're very much a unique entity / faction now, they in some ways represent gluttony, selfishness and neglect in achieving their goals. The Listeners on the other hand, are a lot of the opposite traits, but I'm still wanting to explore how being the hard end of most conflicts can be dangerous. I want to explore that at some point, whether it be with infighting or failures. They shouldn't be seen as simply bad/good, they're just, different. It shouldn't be too hard navigating that nuance but I want it to reflect elements and motives that we find in our own lives.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Small

Arsenal Women x Teen!Reader

Summary: You just want to play

You try to catch her eyes, bobbing and weaving on the bench to just get the smallest hint of eye contact.

She does a very good job of pointedly avoiding your gaze.

Next to you, Vic smothers her laughter.

You pay her no mind, trying to catch your mother...no, your manager's eyes.

She's not your mother when she's coaching or at least that's what she always says.

"Your time will come," Lia says from your other side with just a hint of amusement," Renée would be a fool not to sub you on at some point. It'll come. It's still the first half. Give her time."

But patience has never exactly been your strong suit. Impatient was your trademark, always ready and raring to go and always annoyed when other people weren't the same way.

You try to act casual at half time, leaning against the door of the locker room as you wait for your manager to arrive.

"No," Renée says easily when she catches sight of you.

"But-"

"No," She repeats," Not yet. We'll see how the second half will go and then I'll think about it."

You groan. "You never have to think about it with Kyra!"

"Kyra isn't a sixteen year old menace who thinks she's much taller than she actually is."

"I don't think I'm taller than I actually am! And...And Kim's small!"

"And Kim also doesn't try to pick fights with people almost double her height. You need to actually be able to play, menace, not just try to bulldoze the tallest person you see."

Your mouth opens and closes a few times but you come to find that you don't actually have a comeback for that one.

You are kind of small and you do tend to pick fights with people much taller and much stronger than you actually are. But that's not really your fault. If given more time, you're sure you could twist your behaviour into an excuse for standing up for yourself or something similar.

"But you'll definitely think about? Like you actually will and you're not just saying that?"

Renée sighs. "Your mother won't be very happy with me if she tunes in and sees you playing against someone like Renard."

You grin cheekily. "But Mum isn't here and you're not beholden to her rules? Because you're the manager and you'll do what's good for the team? And you know I can absolutely ball out in midfield if you let me?"

Renée rolls her eyes, lightly bumping you with her shoulder. "We'll see how the second half goes and if you don't complain, maybe I'll sub you on."

You grin to yourself as you finally slip into the locker room, sitting down in your cubby and reaching over across Alessia to snag some of the mini cookies Kyra's eating.

"What's got you so happy?"

"Mama said she'll think about subbing me on if the second half goes well."

Alessia snorts. "She's not too scared of your Mum to back out this time?"

Your face turns red surprisingly quickly. "It was one match! And she said sorry after!"

Kyra giggles, hand reaching out to pinch at your cheeks. "Are you sure you don't want to stick to the bench? Maybe we can find some cotton wool to wrap you in?"

"Leave me alone!" You bat her hand away.

It wasn't exactly something you liked talking or even thinking about. You didn't like the team bringing it up.

The way you were coddled that is.

You'd moved over to Arsenal's Academy when the family moved over from Sweden when your Mama got her job as Jonas' assistant coach. It's not exactly that you got in because of who she was because you were already in an academy in Sweden but Arsenal didn't make you do a trial or anything to join them.

It was only a matter of time before you joined the senior team but that was a bit awkward at first, the rest of the team unsure of how hard they were allowed to go with you in training when Renée was on the outskirts supervising.

They relaxed into it, of course, but those first few months this season had been awkward and now that they'd seen how Renée was only willing to play you against low ranked teams, the teasing about being coddled had never worn off.

Your height hadn't exactly helped in that matter. All it did was give Renée an excuse to not play you against good teams with height on their side.

But you wanted this. You wanted Champions League football and you wanted to play now.

You're between Vic and Lia again on the bench when half time finishes, head still bobbing and weaving like it would make Renée sub you on any quicker.

She meets your gaze a few times but her eyes give nothing away.

Eventually, Vic leaves your side grab a drink and you stubbornly cross your arms over your chest.

"This is so unfair."

"Are all sixteen year olds as dramatic as you?" Lia muses idly," You don't have to play this match, you know. It's not a bad thing. You're still a kid."

You bite at your cheek to keep silent.

You don't want to admit why you're so desperate to play this match. You don't want to admit why you're so desperate to show off your skills against an elite opponent and, bar Barcelona, Lyon was as elite as it got.

There's Dutch girls on both teams. The same Dutch girls that could potentially be going to the Euros in the summer.

You want to be one of them.

You want to represent the Netherlands in Switzerland this summer. You want to represent your country like your Mama once did.

But you don't want to say it out loud. Because that makes it real. That means your teammates will be looking at you differently. Renée will look at you differently.

You don't want her to be disappointed if you don't make the team.

So you don't voice your wants and you hope and you pray that you're being watched by the Netherlands coaching staff just like you're hoping and praying that you'll get subbed on today.

And then your time comes.

You rush through a warm up and wait for Frida to come off, slapping your palms against hers as you head onto the pitch.

Blood roars in your ears, a steady pumping sound as you jostle around in the box against people nearly double your age and your height.

They practically dwarf you but you're scrappy, twisting and turning and sending the person behind you in the complete opposite direction.

The ball comes in from a corner and then goes flying back up into the air.

Someone jams their whole body weight into your shoulder and you fight to stay upright.

Your head whips up to track the ball and somehow you find yourself in the middle of the group.

There's barely enough space to do anything but somehow your leg extends out.

Your leg extends out and you kick the ball on the volley.

It's like slow motion.

Your touch is a little off, under pressure and acting on instinct, so the ball doesn't quite go where you want it to.

Because it rattles the crossbar, bouncing over the line and into the goal.

You're sprinting to the corner flag before you even realise it, grabbing and shaking it as the excitement bubbles up out of you.

Arms close around your legs and you're lifted up into the air.

Leah's the one holding you, bouncing a little bit as you laugh and try to keep your balance.

"Come on!" Someone else cheers in joy next to you towards the fans, Steph, you think.

Adrenaline pumps through you as Leah finally sets you down onto your feet again. There's head pats and laughter and you're panting like you've run a marathon.

You feel like you've been running for your life with the amount of adrenaline and endorphins running through your system.

There was no doubt throughout the second half that Arsenal would be going to the final.

Your goal in the dying minutes of the match was just the cherry on top.

Through the celebrations, you chance a glance over at the bench.

Renée stands in front of it, the widest smile on her face and you find yourself settling.

"Come on," You laugh with your teammates as they give you head pats and ruffle your hair," We've still got another minute left. Let's just see this one out."

[wooyoungiewritings]

Sports Car - Jung Wooyoung x Reader

Inspired by the song "Sports Car" by Tate McRae

"I think you know what this is"

Summary: You run from your life for the summer. No plans, no promises, just the hunger for something reckless. And then you see him. Jung Wooyoung. He’s everything you're chasing: fast cars, faster nights, and a smile that dares you to misbehave. He races like he’s got nothing to lose and looks at you like you’re the next line he’s ready to cross. But the more you get tangled in each other’s lives, the more you realize, rules don’t mean shit when you’re both the type to break them. And now? You’re not sure what’s more dangerous: the races… or the way he looks at you.

Word count: 26.6K

Genre: Street racer!Wooyoung x reader, oneshot, angsty, drama, smut

warnings: Wooyoung with reader (fem pronouns), smut, fem reader (fem pronouns), blood mentioned, angst about disappearing, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, choking, unprotected sex, Wooyoung is dominant, lmk if I missed anything!

A/N: I have not read this through so I hope it's good! someone requested a wooyoung-fic where he isn't this "usually bubbly" character, and I had so much fun writing him as a tease but with an edge to it! literally I think he's so hot lmao, I love him. Enjoy pookies!!!

The rooftop is already humming when you step out of the elevator, heat clings to your skin, music spills into the open sky, and a blur of voices laughs like nothing in the world could touch them. You haven’t planned on coming tonight. You didn’t even come here to have fun. You came here to forget. To get out. To breathe without everything collapsing on top of you.

Back home, everything had started unraveling. Bills stacked on the counter, messages piling in that you didn’t want to read, expectations pressed into your skin so tightly they’d left bruises. People needed things from you. Constantly. Quietly. And if you slowed down for even a second, the whole system started to fail.

So you ran.

You packed a bag, booked a one-way plane ticket, and told everyone it was a “short break.” A getaway for the entire summer. You didn’t tell them that the idea of staying one more day in that life made your stomach twist into knots.

Now you’re here.

A few days into your stay in this town, visiting your cousin, living in a random Airbnb you just managed to afford. Here, no one knows what you’re running from. And for the summer, that’s exactly the point.

“Holy shit, you actually came.” your cousin’s voice snaps you back. She weaves through a group of people and pulls you into a loose, alcohol-warm hug. “I was starting to think you chickened out.”

You offer a weak smile. “You said there’d be tequila.”

“There’s also gin, cheap beer, and a guy puking off the fire escape. We have everything.” She shoves a cup into your hand and links your arms, dragging you into the heat.

You force a laugh and let her drag you toward her friends. The usual suspects. Half of them you met last weekend. The other half look like they belong in a music video, glossed lips, messed-up curls, tattoos they’d lie about the meaning of. Music thuds through the speakers. A girl danced barefoot on a bench with glitter in her hair and zero fear in her eyes.

You want to be her. You want to be anything but yourself for a while.

You’re halfway through your first drink when something, someone, catches your eye.

Not from the center of the party. From the edge. Leaning against the low wall like he belonged to another world. Half-lit by the string lights overhead. One boot hooked over the other. A cigarette hanging from his lips, the orange tip flaring each time he breathes.

His jacket is black, leather, worn in like a second skin. He wears it open over a faded black shirt that clings to his chest in the heat. His hands, veins, rings, knuckles, looked like they knew how to break things. Dark hair curled around his ears like he hadn’t bothered to style it. And his face? Unbothered.

He isn’t looking at anyone. Not watching. Not performing. Just existing.

Your cousin follows your gaze, and when her eyes land on him, then roll her eyes before her expression shifts into something like caution. “Yeah,” she says, low. “That’s Wooyoung.”

You blink. “Who?”

She gives you a look. “You haven’t heard about him?”

You shake your head, eyes drifting back to the guy in question.

Another friend chimes in, voice already tipsy: “He’s bad news.”

“He’s been here forever,” your cousin says. “Born reckless. Drives like a lunatic. Hooked up with half the people on this roof and ghosted the rest.”

“Wrecked his car last year racing out by the docks,” someone else adds, cracking open a beer. “Didn’t even flinch. Climbed out with blood on his hands and laughed.”

You glance at him again. He just tips the bottle to his lips, throat working, cigarette still balanced between his fingers like a forgotten afterthought. His jaw is sharp, and the curve of his mouth looks like it only knows how to smirk or sneer. And when his eyes scan the room, they land on you.

It’s not subtle.

He watches like he’s already bored of the outcome, like he knows exactly what happens when he looks at someone long enough. Like he’s already counted to three and you’re about to fall.

But you hold his stare. You don’t smile. Don’t flinch. Let him look. 

And then you look away.

Your cousin touches your arm. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re so thinking about it.”

You turn away, take another drink, and try to pretend you don't feel that pull. That spark. That quiet ache for something reckless.

But you do. And you’re not here to be safe.

A little later you drift away from the group. You feel him before you see him. You glance sideways and he’s already there, leaning a little too casually against the cooler, cigarette behind one ear, that reckless grin barely tugging at his mouth like he’s doing you a favor by showing up.

Wooyoung.

Even if you didn’t already hear whispers about him, the kind that circle like smoke, you’d know. You’d know by the way he moves like he owns the room without touching it. The kind of man who thinks he doesn’t need to ask.

“You look like you could use another,” he says, chin-tilting toward your near-empty cup. “Let me grab you one.”

You don’t answer at first. You just look at him. Not up or down, not obvious, but right in the eyes. He’s used to curiosity, flirtation, maybe even awe. You give him something else.

Nothing.

And then, a soft, almost polite: “No.”

His smile quirks. “You sure?”

“Very.”

He laughs under his breath, gaze dipping once, quick. “Tough crowd.”

You don’t smile. You don’t frown either. Just turn slightly toward the bar, like you’ve already dismissed him. “I’m not thirsty,” you add. Cool. Flat.

He shifts closer, not enough to crowd, just enough to be felt. “What about a ride, then? Later. I could show you around. You new here, right?”

You blink up at him, head tilting like you’re thinking. For half a second, you let him think you might say yes. And then…

“No again.” You take a sip from your cup, slow. Letting the silence linger between you as you let him try to read you. You smile then, just the corners of your lips, like a secret he doesn’t get to know. “Thanks, though,” you murmur, already turning away. You walk back into the crowd, eyes ahead, leaving behind the heat of him, the weight of his stare burning a hole into your back.

It’s late now. The rooftop has thinned, half the crowd gone, music lower, conversations quieter, messier. You’re near the edge again, drink long gone, and the sky bleeding into deep navy when you feel him behind you.

You don’t turn. You wait.

“You always say no that easy?” he says, and the way his voice grazes the shell of your ear makes your spine straighten just slightly.

You turn then, slow, like it costs you nothing. And there he is. His mouth is quirked like he’s in on some joke, but his eyes are sharp, focused entirely on you. He’s even prettier up close. Prettier in the way knives are, sharp and gleaming and made to draw blood.

“I’m heading out,” he adds, casual. Like this is nothing. Like you’re just another option. “Want a ride?”

You want to get in his car. Want to see how fast he drives when there’s no one telling him to slow down. You want to feel the engine roar under your feet, his voice slick in your ear, want to taste what danger actually feels like when it’s not a metaphor.

But you also want to see what he’ll do when he doesn’t get what he wants the first time. So you take a beat. Let the silence stretch. Your gaze drags down his body and back up again, slow enough to make sure he feels it. Then you look him dead in the eye.

“Maybe.”

You don’t wait for his reaction. You just turn, hips swaying, and make your way back to your friends. And you feel his eyes on your back the entire walk across the roof.

It’s late. The party’s over. The rooftop has emptied, music cut off mid-song, and everyone’s filtered into rides or rideshares or stumbled off into the night together.

“Text me when you get home, alright?” your cousin says, pulling you in for a quick hug before she disappears into the uber with the last of the stragglers.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble, waving her off as the door shuts behind her and they drive off.

And just like that, the noise is gone. The music. The bodies. Now it’s just you. Quiet. Cool night air on your bare legs. Streetlights blinking over cracked sidewalks. You check your phone, four minutes until your Uber. You lean back against the brick wall. 

And then you hear it.

That engine.

It purrs low, like a warning or a promise, and you look up just as the black sports car pulls up to the curb. Same matte finish. Same cocky presence. He’s behind the wheel, of course he is, one arm slung lazily over the door, dark hair ruffled, eyes hidden under his lashes like he’s still half-bored, half-waiting.

Your stomach twists. In a good way. You were hoping he’d try again.

But you don’t show it. You keep your expression smooth, brows lifted just slightly in mock surprise.

“Y’know,” he says, voice deep and seemingly unbothered. “for someone who says no so much, you sure know how to look like someone who would say yes.”

You smirk. “For someone who hears no so much, you sure keep trying.”

That gets a glint of something behind his eyes, not offense. Amusement. Maybe even respect.

You check your phone again. Two minutes.

He nods at it. “Uber?”

“Mhm.”

“Cancel it,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’ll drive you.” He studies you, slowly. 

“You’ve had alcohol.” you say.

“I’ve had one beer, correct. I can still drive,” He leans back in his seat, one finger tapping on the steering wheel like he’s deciding how long to wait. “One of these times, you’re gonna say yes.”

You glance at the street. Then back at him. “Maybe.” You keep your voice light. But the way your heart skips when he licks his bottom lip like he’s already imagining what maybe might mean?

“So now what? You’re just gonna go home safe and sound to your own bed?”

You shrug, not quite meeting his eyes. “Safe’s not exactly what I’m after.”

He laughs softly, the sound like gravel sliding over glass. “Good. Because I’m not about safe.” He gestures to the passenger seat. “Get in. I’m taking you somewhere that doesn’t care about safe.”

You hesitate a moment, “You don’t even know my name.”

His smirk deepens, eyes glinting with something dangerous. “We’ll talk about that in the car.”

You glance back at your phone, then to the dark leather interior of the car where he waits, the door cracked open like an invitation. The night hums around you, the promise of escape, the thrill of the unknown.

And for the first time since you got here, you do the first reckless thing. You push yourself off the brick wall, reach out, fingertips grazing the door handle, and slide inside.

The door shuts behind you with a soft, final thud, and in that instant, everything feels different. The engine comes alive under his hand, a low purr that vibrates up through the floorboards and settles in your spine. He shifts into drive with a lazy flick of his wrist and pulls into the street like he owns it. The silence stretches, thick and full, like the pause between lightning and thunder.

One minute, it’s neon signs and sirens and people yelling from balconies. The next, it’s just open road, the dark curling around you like smoke. He didn’t say where you’re going, and you didn’t ask. Maybe that’s part of it. You came here to stop asking questions.

He drives like he was born with a steering wheel in his hands, fast, aggressive, but never reckless. You glance at him. One hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over the gearshift. Long fingers, silver rings. 

You stare longer than you mean to.

He notices. He doesn’t look at you, but you feel it, some part of him clocking your gaze. He smirks, like he likes being watched. “You’re quiet,” he says, finally.

You glance at him. “I don’t really know where we’re going.”

“That’s the point.”

The lights of the city are long gone now, swallowed behind the bend of a hill. When he pulls off the road, your stomach dips.

The tires crunch against gravel as he eases the car up a narrow path that looks like it was never meant to be driven. Your fingers twitch where they rest in your lap, but you don’t ask him to stop. You want to see where this leads.

Then the road opens up.

It’s not a lookout point. There’s no fence, no benches, no other cars. Just a slab of cracked asphalt at the edge of a cliff, a wide, feral view of the city lights flickering far below. Wind rushes against the windshield. The drop is sharp. Dangerous.

Exactly what you wanted. He kills the engine and the silence rushes in. You don’t move. Neither does he. Finally, he says, “Scared of heights?”

“No,” you breathe.

“Perfect” He’s already looking at you. That cocky, knowing tilt to his mouth again. Like he’s testing what scares you. Like he wants to find the exact line you’ll make him cross.

“So,” he says. “What do I call you when I make you regret getting in my car?”

You don’t flinch. You meet his stare, steady. “Y/N.”

He lets it settle, your name on his tongue. Rolls it once, like he’s tasting it. “Y/N,” he repeats. “Fitting.”

You tilt your head. “And you? I don’t like calling strangers ‘guy who doesn’t know when to quit.’”

That grin flashes, quick and crooked. “Wooyoung.”

You hum. “Mm. That one’s fitting too.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Saturated. His eyes don’t leave you, dark, focused, hungry. You should look away, but your pulse is a drumbeat behind your ribs, and you want him to see it. You want him to know it’s because of him.

“You always stare at people like that?” you ask.

His voice is lower now, more deliberate. “Only when I want something from them.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what is it you want from me?”

His tongue traces the edge of his bottom lip. “The obvious answer?”

You nod, slow. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I want you in my lap, messing up my hair, moaning my name like it’s the only thing you know.”

The words slam into you, blunt, confident, filthy. Your throat tightens around your breath, your legs press together without thinking.

He sees that too.

But you don’t back down. You raise your chin, hold his gaze like it’s a challenge. “You say that to all the girls you drive out here?”

Wooyoung leans in, just slightly, enough that his voice hits deeper, lower. “Nah. Most of them don’t make me work for it.”

There’s something raw in the way he says it, unapologetic, shameless. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing and doesn’t care if you do too. He doesn’t play pretend. He doesn’t flirt to charm. He flirts to ruin.

You don’t move. Don’t look away. The cliff below disappears into a blur, the city glows like it doesn’t even know you left. It’s just you and him, and the space between you that’s shrinking by the second. “I want to stop thinking,” you say, voice low, steady. “That’s why I got in your car.”

Wooyoung’s eyes darken slightly. The smirk fades, replaced with something quieter. Sharper.

You keep going. “I want to stop caring. Stop worrying about the next thing, the smart thing, the right thing. I just want to shut everything off for a while.”

He’s still, like he knows not to interrupt.

“And you…” you look at him then, all dark eyes and bad decisions, his hand loose on the steering wheel like he’s not even pretending to care about control. “You seem like the kind of guy who doesn’t ask for consequences. Or commitment.”

His tongue swipes the inside of his cheek, and he exhales a soft laugh. “That obvious?”

You shrug, but there’s a glint in your eye. “Kind of your whole thing, isn’t it?”

He leans in a little more, elbow on the door, body turned toward you now. “So you want to do something reckless?”

“I got in your car, didn’t I?”

That gets a reaction, a slow grin, one side of his mouth curling with pure, unfiltered interest. “I don’t make promises,” he says. “I don’t do rules, or tomorrow. But if you want tonight, no strings, no pretending, just the rush-”

“I do.”

Two words. Honest. Simple. And you don’t look away when you say them.

He leans closer, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Then come here.”

You don’t hesitate this time. You crawl across the seat without a word, knees brushing the leather, breath catching when your thigh grazes his. When you settle in his lap, his hands find your hips instantly, grounding you, greedy. 

“You sure?” he murmurs, and it’s not hesitation, it’s courtesy, like giving you a final out he already knows you won’t take.

You slide your hands into his hair, fingers threading through the dark mess of it. “Don’t ask again.”

That’s all he needs.

He surges forward, and your mouths crash together like the tension had teeth. There’s nothing soft about it. His tongue finds yours without asking, and you meet him head-on, like you’ve wanted this since the second you saw him flick ash from his cigarette.

He tastes like trouble, smoke and whiskey and a little bit of adrenaline, and you can’t get enough. His hand slides up your back, under your shirt, dragging warm fingertips along your spine. You arch into it.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, like he didn’t expect you to kiss like this, to move like this. He bites your bottom lip, just enough to make you gasp, and then kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s chasing something down in your throat.

“God, you feel good,” he groans, hips rolling up into yours, and you grind down in answer. The car creaks slightly under the weight of you both, the windows fogging, your breaths too loud in the silence of the hill.

This isn’t careful. It isn’t pretty. It’s fast and messy and hot. 

You kiss him like you’re starving, because in a way, you are. Not for romance or sweet nothings. For chaos. For heat. For the perfect, destructive distraction that he is. Wooyoung’s hands roam like he has every right. Under your shirt, up your thighs, gripping like he’s trying to leave fingerprints. The center console digs into your thigh, but you don’t care. 

“Take this off,” he mutters, tugging at your top.

You obey, quick and clumsy, flinging it to the passenger seat. His eyes rake over you, your bra, your breathless expression, your flushed skin. He drags his hands up your stomach slowly, deliberately.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. Then he leans in, pressing a trail of kisses from your collarbone to the swell of your breast, tongue flicking out just enough to make your breath hitch. “You like being bad, don’t you?”

You laugh, barely. “I like not thinking.”

He grins, dark and cocky. “Good. ‘Cause thinking’s the first thing I’ll take from you.”

One hand unhooks your bra. The other grips your ass, pulling you harder against him. He dips his head, mouth latching onto your breast, sucking until you arch into him, fingers tangled in his hair. Your moan breaks out sharp, raw.

“Fuck,” you whisper, because this is already more than you expected, hotter, filthier, better. You reach down between you, fingers touching him over his jeans. He’s hard. Big. Thick. You wrap your hand around the shape of him, and he groans, deep in his chest.

“What do you want me to do to you?” he asks, placing wet kisses on your skin.

“I don’t care, just make me come.” you breathe against his jaw, licking just beneath his ear.

Wooyoung adjusts the seat back slightly, giving you space but not distance. The second time you roll your hips against him, it’s not slow. It’s shameless. You moan, not even trying to hide it.

One of his hands leaves your waist. It trails down your stomach, smooth and slow. He slips it under your skirt like he’s done it a thousand times, no hesitation, no asking, just confident fingers dragging over your heat until you gasp and grab tighter at his hair.

“God, look at you,” Wooyoung murmurs, breath hot against your ear. “Already falling apart.” He rolls the windows down halfway, lazy, casual. The breeze slips in, cool against your skin. You realize what he’s doing, letting the night hear you. Letting the whole city know who you’re moaning for.

Cocky bastard.

“You want to be loud for me?” he whispers against your jaw, fingers teasing your folds, slipping between them with perfect pressure. “Want to let them hear how good I make you feel?”

Your body tenses, eyes fluttering shut, breath caught on a moan as his fingers slip inside you, deep, slow, fucking up into you with confidence.

You grind down against his hand, head falling back. “Wooyoung…”

He growls. Literally growls.

“That’s it. Just like that.”

You’re sitting on his lap, backlit by the city, your skin bathed in moonlight and sin. Your shirt and bra are long gone, tossed somewhere into the passenger seat, your skirt barely hiding anything. You’re undone, flushed and panting, his fingers buried deep inside you, and he can’t look away.

He exhales sharply, like he just got hit. “Jesus,” he mutters, but it’s not a prayer, it’s a celebration. 

You grind against his hand shamelessly, your head tipping back as you let the sounds escape your throat. You don’t care if the city hears. You hope it does.

And neither does he. His free hand cradles your jaw, forces you to look at him, and you do. Eyes glassy, lips parted, your breath catching as his fingers curl just right again. You cry out, and he grins, proud, possessive. “That’s it.”

He leans forward to press his mouth against your chest, sucking a bruise into the soft curve beneath your breast, biting down just enough to make you twitch. “Louder,” he murmurs, tongue trailing hot and slow along your skin. “Let them hear how good I make you feel.”

The windows are down, the night air hitting your flushed skin, but you’re burning up. On fire from the inside out. And just when you think you’re going to tip over the edge…

“Come for me, pretty girl,” he whispers, eyes wild. “C’mon, I want to feel it.”

That’s all it takes.

You fall apart with a cry, nails dragging down his chest, hips grinding helplessly into his palm as he works you through it, as if he could drag it out longer just because he can. You ride his hand until you’re limp and breathless, your head falling forward onto his shoulder. Wooyoung keeps his hand there, holding you open, feeling you twitch around nothing as you come down.

You’re still panting, slumped against his chest, the city lights flickering behind you like a dream. You’ve never felt so raw. So wrecked.

So alive.

He finally slides his fingers out of you, slow, wet, deliberate, and lifts them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a smirk.

“Sweet,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Knew you’d taste like trouble.”

He leans back slightly to look at you, the glow of the city behind your head like a halo.

And fuck if you aren’t the most dangerous thing he’s ever seen.

***

You don’t even remember how you got home after that night. One minute you’re burning against him, the next you’re in your bed, shirt crumpled in your hands, the city’s glow bleeding through your curtains. He drove you back, fast, silent, like the night didn’t want to hear you talking. No promises. No phone numbers. Exactly what you wanted.

No strings. No ties.

Just that raw escape from everything that’s expected of you. 

A few days later your cousin’s car sputters its last breath three blocks from the apartment, and now you’re both standing in the office of a mechanic’s garage, listening to the buzz of fluorescent lights and the low rumble of hip-hop from the back.

“You guys take walk-ins?” your cousin asks the man at the front desk.

“Depends who’s free,” the guy says, barely glancing up before he clicks a button and mutters into the intercom. “Yo, someone’s gotta check this Corolla in bay two.”

You almost don’t register the sound of footsteps behind the garage door. Almost. It swings open, and he walks in like it’s any other day. Black t-shirt, grease-stained hands, that same smug posture, lazy, lethal confidence in every step.

Wooyoung.

Your stomach flips. Your pulse forgets what it’s doing.

He doesn’t freeze. He clocks you in a second, eyes dragging from your shoes to your lips, and smirks like he knew this would happen eventually.

The garage smells like oil and gasoline, thick and sharp. Your cousin pops the hood of her beaten-up car and starts explaining the issues to Wooyoung. He listens quietly, nodding, hands tucked in the pockets, eyes flickering toward you more than once. His dark hair is tousled, shadows playing across his face. He’s calm, collected, but there’s something electric beneath that cool exterior.

“Gotta head to their office, handle some paperwork,” your cousin says without looking back. “Be back as soon as I can!” She walks off, leaving you alone with Wooyoung.

The silence is thick. Wooyoung’s there, crouched by the open hood, cigarette resting behind his ear, muscles flexing as he works. He doesn’t look up immediately, but the moment he does, his eyes catch yours with a slow, knowing smirk.

A smirk curls at the corner of his lips. “Didn’t think I’d see you again. Thought you’d be too smart for that.”

You cross your arms, eyes locked on his. “I’m full of surprises.”

He smirks, that cocky tilt of his head making your stomach flip. “Is that supposed to be a warning or an invitation?”

You laugh, sharp and unbothered. “Maybe both. Depends if you can handle it.”

Wooyoung’s gaze sharpens, amused and intrigued. He steps closer, the air tightening between you. “I race. Late nights, no rules, just speed and risk. You ever been to one?”

You cock your head, curious but guarded. “Can’t say I have.”

“Race’s tonight,” he says flatly. “Old pier, Maple Street. Ten o’clock. Show up.”

You meet his gaze evenly, lips curling into a faint smile that doesn’t give anything away. “Maybe.” Without another word, you turn and walk toward the office, the sound of your footsteps sharp in the quiet garage. Behind you, you feel his eyes burning, like a spark waiting to ignite.

***

You didn’t plan on coming. You told yourself that more than once, heels clicking too confidently across the cracked asphalt now.

The lot is packed tonight, headlights cutting through smoke, the low thrum of engines and bass mixing with the scent of exhaust and beer. There’s laughter somewhere behind you. A fire pit burning on the outskirts. 

You’re not here for him. You’re here for the thrill. The mess. The chaos.

That’s what you tell yourself… right until you spot him.

He’s got the hood of his car up, hands deep in the engine under the yellow haze of the parking lot lights. Sweat glints at his temple. Leather jacket stretching as he moves. There’s something brutal and beautiful about him like this, focused, filthy, in his element.

You don’t stare long. Just a second. You tell yourself it’s curiosity, nothing more. Long enough to feel that old pull in your gut. Then you turn your head, pretend he’s nothing. Sip from your cup like you didn’t come here hoping he’d show.

The crowd buzzes around you, bass from someone’s speaker, the smell of gasoline and cheap weed and summer sweat. Your heels click softly when you shift your weight. The hem of your black skirt creeps higher when you cross your legs.

“You actually came.”

You glance over, deliberately slow. Wooyoung is standing next to you now, casual as ever, hands in his pockets, smirk lazy across his face.

“Didn’t realize you were the welcoming committee.” you tease.

He smiles, teeth sharp under the buzzing parking lot lights. He’s close now, not touching, but he never needs to be. His eyes drop, track the tiny black skirt hugging your hips, the heels that make your legs look miles long. You feel the way he looks at you, possessive, greedy, intrigued.

“You came here alone?” he asks, voice low, like a secret passed too close to your ear. 

You raise a brow, sip from the red cup in your hand. “Why? You worried?”

His gaze cuts to the guy who had been trying to talk to you before, then back to your mouth. His stare is slow, deliberate. Territorial in the kind of way he won’t admit out loud. “I should be.” Then, softer, almost too quiet beneath the bass and city noise, but it hits you square in the chest. “You shouldn’t come here looking like this.”

You smirk, weight shifting onto one hip as you tilt your head at him. “Scared you might get some competition?”

His eyes drag down your legs. Slowly. Taking their time. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

You blink up at him, lashes thick. Innocent, like you don’t know exactly what he means. “Doing what?”

He steps closer, just a breath between you now. His voice drops. “You wanna be looked at?” His eyes flick to the crowd, jaw tightening. “You want every guy here thinking they’ve got a chance?”

You hum, almost amused. “I’m just having fun.”

His tongue drags across his bottom lip as he fights the twitch in his smirk, that look of barely restrained hunger already flooding back in. “You’re trouble.” he says simply, shaking his head. “Fucking trouble.”

Then, without asking, he slides his jacket off and drapes it around your shoulders. Heavy. Warm. Smelling like oil and smoke and him.

“I’m not cold,” you murmur, eyes narrowing.

He shrugs. “Didn’t say it was for that.” He leaves without another word. Just a look, something unreadable, sharp-edged, and hot enough to sink into your spine. 

The buzz of the crowd floods back in as soon as he’s gone. Music from someone’s speaker thumping through the pavement, tires squealing nearby. Laughter. Catcalls. You move, slipping through clusters of people, past hoods popped open and boys hyping up their cars. You find a low ledge near the corner of a building and climbs up, tugging his jacket tighter around your body as you settle. It still smells like him. Smoke, grease and something reckless.

Then you see him.

He’s stepping toward his car, the same one he made you come in last week. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his neck, messy strands of hair falling over his forehead. His jaw’s tight, focused. The cocky confidence is still there, but cut with something else, something darker. Dangerous.

You let your eyes trail over him slowly, drinking it all in: the way his eyes scan the street, calculating. Alive. You feel it from here, the pull, the high. He was made for this.

And then, just before he gets in, he looks up. Straight at you.

It’s not casual. It’s not an accident. His eyes find you like a match to gasoline. You don’t look away. You let him see you. Legs longs, his jacket barely covering the sin of your skirt, lips parted from the liquor and heat of it all. You tilt your head, just a fraction, enough to let him know you like what you see.

He grins. Barely there, but it cuts through the dark. Then he’s gone, slipping into the driver’s seat, engine revving like a war cry.

The flag drops and the cars launch forward like bullets, engines roar like wild beasts unleashed, tires screeching against the cracked asphalt. You’re breathless, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the crowd. 

The car beside him tries to keep pace, but it’s like watching a child chase a shadow. He’s too good. Too confident. Too alive. He takes the first turn tight and fast, almost too fast, but he grips it, tires screaming in protest.

You bite your lip and smile, pulse ticking high. You weren’t looking for meaning.

But this? The danger, the speed, the burn in your veins?

This might be exactly what you needed.

Back on the straightaway, his car roars ahead, slicing through the night like a knife. The other driver strains, but Wooyoung’s already miles ahead. The city lights blur past, but he’s a sharp contrast, focused, untouchable. The finish line rushes toward him, and he crosses it first with a triumphant roar from the crowd.

The roar of engines dies down, and the crowd begins to thin after a while, their chatter fading into the night as anticipation for the next race lingers in the air. You step away from the edge of the track, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, heart still pounding from the rush. You find a spot behind a half-gutted van and lean back, letting the chaos fade. You breathe in the night and feel your pulse begin to settle.

Then a voice behind you cuts right through.

“Running off already?” he drawls.

You don’t jump. You don’t turn around too quickly. Just lift your gaze toward the sky for one long second, then shift to glance over your shoulder. 

He’s there. Lit up in the dim glow of a busted streetlamp, black t-shirt, eyes hot. His hair’s a little messy from the wind, jaw sharp with leftover adrenaline. Smug, as always.

“I figured you’d be busy,” you say, neutral.

“I am,” he shrugs. “But I saw you walk away.”

You face him fully now. “Congratulations, by the way.”

He steps closer, just a little. “You came to see me win?”

You tilt your head. “I came for the thrill.”

He laughs under his breath like he knows better. “And did you get it?”

You don't answer. Just let your gaze sweep over him, slow and deliberate. There’s a sheen of sweat on his neck, veins prominent from gripping the wheel. 

“I always knew you were trouble,” he murmurs, mouth twitching. “But that skirt? That walk? You just confirmed you’re doing it on purpose.”

You smirk. “You’re not the only one who likes a little attention.”

That makes his tongue press into his cheek, makes his eyes darken just a shade. Then he jerks his head toward the lot. “Come on.”

You raise a brow. “Where?”

“Away,” he says simply. “You’ve seen enough here, haven’t you?” He doesn’t wait for your answer, just starts walking toward his car like he knows you’ll come. And maybe that’s what makes you move, the confidence, the danger, the not-knowing.

Because you want to. The engine rumbles to life like it’s impatient, just like him. He doesn’t say a word when you glance at him, just flicks the headlights on, rolls down his window, and pulls out without looking back.

You don’t ask where he’s going. He doesn’t tell you. His hand is steady on the wheel. One arm draped over the top, wrist loose, like he’s done this a thousand times, like he owns every road. That’s when you see it. The rose inked on his forearm, just above the wrist. You never noticed it before. Sharp lines, bold petals, thorns curled close to the stem. Beautiful. Quietly dangerous.

Just like him.

After a while, you catch the scent of salt. The car slows, headlights cutting across uneven sand and gravel before dipping low, settling in front of a wide, open stretch of black water. The ocean looks infinite like this, still, deep, unbothered by the world they came from.

Wooyoung kills the engine.

The beach isn’t much, not the kind you'd take photos at, but it's empty. Silent. The kind of place people come to forget. Or to be alone, together.

“You always bring people out here?” you ask finally, your voice low, not because you're shy, but because anything louder might snap the moment in two.

His mouth twitches. “No.”

That’s all he gives you.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly and open the door. The air outside is colder than expected, and the wind off the ocean hits your bare legs like a slap, but you don’t flinch. You walk barefoot into the sand, heels dangling from one hand. His jacket hangs off your frame like a secret you shouldn’t be keeping.

You don’t look back. You don’t need to.

You hear him follow a few seconds later. The door shuts with a heavy thud, and his footsteps crunch behind you in the sand. And you feel it: his stare. Heavy. Hot. Carving into the back of your thighs like he’s still sitting behind the wheel, still imagining your legs slung over his seat.

“You gonna keep staring?” you ask, not turning around.

“I’m trying not to.”

You smile, slow. “You’re bad at that.”

He lets out a short laugh, the low kind that hums in your stomach. Then he steps closer, sand giving way under his boots.

“That skirt’s gonna be the death of me,” he mutters.

You finally turn your head, raise an eyebrow. “What does it do to you?”

He laughs under his breath, low and sharp. “You want the full list?”

You face him now. The hem of the jacket skims just above your thighs, the wind teasing it up every so often, just enough. And he's looking. His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, like he’s thinking too much. 

You blink up at him, heart in your throat but your expression smooth. “I’m starting to think you’ve got no self-control.”

“Oh, I don’t,” he says easily, taking another step forward. You don’t back away. “Not with you standing there like that. Jacket slipping off your shoulder. Those pretty little heels in your hand like you just got tired of playing nice.”

The air between you is thick now, too hot, too still, too quiet. Just the wind, the dark waves behind you, and the way he’s looking at you like every second without touching you is driving him fucking insane.

“You’re not making it easy,” he says low.

“I’m not trying to.” 

He exhales a sharp laugh, then grabs your jaw and kisses you. There’s no warning. No slow lead-in. His mouth crashes onto yours like he’s been starving, like he’s trying to taste everything he missed. You kiss him back just as hard, breath catching in your chest as your free hand fists in his t-shirt, pulling him closer. He groans against your lips, palms skimming down the sides of your thighs, up under the hem of your jacket.

Then he pulls back, just enough to speak, voice rough and low, eyes dark. “Get in the backseat.”

You blink, chest heaving. “What?”

His hand is still gripping your thigh, thumb stroking slow against the inside. “You heard me. Backseat. Now.”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command that lights something wicked inside you. Without a word you walk around to the passenger side, pulling the door open with your heart pounding. He’s already climbing into the back, shoving the front seat forward to make space. The dome light overhead flickers on and then dims as you slide in beside him.

The second the door shuts, he’s on you again.

The car fills with the sound of breathless gasps and the shuffle of clothes, the scent of him closing in as his hands roam with renewed urgency. He tugs you into his lap, your knees straddling his thighs, your skirt riding high as you grind down against the bulge already straining in his jeans.

“Fuck,” he hisses, fingers digging into your hips. “This-, this is what I should’ve done last time.”

You kiss him again, deeper this time, biting his lip just hard enough to make him curse again. His hands slide up your back, underneath the jacket, skin against skin now, and it’s not enough. Nothing is.

“Keep the jacket on,” he mutters between kisses. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You laugh softly, a sound that breaks into a moan as he grinds up into you, the friction delicious and overwhelming. You know this is going to get messy. Exactly the way you want it.

Because this time, he’s not stopping.

He curses under his breath, hands sliding up your thighs, gripping, pulling you down harder onto him as he bucks up. “You’re gonna drive me insane,” he murmurs, biting down on the edge of your jaw, hard enough to make you gasp. “Making those little noises, grinding like that-, fuck-”

Your hands are already at his belt, unfastening it with practiced ease, the clink of metal loud in the quiet car. His breath catches the moment your fingers brush over the hard line of him, still straining against his jeans.

“Shit,” he mutters, eyes dropping to where your hand moves. He leans back slightly, hands gripping your thighs as you shift just enough to pull him free, hot and heavy in your palm, thick and already leaking. He hisses when your thumb swipes over the tip.

“I’ve thought about this,” he says low, watching you from beneath heavy lashes. “You. In my car. Wearing my jacket. Getting me this fuckin’ hard without even trying.”

“You’re the one who didn’t fuck me last time,” you whisper, breathless, teasing.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. And I’ve regretted it every damn day since.” Then he reaches down between you both, pulls your underwear to the side with one hand, rough, impatient, and notches the head of his cock against your entrance. You rise to your knees to angle yourself better, nails digging into his bare shoulders. He meets your gaze, voice low and hoarse. “You ready?”

You nod. “Don’t you dare hold back.”

And he doesn’t.

He pushes in slow but deep as you sit down, eyes locked on yours the entire time like he’s watching your reaction. You clutch at him as your body stretches around him, breath hitching when he’s finally buried all the way inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “Tight as hell. Fucking perfect.”

You roll your hips experimentally and both of you moan at the friction.

His hands grip your waist, guiding you, dragging you along his cock in slow, dirty motions. The car creaks beneath you, the windows fogging with condensation, but neither of you notice. You’re too wrapped up in the heat between your bodies, the wet sound of you sliding over him again and again, your soft gasps clashing with his filthy praise.

“Just like that,” he pants, teeth gritted. “Ride me, baby. Take what you need.”

Your hands slide into his hair as you start to move faster, bouncing slightly in his lap. The jacket slides open, but you leave it on, feeling his hands grab your ass, tugging you down harder each time you rise.

“You look so good like this,” he rasps. “So fucking filthy. You like fucking me in my backseat, huh?”

You moan, nodding against his neck.

He thrusts up harder suddenly, making you cry out, nails raking down his chest. He grabs your jaw again, kissing you hard, tongue dragging over yours as his hips slam up into you with rough, desperate rhythm.

Suddenly he grips your hips tight and flips you without warning, your back hitting the seat, knees bent over the edge. He’s between your legs in seconds, shirt rucked up around his waist, jeans barely pushed down his thighs. The jacket is still on you, wide open now, framing your body like he meant for it. His body cages yours completely.

“Keep your eyes open,” he says, voice thick. “I want you to see.”

You do. God, you do.

Because the sight of him like this, cock wet and thick, already pushing back into you, is obscene. His jaw clenched, chest rising and falling hard, lips parted with the filthiest groan when he sinks into you again. Your mouth falls open at the stretch, at the slick sound of it. You’re soaked for him, and he knows it.

“Look at that,” he grits out, glancing down between you as he drags out and slams back in, harder now. “You see how fucking good you take me?” He’s got a hand around your throat now, thumb dragging under your jaw as he stares down at you like he owns the moment. Sweat at his temples, veins in his neck, and that look in his eyes. Feral.

“You like seeing me fuck you? Like how deep I go? How filthy I get when I lose it over you?” he growls, watching every flicker of your expression. 

You try to hold eye contact, but your eyes flick down, greedy, hungry, obsessed. The way his cock slides in and out of you, the wet slap of it, the muscles in his stomach tightening with every thrust, it’s too much. Too perfect.

You nod fast, moaning, your nails digging into his arm. He’s relentless now, pace brutal, and all you can do is take it, back arching, toes curling, your voice high and breathless.

“Come for me,” he says low, rough. “Right now. Wanna feel it.”

And fuck, when he leans down and bites your neck, when his hand moves back to your thigh, spreading you wider so he can go even deeper, you fall. Hard. You break apart with a strangled moan, legs trembling around his waist, nails scraping down his back. He watches you fall apart, eyes locked on yours, hips never slowing.

“Goddamn,” he growls, voice tight. “You feel that? How you’re gripping me? Gonna make me-, fuck, gonna fill you up, baby. Just like this.”

You hold onto him as he groans, deep and raw, stuttering into you with one final thrust, spilling inside with a curse. You feel all of it. Every pulse. Every inch.

His palm slides up your thigh, and you feel every inch of him still inside you, thick, pulsing, stretching you open just right.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even move.

His head drops back, breath harsh, chest rising fast under that clingy black t-shirt. You watch the muscles shift beneath it, the way a single vein trails down his forearm, twitching slightly. He glances down between you, lips parting.

“Look at that,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “Still so fucking tight around me.” His hand slips under the jacket again, palm dragging up your skin. “You kept this on,” he says, almost to himself. “Fuck, you really wanted to kill me tonight, huh?”

You try to speak, but he shifts his hips, slow and deep, and your mouth falls open in a quiet moan instead.

He grins. “That’s what I thought.”

He pulls out slow, deliberate, watching the mess he’s made of you. You try to close your legs, but he doesn’t let you. He taps your inner thigh, and you let him spread you open again, even if your body protests.

“Stay like that,” he murmurs. “Wanna look at what I did to you.”

And you do. You let him look. You let him take it all in, cocky eyes dropping to where you drip down onto the backseat, your thighs trembling, lips swollen from the way he kissed you.

You stay wrapped around each other in that charged silence, the world outside fading away until all that exists is the heat, the touch, and the undeniable pull between you. The night is yours, messy and unfiltered, and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

***

You’re wrapped in a towel, hair damp, steam still clinging to your skin from the shower. The night outside your Airbnb window is soft and still, the kind of quiet that only comes after a long, hot day. You’re not thinking about him, not actively, anyway. But your mind’s been drifting all week, every time your fingers brushed the edge of your mouth like they could still feel his kiss, like your thighs remembered how he fit between them.

You definitely weren’t expecting a knock at the door.

You freeze, blink toward the entrance. No one knows you here. Another knock, this one lazier, a little amused. You pad barefoot to the door, frowning, water still sliding down the back of your neck.

You open it, and there he is.

Wooyoung.

He leans against the doorframe like he was born to fill that space, in his black jacket, a black tee that hugs his chest, his hair messy like he’s been driving with the windows down. His eyes sweep over you, lazy and unhurried, from the damp strands stuck to your cheek to the towel knotted just above your breasts. His mouth curves, that signature smirk tugging at the corner. He lifts his eyes back to yours, full of something dark and warm and very sure of itself.

“Hey, trouble.”

Your heart stutters. “What-, How did you-”

He nods toward the hallway behind him. “Was driving around. Was in the area. Figured I’d stop by.”

“You remembered the address,” you say slowly, more to yourself than him. You hadn’t thought much of it when he drove you home, twice. Definitely didn’t expect him to turn up on your doorstep because of it.

He lifts a shoulder. “Wasn’t that hard.”

You tighten the towel slightly. “What made you think showing up unannounced was a good idea?”

Wooyoung shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye. “Didn’t think. Just came.” His gaze skims over you again, slower this time. “Good timing, huh?”

Your chin tips up just slightly, a smirk tugging at your lips now, small, smug, impossible to hide. You’re tempted, and you hate how much you like the power shift. How good it feels to make him wait on your word. He steps forward, just enough for the toe of his boot to cross the threshold.

You glance down at it, then back up at him. “You gonna stand there or come in?”

He raises a brow like he wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud, but the smirk that follows says he was hoping. “Didn’t wanna be rude,” he says, stepping closer like it’s nothing.

You just step back, towel still clutched to your chest, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with modesty. The door clicks shut behind him and you turn away, heading back toward the bedroom without waiting.

He follows. Of course he does.

You don’t say anything as you walk, still towel-wrapped and dripping faintly onto the hardwood. He’s behind you, quiet, but not subtle. You feel his eyes on your back, your legs, the curve of your spine. You don’t rush. Let him look. Let him want.

"Didn’t think you were the kind of girl to answer the door dressed like that,” he murmurs.

“Didn’t think you were the kind of guy to show up uninvited,” you toss back, stepping into the bedroom.

“No phone number. Kind of had to improvise,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

You glance at him over your shoulder. He’s leaning in the doorway now, arms crossed, that cocky gleam in his eyes like he knows he’s already gotten under your skin. “You make a habit of showing up at girls’ doors hoping they’re half-naked?”

He smiles. “No. Just yours.”

You don’t answer, just turn your back to him and let the towel fall. It slips off your skin in one clean motion, landing at your feet with a soft rustle. You don’t look back. You don’t have to. You know what this does to him. The silence that falls between you says more than any words could.

Without looking back, you slip on a pair of black thongs slowly, then grab a white tank top. You don’t rush. You feel his eyes burning into you the entire time. The top clings to your still-damp skin, nipples pressing clearly through the fabric. You could’ve dressed. You chose not to. You like watching him struggle to keep his cool. “So,” you say, voice dry, turning around. “What do you want, Wooyoung?”

He shrugs, smile slow and lazy. “Thought maybe you’d let me stick around.”

You toss the towel onto a chair and brush past him on your way to the kitchen. “And if I don’t?”

He follows you again, of course. Closer this time. “I’ll change your mind.”

You open the fridge, bend down just enough to give him a view, and pull out a bottle of water. When you stand again, he’s closer.

“No plans tonight?” he asks.

You twist the cap off. “Was thinking about heading out.”

“Date?”

You look at him over your shoulder, sipping slow, the cool water sliding down your throat. “Why? You jealous?”

He smirks, but there’s something tighter in his jaw now. “I’d be stupid not to be.”

You laugh under your breath and turn, leaning against the counter, letting the cold bottle rest against your bare hip. “Would it stop you from showing up uninvited?”

“Not even a little.”

You study him for a beat. He’s not pretending not to look, his eyes flick to your chest again, linger. You know he wants to touch you. He’s barely keeping it together.

And you love it.

“So where were you thinking of going?” he asks, resting his hands on the counter across from you.

“Some bar a few blocks from here. Thought I’d look around.”

“You gonna make me watch you flirt with someone else tonight?”

You smile lazily. “You gonna stop me?”

He doesn’t answer, just steps closer again, hands braced on either side of the counter behind you now, caging you in. His voice drops a little. “Don’t really like the idea of anyone else looking at you.”

You arch a brow. “Mm. So here you are.”

His gaze drags down your body, slowly, all the way to your thighs, down to the swell of your breasts under the thin white cotton, and then back up. He doesn’t answer right away. You expect a flirt, a tease, a deflection, but when he speaks, his voice is steadier. Honest.

“I thought about you.”

Your chest tightens, just for a moment. You recover quickly, he doesn’t need to know what that does to you. So you lift your bottle again, let it cool your lips.

“I don’t make a habit of showing up for people,” he adds. “Not unless I want to.”

You lower the water, studying him now. “And what is it you want, exactly?”

His gaze moves across your face. “I don’t know yet,” he admits. “But I’m not done finding out.”

You stay quiet. The silence stretches between you, long and warm. You could break it, make it light again, but you don’t. Instead, you smile. Slow, knowing, and utterly unreadable. Not yes. Not no. Just… this. He catches it, the challenge in that smile. And it’s enough.

You step away, leaving your water on the counter, turning toward the bedroom without another word. Your fingers slide over the fabric of your skirt as you pull it on, eyes catching your reflection in the mirror, dark, a little wild, definitely dangerous.

From the doorway, you hear him speak, voice low, almost reluctant. “You always this hard to read?”

You turn slowly, letting your hair fall over one shoulder. “I’m not looking for easy,” you say quietly. “Not tonight.”

He nods, eyes sharp and steady. “Good. Me neither.”

You pull out a delicate black crop top, barely there, high neck, open back. You pull the old white tank top over your head and slide on the new one. The cotton clings to your curves, your nipples visibly peeking through the fabric from where he stands. You don’t fix it. You don’t care. In fact, you tilt your head and catch his reflection in the mirror. He’s staring, jaw tight again, mouth parted just slightly like he’s fighting the urge to say something or maybe do something.

You lift your hair, twisting it up casually to check how the top sits. “Still planning to stay?”

He steps behind you, slow, then reaches up without a word, catching a strand that slipped and tucking it gently behind your ear. His knuckles graze your cheek. His eyes hold yours in the mirror, and they’re darker now. Serious. Like you’ve peeled something open in him he hadn’t planned on showing.

That does something to you. And you hate that it does. Because this wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just tension. Just heat. Just one night in the back of his car and nothing else. But now he’s in your room. Talking like he means it. Looking at you like he wants to memorize what you look like under this light.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

You smirk at your reflection. “Somewhere you can watch me walk away all night.” And when you glance at him again, his tongue swipes over his bottom lip like he’s trying to behave. But you know better.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you think I’ll be able to keep my hands off you that long?”

You slide on your boots with a smirk. "Come on, then."

He’s still standing there when you straighten, grab your purse, and cross to the door. He follows like a shadow. And as you step out into the hallway, his fingers brush the small of your back, low and fleeting.

You say nothing. But you don’t stop him either.

The bar isn’t loud, but it hums, low light, red leather booths, the sharp clink of glass, the bass of something dark curling through the air. He holds the door open for you and lets you walk in first, doesn’t say anything, just watches the sway of your hips as you pass. He hasn’t stopped watching you.

You slide onto a stool without waiting for him, legs crossed, skirt riding high. He stands beside you for a second, watching, just watching, then pulls his stool in too close and sits.

You glance at him sideways. “No room anywhere else?”

He leans in without hesitation, breath brushing your jaw. “Didn’t come here to sit far away from you.”

You order and the bartender slides the drinks over and disappears. You take a sip without waiting. He doesn’t touch his glass yet. “You came dressed like this,” he murmurs, “and then invited me out?”

Your eyes flick to his. “I didn’t invite you.”

“You said come with you.”

“And you showed up uninvited to my apartment before that.”

He grins, teeth sharp, voice low. “And you let me in.”

You glance over, tongue touching the rim of your glass just because you feel like being a little cruel. “You like watching, huh?”

His jaw twitches. “I like knowing I’m the only one who gets to.”

You smile, slow and sharp. “That’s cute.”

He exhales a laugh, finally taking a sip of his drink. “It’s not cute. It’s dangerous.”

You hum. “That supposed to scare me?”

“No. It’s supposed to turn you on.”

There’s a pause. You don’t look at him, not right away. You set your glass down. Shift slightly so your bare thigh brushes his jeans. You feel the way he tenses. And then you glance up, slow. Your voice is silk when it comes out. “It does.”

He drags his gaze across your face like he’s memorizing every flicker of expression, then drops it again, to your chest, to your lips, to your thighs. His fingers flex around his glass. “You’re driving me fucking insane.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

“I’m trying to be good.”

Your smile is wicked now. “Why?”

He looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second, something real flickers there. But then he leans in, close enough that your knees brush. “Because if I weren’t, I’d already have you in the back of the bar. Up against a wall. Hands on your hips. My mouth on your neck.” 

You laugh softly, but your heart’s racing. “And you think I’d let you?”

“No,” he says, eyes flicking down again. “I think you’d beg for it.”

The air between you crackles. But then you shift back, take another sip, re-cross your legs just to fuck with him. “Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t.”

He watches you with that burning, tethered hunger like he’s seconds from snapping it. But his voice stays calm when he says, “You’re not like anyone I’ve met.”

You rest your elbow on the bar, chin tilted. “You don’t know me.”

“Not yet,” he says. “But I’m gonna.”

There’s silence again. Not awkward, something heavier. Hungrier. He’s watching you like he could devour you whole. And you let him. You want him to. A couple people pass behind you, loud laughter and perfume in the air, but it doesn’t break the line between you.

“Drink,” you murmur, nudging his glass with your fingers.

He obeys. A beat. Then: “Let me take you home after this.”

You tilt your head. “You don’t want to watch me flirt with strangers first?”

His jaw ticks. “I’ll break his nose.”

You smile. And that’s the moment you know you’ve got him exactly where you want him. 

He leans in, his breath ghosting over your ear, voice low and raw. “I don’t want you anywhere but with me.” His fingers curl tighter around your hand, a silent promise and a warning all at once. You catch the fire in his eyes, fierce and unblinking.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you trace your thumb over the back of his hand, letting the electricity spark between you both. “Then take me. I’m all yours.”

Without another word, he signals for the check, hands never leaving you. Outside, the night air is cool against your skin, sharp and fresh. He opens the car door for you like he owns you already, then slides behind the wheel with a confidence that makes your heart race.

You drove for hours without direction, his hand resting heavy on your thigh, thumb tracing idle, possessive circles on bare skin. He made it clear between sharp glances and sharper words that he didn’t do the whole dating thing, didn’t play house, didn’t promise anything past the next time he could get his hands on you. And though it seemed dangerous to play like that, you couldn't stop chasing him. The hunger in it. The freedom.

You let him pull off into some dark, empty lot halfway across the city and fuck you in the backseat again, his mouth everywhere, hands rougher this time, more desperate, like he'd been holding back all night. Afterwards, the windows fogged and your pulse still high, he drove again, nowhere in particular, just fast, just far, before ending up at your place. And when he had you again, finally, inside your own bed, it was slower, but not softer. He still didn't ask to stay. He didn't need to.

***

It wasn’t supposed to be a regular thing.

You didn’t plan on seeing him again the night after the bar. Or the night after that. But then he kept showing up and you did the same. One ride becomes two. Then four. Then too many to count. Now, it’s routine, a rhythm carved out of adrenaline, midnight, and want.

At first, it was easy. Just fast rides and faster hands. Parking lots with the windows fogged, whispered laughs and skin flushed from the cold. But then came the in-betweens. Gas station pit stops at 2 a.m. where he’d buy you snacks you didn’t ask for. Lazy mornings when he didn’t leave right away. He takes you to races, slips an arm around your waist like it’s second nature.

You never called it anything. You never talked about it like it mattered. But he was always there. And you kept letting him in.

Your cousin still thinks you’ve been keeping to yourself. Staying quiet. Healing. If she asked, you wouldn’t lie, but you wouldn’t tell her everything either. Because whatever this is with him, it’s not simple. It’s not safe. It isn’t supposed to last.

You promised yourself when you came to this city for the summer that you wouldn’t overthink. Wouldn’t chase anyone’s expectations. Wouldn’t waste time second-guessing every move you made. You were here to feel, not fix. To want, not explain.

And Wooyoung made that easy.

He had a way of clearing your mind like smoke filling a room, thick, dizzying, inescapable. Dangerous in a way that didn’t scare you, but hooked you. Like he was your own walking addiction, all sharp smiles and reckless charm, and you were already too far gone to pretend you didn’t like the way he burned.

You visit him when he works at the garage, sweat on his neck, grease on his fingers, and you leaned against the wall until he pulls you in. Mouths hungry. Hands rough. You’ve fucked against that garage door more times than you can remember, the metal always cold against your spine.

It happens everywhere. Every time.

The front seat. Backseat. Hood of his car when the engine’s still warm. In the car in a random alley in town. Once, behind the mechanic shop, half-hidden, half-exposed, and he didn’t even care. 

You’ve been to more than a few races by now. Long enough to know the scent of smoke and rubber. But nothing compares to watching him out there.

You live for that split second before the race starts, the way his jaw tightens, eyes dark and locked in, fire flickering behind them. Every time he wins, and he always wins, you catch yourself biting your lip, adrenaline tangled with pride. Like it’s your victory too. Because in a way, it is.

You’re already wearing his jacket when you step out of the car, the oversized black thing swallowing your frame, sleeves pushed up, and unmistakably his. Everyone knows it. They’ve seen you in it more than they’ve seen him wear it lately, and that says something.

Everyone knows not to look too long. They’ve learned. The hard way.

The race lot is alive, headlights burning through dusk, bass thumping from open trunks, engines snarling like wolves waiting to be let loose. You settle on the trunk of Wooyoung’s car, skirt riding up your thighs, legs crossed slow. 

And you know the eyes are coming.

You feel them before you see them. Some from the usuals. Most from the new ones. Men who don’t know better yet. Or maybe they do, and they’re just stupid.

Wooyoung’s bent under the open hood, checking something in the engine with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. You’ve been at this long enough to recognize faces. Wooyoung’s team. The regulars. And the ones from the rival crew, all bravado and cheap insults, waiting to be flattened.

One of them’s eyeing you too hard.

Some rival team idiot, leaning on a car that doesn’t belong to him. He lingers a few feet away, lean build and smug expression, drinking out of a red solo cup like he owns the place. He doesn’t. And you don’t bother acknowledging him. Not until he walks past you and whistles. Loud. Sharp.

“Damn,” he says, looking you up and down, eyes shameless. “She’s got a better rear than your car.”

Your head turns slowly. You don’t flinch, don’t frown, just arch a brow, roll your eyes, and look away like he’s not even worth your breath. He’s grinning like he hasn’t just stepped into a minefield. His eyes drag over you like he’s entitled to it. 

But you also know better than to think Wooyoung didn’t hear it. You know what’s coming. You know Wooyoung hears these comments, and you know exactly how he’ll respond.

You feel it first. That shift in the air. That tension that hits just before lightning strikes.

Then you hear it.

His laugh.

It’s low. Dangerous. It cuts through the bass like a blade through silk. Everyone around you stiffens because it’s not the kind of laugh that invites company. It’s the kind that warns. A sound that simmers with violence, a fuse already lit.

Wooyoung tosses the rag he was using onto the ground without a word and walks, each step deliberate, calculated. He doesn’t look at you as he passes. His eyes are locked on the idiot who’s about to learn a very painful lesson.

“Say that again,” Wooyoung says calmly, still with a disturbing smile on his face.

The guy chuckles nervously, looking around for backup that isn’t there. “Relax, man. It was a joke.”

You see the guy start to crack, the tension in his shoulders, the way he suddenly can’t look Wooyoung in the eye.

“You look at her like that again, or say some shit like that again,” Wooyoung murmurs, low enough that only the two of them, “and I’ll break your fucking legs. You understand? I’ll drag you behind my car and leave you in pieces by the end of the lot.”

His hand claps down hard on the guy’s shoulder, making him flinch. “Say something. Please. Give me a reason.”

The guy doesn’t say shit. Just stumbles backward, muttering apologies, practically tripping over himself as he bolts into the shadows.

Wooyoung doesn’t move for a long second.

You’re still perched on the hood, legs swinging lazily, pretending your whole body isn’t thrumming from the spectacle Wooyoung just made. When he turns, his smirk’s already in place. That cocky tilt to his mouth, the slow prowl in his walk. Like he knows you’re watching him just as closely as everyone else is.

And he knows exactly what he just did to you.

“Jesus,” you say as he stops in front of you, “You gonna mark your territory next?”

He chuckles low, eyes raking over you, from the collar of his jacket hanging loose on your shoulders, to the bare stretch of skin above your knees. His fingers hook into your waistband like it’s instinct. You bite your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, letting your gaze drop to his mouth, then drag lazily back up to meet his eyes. You know exactly what you’re doing.

“Don’t tempt me.” His mouth crashes against yours before you can say another word.

It’s not gentle. It’s all heat and teeth, a kiss that claims. He kisses you like he’s mad you made him feel anything at all. Like he’s trying to erase the sight of someone else’s eyes on your skin with every rough slide of his tongue. He drags your hips toward the edge of the car, like he wants you spread out and helpless for him right there.

When he pulls back, his lips are red, swollen. His voice is a whisper against your jaw.

“You keep teasing me like that, baby, and I’ll fuck the attitude out of you, right here, right now.”

***

It’s been over a month now.

You didn’t mean for it to turn into anything. It just... happened. 

Most mornings start in your kitchen, you in his shirt, him barefoot and sleepy-eyed, making something that smells better than it has any right to. He’s a good cook, like, suspiciously good, and you tease him for it constantly. Ask if he’s hiding a wife and three kids somewhere. He just tosses you a berry or flicks water at your leg and tells you to shut up and eat.

Sometimes you don’t leave the Airbnb all day. He puts something on the TV you’re not really watching, and you end up sprawled across his lap, his hand tracing lazy circles on your bare thigh, not even trying to be sneaky about it. Other days, you follow him to the garage, sit on a crate while he works on his car. He gets grease on his cheek, his neck, the curve of his collarbone, and you wipe it off for him with a teasing smile while he watches you like he’d rather pull you onto the hood and forget whatever else he was doing.

But you haven’t told him. That you’re only here for the summer. That this, whatever it is, has a timer on it.

Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s smart. But you’ve heard him talk. Heard his friends joke. Heard the girls he used to fuck and toss to the side mention that he doesn’t do relationships, doesn’t do feelings, doesn’t stay. You’ve heard it in his own voice too, casual, offhand comments when someone asks if you’re his girl and he shrugs it off or changes the subject, suddenly preoccupied with something else. It stings a little every time. Not dramatic, not devastating, but quiet, like a bruise you don’t want to press on. Like maybe he wants you, but not really wants you. Not all the way.

So you keep it to yourself.

And in the meantime, you ride with him everywhere. Sit in his seat, steal his fries, kiss him in the glow of red lights. You let him cook for you. You brush his hair back when he lets it grow too long. You laugh at his dumb jokes. He never says what this is. And neither do you.

But he always shows up. And you always open the door.

Tonight, you’re at yet another of his races. 

Engines rumble like thunder, headlights cutting through the night. You’re standing at your usual spot, perched on the edge of the crowd, his jacket zipped halfway up your chest, hair pulled back just enough to see everything. Your eyes never leave the sleek black car rolling up to the start line, Wooyoung’s.

He pulls in like he owns the asphalt, engine growling beneath him like it wants to be let loose. His gaze sweeps over you, slow, loaded, then he smirks, that cocky little thing he does right before he tears the world apart.

And still, all you can think about is the way he kissed you ten minutes ago. Hot, full, tongue first, like he couldn’t hold back. You still feel it, the heat of it, the taste of him, the way he murmured “Stay where I can see you” against your lips like a warning, or a promise.

The flag girl steps forward. He revs his engine once, twice, your heartbeat syncs with the rhythm. The light turns green, and he’s gone.

You don’t cheer. Just watch, transfixed. The way he takes turns, precise and wild, engine howling as he cuts through the competition like it’s nothing. It’s art. It’s war. It’s him. The matte black machine moves like it’s part of him, sleek, brutal, untouchable. Every time he shifts gears, it feels like the ground itself vibrates beneath your feet.

And then–

“COPS!”

The scream rips through the air, high and raw and terrifying. Then the first siren wails.

All hell breaks loose.

Blue and red lights explode across the lot like fireworks. More sirens. Shouts. People start running in every direction, drinks spilling, tires screeching, screams rising. A girl next to you shoves past you so hard you stumble back, heels slipping on the uneven concrete.

The panic is total. A stampede.

Someone crashes into your side. You spin, disoriented, trying to find an exit through the chaos, but bodies are slamming against each other, climbing over cars, scrambling for cover. You can’t see anything, not the streets, not where the cops are coming from, not even Wooyoung.

You try to run. Make it three steps before your foot catches on something, a curb, a bottle, someone’s leg, and you crash to the ground hard, knees scraping raw against pavement. Pain blooms sharp and hot as your palms catch you, barely.

Panic grabs you by the throat. You’re alone. You don’t know where he is. The cops are coming fast.

And then-

A hand wraps around your arm.

Strong. Unshakable. Familiar.

You look up and he’s there, Wooyoung, eyes wild with adrenaline, jaw tight, his voice low and cutting through the noise like a blade. “Come on.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just yanks you up with one swift pull and hauls you against his side. He’s already planned his route. His car is parked in the shadows between a dumpster and a dead-end wall. He doesn’t slow down. Throws open the passenger door and shoves you inside. You barely register the click of your seatbelt before he’s in the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Hold on.”

The tires scream as he throws it into gear and peels out of the lot, weaving through fleeing cars and panicked people like the devil himself is on your heels, and maybe he is. You see flashes of uniforms in the rearview mirror. 

And then he’s driving. Not just fast, fucking insane.

He weaves through the mess like it’s nothing, dodging people, cars, even a barricade. You clutch the edge of the seat with both hands, heart slamming into your ribs. “Wooyoung-,” you start, breathless, but he cuts you off with a sharp, “Hold on.”

A sharp turn. Another. He ducks down a narrow alley and surges back onto the road. Blue lights flash behind you, distant, then farther, then gone.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow.

You have no idea where you are, what neighborhood, what street, but he drives like he owns it. Like he knows every shortcut, every shadow, every alley that leads nowhere. He turns down a quieter street, dim, still, lined with apartment buildings. Finally, finally, he slows, pulls into a nearly empty lot, and kills the engine.

The air between you feels tight. You stare ahead, still locked in the adrenaline-fueled fog of escape, limbs buzzing, throat dry. Every part of you feels too tense to move. You’ve never been here before, in this area, and you don’t ask. Not yet.

Beside you, Wooyoung sits with both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed forward for a long moment like he’s trying to decide whether to say something or let the silence win. Finally, he turns his head toward you, his jaw tight but his voice softer than you expect. 

“You okay?”

You almost say yes. You almost lie. But then your gaze drops, and you notice the sting in your palms, the throb you’d tuned out in the panic. You glance down to find both your hands scraped raw, speckled with gravel and blood. Your knees too, now that you notice it, dark streaks running down your shins. You hadn’t felt it when you fell, too busy chasing your breath through a stampede of strangers and spinning lights. Now the pain is catching up.

Wooyoung sees it before you can say anything. His hand reaches out, catches yours before you can tuck them away. He turns your palms over in his, his thumbs brush carefully along the edges of your cuts, not pressing, just grounding. He doesn’t flinch at the blood. 

“Come on,” he says quietly, rising to his feet. He opens his door and steps out, coming around to yours, opening it before you can reach for the handle. You follow him, still half in a daze, leading you up two flights of concrete stairs and through a door you’ve never seen before.

The apartment is dim when he pushes it open, warm light spilling from a single lamp near the couch. It’s cleaner than you expected, simple, utilitarian, not dressed up, but lived-in.  You barely have time to look before he disappears down the hallway and comes back with a first aid kit and a damp towel. He doesn’t say a word. Just gestures to the couch, and when you sit, he kneels in front of you without hesitation.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just works in silence, jaw tight, eyes locked on your hand like it’s something breakable. The towel is warm and damp, his fingers careful as they blot the blood away from your palm. It stings, but you don’t flinch. Not from the pain, not from him. His touch is gentler than it has any right to be, considering how fast he’d just driven you through the night.

You want to say something, maybe make a joke to ease the weight in the room, but your throat is too tight.

“You should be more careful,” he finally says, voice low, rough-edged. It’s not scolding, not teasing. It’s something softer than either, quiet concern trying not to sound like it matters.

You glance at him, a bitter smile pulling at the edge of your mouth. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

That makes him pause. He looks up, eyes catching yours like he heard everything you didn’t say. “Didn’t say I was,” he murmurs, something unreadable flickering across his face. “But that doesn’t mean I want to watch you fall apart.”

Your mouth goes dry. The way he says it, it’s not romantic. Not sweet. It’s honest. Raw. And it disarms you more than anything else tonight.

He moves on to your knees next. His fingers graze bare skin and your breath catches, but he doesn’t look up. He just keeps working. Focused. Steady. Like you’re both pretending this is normal. And you don’t realize until he’s done, until the last bandage is pressed into place, that the silence between you has grown heavier. 

He runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to think straight, and then suddenly stands, stepping away from you like he needs distance just to breathe. His fingers twitch at his sides. And then his voice cuts through the room, low but cracked with something he can’t keep down. “I don’t fucking do shit like this,” he says, almost to himself. “I don’t come back for people. I don’t panic. I don’t care like that.”

You get to your feet slowly. Barefoot. Still a little dazed. The pain in your knees is sharp but distant, dulled by the weight of everything he’s saying.

He scoffs, but it sounds too raw to be cynical. “You-, fuck. You fell. You were bleeding. You were on the ground and I couldn’t find you. I didn’t even-” He swallows, shaking his head like the memory itself stings. “I swear to god I couldn’t breathe for a moment. I didn’t know if you were-”

He swallows hard. Shakes his head. “I didn’t know if I’d get to you in time.”

Your heart aches in your chest, a dull, spreading thing. He’s still talking, more to the air than to you, and it’s clear he hasn’t unpacked what any of this means.

“I didn’t even think. I just ran. Like some idiot in a movie. Like you mattered more than getting caught. More than the car. More than myself.”

You walk to him slowly. Not interrupting. Just moving until you’re close enough that he has to feel you there. “I’m okay,” you say gently.

He turns, finally meeting your eyes, and what you see in his face makes your breath catch. There’s fear there. Not the kind from flashing lights and sirens, something deeper. Something quieter. Like he’s afraid of what he just felt. Afraid of what you mean.

“I don’t know what this is,” he murmurs. “But seeing you fall like that? Seeing blood on your hands? I-, I didn’t even know it could fucking hurt like that.”

He’s not touching you. Doesn’t reach for you. Like he’s afraid even that might be too much.

So you reach instead. You lift your hand, still bandaged, and place it softly on his chest. Right over his heart. “It’s okay,” you say. “We’re both okay.”

He stares at you for a long moment, and the silence stretches, not awkward, just full. Full of what neither of you is brave enough to name. Then he leans in slowly, carefully. Like you’re something fragile he’s afraid to break. His lips brush yours, the barest touch, and then he pauses, giving you the chance to pull away.

You don’t. So he kisses you. Soft. Scared. Reverent.

A kiss so soft you aren’t sure if you ever felt him so careful before. He cups your face, doesn’t push or tries to make the kiss escalate into anything. Just a kiss full of words neither of you can say out loud.

You both start getting ready to bed shortly after. He digs through a drawer and pulls out a worn t-shirt, faded black, soft from too many washes, and holds it out to you. You peel off what’s left of your clothes without a word, not bothering to leave the room. You’ve done far more with him than change in front of each other. Modesty was gone the second you got in his car the night you met him.

The shirt falls low on your thighs. His eyes flicker over you for a second, but he doesn’t say anything. You watch as he reaches for his own shirt, pulls it over his head.

That’s when you see it.

Not the faint bruises or the surface scrapes he usually calls battle wounds, this is different. A scar, brutal and deliberate, slices across his back. It’s old, but deep. Twisted. Ugly in a way that doesn’t fade with time.

He catches your reflection in the mirror. Sees the way your eyes lock onto it. And he doesn’t flinch this time. "You gonna ask?" he says, voice low.

You don’t. You just walk closer, slow. Let your fingers ghost along the raised skin. He flinches, not because of the touch, but because of what it means.

“I’ve never seen that one before,” you say softly. You glance up. "You’ve told me every scar you’ve got came from racing.”

“That one didn’t.”

You wait. Let him decide if he wants to keep running.

“My mom had this boyfriend when I was younger. Real piece of shit. Loud. Drank too much. Always mad about something. One of those types that got mean when no one was looking.” He pauses. Breathes. “He didn’t like that I was in his house. Didn’t like that I was… me.”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t say anything yet. 

“One night, I told him to go fuck himself. Didn’t even yell it. Just said it. He didn’t like that either.” He runs a hand down his face. “He threw a bottle at me. Then pushed me through a glass door. Said it was an accident when he told my mom.”

You stare at him, horror rising slow and bitter in your throat.

“She believed him. Or she pretended to.” He lets out a breath, tired and rough around the edges. “The rest of the shit? Yeah. That came from racing. From working on cars. From fights I chose. But that one…” He finally drops his eyes from the mirror. “That one stayed.”

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

You don’t ask what happened after. You don’t need to.

He laughs once, dry and humorless. “Told people I got it from flipping my first bike. Sounds cooler than getting shredded by some drunk asshole trying to prove he was bigger than a kid.”

Your hand moves gently, fingertips brushing the scar that runs ragged and long over his back.

“I figured I’d lie about it forever,” he murmurs.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“Because you saw it. And I…” He swallows hard. “I feel like I can tell you.”

You don’t answer with words.

Instead, you press a kiss to his back, right above the scar, right where it starts. Then another, lower. Then your arms wrap slowly around his waist, your cheek resting between his shoulder blades. You feel him exhale when you hold him. Deep, shaky, like the air was trapped somewhere in him all this time and he’s only now letting it out.

Your fingers curl around his stomach. His hands come up, covering yours. Eventually, the silence shifts. “C’mon,” he murmurs, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Let’s sleep.”

You follow him without question, crawling onto the bed as he switches off the light. Darkness swallows the room, and you hear him move around the other side, the mattress dipping under his weight when he gets in.

There’s a beat of silence. Another.

Then his arm reaches out in the dark. It lands on your hip, hesitant at first, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to touch you like this, without hunger. Without heat. You roll onto your side and press your back against his chest.

That’s all it takes.

His arm curls tighter around you, and he tucks his face into your neck like he needs to hide there. Like your skin might silence all the chaos still crashing inside him. He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the car.

Tentatively, he shifts closer, arm slipping around your waist. It’s unsure, gentle, like he's still figuring out how to hold someone when it’s not about claiming, when it’s about comfort. When it means something.

This is the first night you fall asleep together without bruises between your thighs or adrenaline in your blood. Just warmth. Just the weight of his body behind yours, heavy and grounding.

It feels like you finally stopped running.

***

You don’t talk about what this is. Not once.

Not in bed, not on long drives, not when he kisses you like he’s terrified to stop. Not even when you’re curled up in his passenger seat at 2AM and his thumb strokes the inside of your wrist like a secret.

There’s too much at risk. Too much truth that would ruin the thrill of not knowing.

Because he doesn’t do relationships. Doesn’t do promises. He’s said it before, with words, with the way he’s lived. And you? You came to this city to escape all of that. Rules, opinions, weight. You’re still only here for the summer, something he doesn’t know, and you haven’t figured out how to say.

So you don’t say it.

Instead, you live in your Airbnb like it’s permanent. Like you belong in his car, like his jacket is just something that naturally belongs on your back. You leave your lip balm in his glove box. Your extra phone charger in the center console. A bag of snacks in his trunk because you’re always hungry after races.

And he lets you. Doesn’t ask questions.

But Wooyoung? He’s changed.

People know now. At every race, every meet-up, every underground garage, it’s known: you’re his. Not in any official way. No one dares call you his girlfriend, not after the way he handled it last time someone tried.

It was offhand, just a throwaway comment from a guy near the starting line, half-laughing when he said, “Didn’t know you were bringing your girlfriend tonight.”

Wooyoung didn’t laugh. Didn’t even look your way. He just reached for his drink, shrugged once, and changed the subject like the thought didn’t even deserve space in his head. Like the idea of you being something more than what you already are was ridiculous.

You smiled, pretended you didn’t notice, but something in your chest went tight and stayed that way the rest of the night. It’s not like you expected him to correct the guy. Not like you expected him to say yeah, she’s mine in front of everyone. But still. The way he ducked the question entirely, like it was easier to pretend nothing existed at all, left you feeling just a little less wanted.

Even still, he makes it known. The jacket he tosses you without asking. The way he watches from across the crowd, eyes locked on you like a storm waiting to break. The way he always drives you home himself, even if it means leaving early.

He doesn’t call you his. But he acts like you are. And somehow, that contradiction is the part that’s starting to hurt. 

Because Wooyoung would rather die than have someone else think they have a chance with you.

Like the night at the food truck. You’re standing behind him, trying to decide if you want fries or a burger, when a guy from another team slides too close beside you. Tries to flirt. Tries to joke. Light, easy, harmless. But Wooyoung hears your polite laugh. The subtle shift of your body. He turns around and the look on his face silences everything around you. He doesn’t touch the guy. Doesn’t raise his voice.

Just says, “You always this brave, or is it a head injury thing?”

It’s calm. Dead calm. That terrifying kind of stillness that means danger’s already here. The guy stutters, laughs nervously, backs off fast. You’re quiet as Wooyoung orders for you both without asking what you want. He already knows.

Another time, you're out in public together, grabbing coffee, of all things. You're standing beside him in line, scrolling your phone, not paying attention when someone brushes too close behind you in the cramped café.

Wooyoung notices. And it's not subtle.

He shifts, steps between you and whoever the guy was, planting a hand flat on your lower back like a warning. His fingers are warm, rings cold, tattoo peeking from under his sleeve. His eyes cut across the room, jaw clenched tight. The guy moves. Fast. Like he can feel it too, that Wooyoung isn’t fucking playing anymore. He doesn’t talk much when it happens. Doesn’t shout, doesn’t cause scenes. 

Just steps in, makes it very clear without saying much at all: touch her and die.

Even in quieter moments, it’s there.

When you reach across the console to grab his hand, he laces your fingers together, tight, like he’s holding on for both of you. He walks you to your door every single time now. Doesn't leave until you’re inside, lights on. Waits for you to text him. If you forget, he calls. If you don’t answer, he shows up.

You once cut your finger in the kitchen, barely a scratch, but when you flinch and suck in a breath, he’s already there. Ripping a paper towel, pressing it gently to your skin.

“It’s fine,” you say.

He doesn’t answer. Just wraps it for you, checking it twice like you might bleed out. You see it in his eyes, it’s not about the cut. It’s the idea that you could be hurt when he wasn’t there. That he can’t protect you from everything.

Later, you find a box of bandages in his car. You didn’t put them there.

Even in bed, it’s different. Still intense. Still raw. Still him taking control, pushing you exactly where he wants you, but now there’s a tightness to it, like he needs to make sure you’re still here. He checks in more, holds you longer.

He kisses you when it’s over. Not just because it’s hot. But because he needs to. Needs to remind himself that you’re real and still wrapped up in his sheets and not leaving. Not yet. And he never says it, neither of you do, but it’s all there.

The way he glares at people who so much as look your way. The way he drives faster when you fall asleep in his car, like getting you somewhere safe is the most important thing in the world. The way his hand always finds your thigh when you’re beside him, not to tease, but to anchor himself.

Neither of you say it. Because if you say what it is, you might have to admit what it’s becoming.

And then you’d have to face the truth: That you were supposed to stay untethered. And he was never supposed to care this much.

***

You’ve been coming by the mechanic more often than you meant to.

It started casual, dropping off food, sitting on the hood of his car while he worked. Now it’s just… habit. Comfortable. Like muscle memory. No one bats an eye anymore when you stroll through the side door with a drink in hand and his name on your lips.

Today’s no different, at least, it shouldn’t be. You push open the rusted side gate, the sun hitting the back of your neck, and move past the usual row of busted-up cars. His car is here. You spot it immediately. You already know the license plate by heart.

It’s almost your last week in the city.

You haven’t told him yet.

You’ve meant to. You meant to today. You even practiced what to say on the way here, something light, something like a joke, even though there’s nothing funny about it. You just wanted to see how he’d react. Maybe you were hoping it’d tell you something.

Instead, you hear voices from the other side of the office wall. And suddenly, none of your plans matter.

You’re about to head toward the office when you hear voices, low and muffled through the cracked window. You pause without meaning to. It’s his coworker, the chatty one with a loud voice. You’ve seen him around. He’s always giving Wooyoung shit. He’s doing it now. He’s saying, “I don’t know, man. Feels risky. Letting someone get close like that.”

Wooyoung doesn’t answer right away.

The colleague keeps going, tone easy but serious. “I mean, it’s cool she hangs around, I like her. She’s not dramatic or clingy or anything. But you always said you don’t do the whole relationship thing.”

Another pause. A longer one.

Wooyoung’s voice finally comes, quiet, like he’s not really sure how much he wants to say. “Yeah. You’re right”

The colleague responds right away, voice teasing. “Come on. Don’t act like it’s not true. You’re not built for that shit, dude. You’d die if someone asked you to label anything.” He laughs again, louder this time. You hear a clink of a socket wrench hitting the metal table.

Wooyoung says something else too soft to catch.

The colleague snorts a little. “No, I remember what you said. You were all ‘yeah, she was cool, nice hookup, chill vibes, that’s it.’”

Wooyoung doesn’t laugh at that. Doesn’t argue either. He stays quiet.

And it’s that silence, that silence, that makes something tighten in your chest.

Because you know what this is. You knew walking into it. You knew from the first night when he didn’t ask your number and you didn’t offer. You both agreed, wordlessly, on what this wasn’t.

But lately… it’s felt like something more. Or maybe that was just you, reading too much into the way his hand would rest on your thigh even after everything was over. Or the way he always made sure you got home. Or how he never let anyone else so much as look at you sideways.

And still, when it mattered, when someone asked, he didn’t say anything. Not she’s not just a hookup. Not I like having her around. Not even yeah, it’s not like that.

Just silence.

You step back from the window before you can hear more. The drink in your hand is still cold. You bring it with you again and leave before anyone sees you. You don’t slam the gate. You don’t text him. You don’t say a word. You just vanish, like maybe you were never supposed to be there in the first place.

***

The sun is starting to set when your cousin calls. “You’re going home next week. You have to come to the party.”

You’re halfway through folding a pair of jeans, your suitcase open on the floor like it’s mocking you. Your Airbnb’s quiet mess, zippers half-pulled, makeup bags tossed to the side, a pair of heels you haven’t touched in weeks abandoned by the door.

“I don’t think I can,” you tell her, voice even. “Still a lot of packing left.”

There’s a pause on her end. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

She doesn’t press, which you’re grateful for. You hang up after promising to text if you change your mind. Your phone buzzes again a few minutes later.

wooyoung: party’s still on?

You hesitate before answering.

you: yeah. go without me though. i’ve got a headache. go have fun, i’ll see you tomorrow maybe :)

You add the smiley like punctuation. Like proof that you’re fine. Like it’ll make him believe it. He replies quickly.

wooyoung: should I be worried?

You stare at the screen for a second too long, then type back:

you: no, go have fun. don’t worry about me

You set your phone face-down on the bed.

Across town, Wooyoung’s been sitting at the bar too long. The drink in front of him has gone warm. Condensation slicks down the sides of the glass, untouched, just like every conversation around him. People come and go, throwing smiles, bumping his shoulder, asking if he’s alright.

He shrugs them off. Nods once. Plays it cool.

But he’s checked his phone maybe six times in the last twenty minutes. Still nothing. No double text. No “changed my mind” or “come get me” or even just a stupid emoji. He keeps glancing toward the front door anyway, hoping you’ll walk through like you always do, unbothered, lowkey, dressed like you didn’t mean to wreck his whole night.

But the door doesn’t open.

He exhales, tips his head back against the wall behind the bar. The music is relentless, some overproduced club track bleeding through every surface, but his thoughts are louder.  And then, from a few stools down, like fate’s cruel hand, he hears your name. Not shouted. Not screamed across the club. Just mentioned in passing, carried casually from the girl standing a few feet away, and it makes his spine straighten.

“Well, it’s almost her last week here.” a girl says casually, voice raised just enough over the beat.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes shift. Three girls. Mid-conversation. Loud over the music but not enough to draw attention. Then one of them, your cousin. He remembers her. The same girl you ditched once to meet up with him instead.

“She flies out next week,” she says with a little laugh. “She was very clear from the start, just here for the summer, nothing permanent.”

His stomach drops. Next week.

Another girl blinks. “Right. That’s wild. It went by fast.”

“She’s been here since June,” your cousin adds, shaking her head fondly. “Kind of kept to herself most of the time. Said she just needed a break from everything. A reset. She said she wanted it low-key, didn’t want a big sendoff or anything. Just… come, live a little, leave.”

Wooyoung stands up.

He doesn't hesitate, doesn’t weigh his options or think about whether it’ll blow your cover, he doesn't even fucking care. He walks straight toward them, shoving his way past a group of guys to get to her. Your cousin turns, laughing mid-sentence, and then her face twists into startled confusion when she sees him.

“Wooyoung?”

He doesn’t wait. “What did you just say?”

Her brows crease. “About what?”

“You said she’s leaving.”

She blinks. “Y/N? Yeah… she’s going back home next week. Saturday, I think.”

His voice drops. “Why?”

Now she’s really confused. Her head tilts, but there’s no edge to her, just honest confusion. “I mean… she’s going back home? She was just here for the summer.”

Wooyoung swallows hard. Temporary. Like he was temporary.

The cousin squints a little. “Why are you-,?” She doesn’t finish. Wooyoung is already turning away.

Something hot flickers behind his ribs, deeper than confusion, heavier than jealousy. A fire that starts in his chest and spreads fast, scorching through every moment you spent in his passenger seat with his hand on your thigh like you belonged to him. Every time you smiled like you had time. Like you weren’t planning to vanish.

You didn’t tell him.

And with every step, his hands curl tighter into fists. Not from rage, from betrayal. Not because you’re leaving, but because you never gave him the chance to ask you to stay.

***

You’re perched on the edge of the bed, absentmindedly spinning your phone between your fingers. Not texting. Not calling. Just… holding it. The silence stretches, filled only by the low hum of the fan and the distant sound of kids playing outside.

A half-finished iced coffee sweats on the nightstand. You haven’t touched it in an hour.

Your eyes drift toward the sneakers by the door, the laces knotted from the last time you ran through the city barefoot after a night out. That night ended in his car. His laugh still echoes in your ears sometimes.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You freeze. Three sharp raps against the door, no hesitation, no time to think. You walk to the door slowly, heart climbing your throat, hands slightly shaking. You open the door.

And there he is.

Wooyoung. Standing on your doorstep like a storm you forgot to prepare for. His jaw is tight. Eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, like they’ve been chewing on a fire he can’t put out. He’s still in the clothes from the club, shirt slightly rumpled. One look at him and the walls you’ve spent the last twenty-four hours building start to crack.

He doesn’t ask to come in. He doesn’t smile.

“What the hell were you gonna do?” he says, voice low, tight with something brittle. “Just leave?”

He knows.

You open your mouth, close it. The hallway feels too narrow. The room behind you too full of all the things you’re not saying. “I wanted to tell you,” you say, barely above a whisper.

His eyes narrow. “When, exactly? When you're already on a flight? After I'm wondering why you’re not picking up anymore, when I’m standing around like a fucking idiot waiting for you to show up like you always do?”

You flinch. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

His head jerks like you hit him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

You inhale sharply. And it all rushes out.

“I didn’t think it mattered because you’ve been telling me for weeks, that whatever this is, it was never going to be real to you,” you say, voice shaking. “Every time someone mentioned the word relationship, you changed the subject. Joked it off. Acted like it was a disease you’d catch if you got too close.”

He flinches.

“You don’t know what that feels like,” you go on, eyes stinging now. “To be there with you. Around your people. At the shop. At those stupid races. Knowing everyone knows what this is, but still… I’m nothing. I’m not yours. I never will be.”

“That’s not-” he starts, but you cut him off.

“You wanted me,” you say. “You want me. But not really. Not in the way that matters. You wanted the thrill, the adrenaline, the sex, the way I look sitting on the hood of your car. But you didn’t want me. Not all of me. Not the kind of want that keeps someone.” You laugh, bitter and low. “Do you know how fucking awful that feels? Like the thought of being with me was the worst fucking thing in the world.”

His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

“You made me feel like I was asking for too much by just… existing. Like being wanted, really wanted, was too much to ask from you.”

He steps forward, hands balled at his sides, struggling to breathe like the weight of your words are crushing his ribs.

His laugh is bitter. “You think you’re the only one hurt here? You were gonna leave without a word like I was nothing. Like I’m just a pit stop until you find something better.”

He stops, looks at you with eyes that are almost wild. “I’m not good at this, at talking, at feelings, at... anything like that. Hell, I never thought I needed to be. I told myself I’d never need anyone. I built these walls so fucking high, so no one could get close enough to tear me apart.”

His jaw clenches. “But then you show up, and it’s like everything I thought I knew gets smashed to shit. You weren’t supposed to be the one I gave a damn about. You weren’t supposed to be the one who made me wanna drop my guard. But you did.” He swears under his breath, fists clenched. “And now? Now I find out you’re leaving, just like that. No warning, no fight, no ‘hey, I’m scared, I wanna talk.’ Nothing. Just packing up and going like I was never even here.”

His voice cracks just a little, anger tangled with something rawer. “Do you know how it feels to be the idiot? The one who let himself hope, who let himself need someone, only to get punched in the gut when they bail?”

He laughs bitterly. “I don’t know if I’m pissed at you or myself more. Maybe both.” He takes a step closer, voice low but fierce. “But I do know this, If I’m here, if I let you in, it’s because you meant something. Because it meant something to me for the first damn time ever.”

You try to speak, but he cuts you off.

“Save it. I don’t wanna hear the excuses. I get it, you didn’t think it mattered. That’s exactly the problem.”

He takes a step back, a dead laugh escaping him, low and bitter. “Well, congratulations. You just showed me what it feels like to be on the other side. To be lied to. To be played.” He stares at you, eyes cold now, voice hard. “Hope it was worth it.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turns sharply and storms away.

***

For the whole week, the tears don’t stop. They come uninvited, sometimes silent, sometimes raw and shaking, but always leaving that hollow ache buried deep inside your chest. You find yourself crying in the quiet moments: sitting on the edge of the bed, in the shower with water running over your face, staring out the window when the world moves on without you.

Each morning, you wake swollen-eyed, sun pouring through the curtains, bright and uncaring, as if nothing has changed. But everything has shattered. You miss him so deeply it twists your stomach into knots, a sickness that won’t ease. The nights are the worst. 

You also couldn’t keep hiding it from your cousin anymore. Or, she figured it out on herself. “You’ve been off lately.” your cousin had said, eying you up and down.

You hesitated. “I’m just tired.”

She arched a brow. “Is this about him?”

You froze. “Who?”

“Wooyoung.” She didn’t say it mean, just like she’s trying to piece something together. “I don’t know what’s going on, but the way he looked when I mentioned you leaving… It was weird. Like he knows you more than you’ve told me.”

You couldn’t look her in the eyes. Seconds away from breaking into a full sob for the twelfth time that day. 

“Anyway,” she said quickly, waving it off. “Whatever it is, whatever it was, just let it go tonight, okay? Party like it’s the last night of your life.”

And you’ve continued to try and enjoy your last days here, but it’s impossible. Your head is a mess, thoughts crashing and spinning, none of them making sense. Should you text him goodbye? Call him? Pretend none of it happened? But what if silence is worse?

You pace the apartment, heart pounding in your chest, every breath thick with uncertainty. You don’t know what you want, or maybe you do, but you’re too scared to admit it.

Eventually, you drag yourself toward the door, ready to leave the place for a minute, to get some fresh air and maybe clarity. You open the door, but something steals your attention. A folded piece of paper taped carefully to the wood.

Curious, you pull the letter free and unfold it. Your breath catches the moment your eyes land on the handwriting, unmistakably his. The paper feels heavier than it is, like every word inside carries weight you weren’t prepared for.

***

It’s now late evening.

You haven’t moved from your spot in hours. Curled into the corner of the couch, knees hugged to your chest. Still haven’t touched the tea you made earlier. It’s cold now. Forgotten. Like everything else.

The letter sits on the table in front of you, creased, slightly crumpled at the corners from your fingers folding and unfolding it again and again. You know every line by heart, but your eyes keep scanning it, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something easier. Something less devastating.

You almost grab your keys three times. You almost text him. You almost call.

But it’s like there's a wall of glass between you and the right decision, and you just… stare through it. Paralyzed. Terrified that if you make a move, it’ll shatter wrong.

He bared his soul in that letter. And you haven’t done a damn thing. You hate yourself for how long you’ve been sitting here, frozen in uncertainty. One half of you screams to run to him. The other whispers all the reasons you shouldn’t, how complicated it is, how much you still don’t know, how you’re still leaving regardless because your life isn’t in this city. You can’t stay. 

But then your phone rings.

A harsh buzz against the silence. You jolt upright, heart lurching, eyes narrowing at the unknown number lighting up your screen. You hesitate only a second before answering.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause on the other end, filled with heavy breathing and the sound of wind. “Hey-, sorry, shit, I know this is random, but you’re the only person I thought might come. It’s about Wooyoung.”

Your heart stops. You sit up straighter. “What about him?”

“Something’s wrong,” the voice says. Young, male, familiar in a distant way. One of the crew, maybe. You’d met him once. “He left not long ago for a race. Not one of ours. This one’s… rough. Real shady crowd. No rules, no spotters. Just pure fucking chaos. We tried to stop him but-, he's gone. He’s fucking gone.”

The room spins. You grip the edge of the table to stay upright. “Gone where?” you whisper, voice sharp.

The guy on the other end swears again, fast and breathless. “We don’t know exactly. We lost his signal halfway through the city. He left alone,” The guy’s voice breaks, low and anxious. “He wasn’t listening to anyone. He-, he wasn’t himself, okay? He sounded... off. Like he didn’t give a fuck.”

Your stomach drops. Ice seeps into your spine.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” he continues, breath shaky. “But I thought-, if anyone could talk him down, or stop him-, fuck, I thought maybe it was you.”

You’re already on your feet. Your coat is halfway on. You grab your bag with one hand, shove your keys in your pocket with the other. “Where is it?”

“We don’t know exactly. But I’m sending you the last pin we had on his phone before it cut out. We got a few guys out looking for him, we can come pick you up.” 

You don’t even know what information you’re giving him. You just know you agreed to whatever it took to find him, end the call and bolt out the door, your blood pounding like war drums in your ears.

Somewhere unknown, Wooyoung steps out of his car. He doesn’t belong here.

He lights his second cigarette with the last flick of a dying lighter, cupping the flame with trembling hands. The smoke scratches down his throat, a pathetic distraction from the coil of chaos tightening in his chest. He leans against his car, the only clean machine in a sea of monsters, stripped down, souped-up beasts patched with rust, dents, and blood.

This isn’t his turf. This isn’t some friendly underground run on the edge of town. This is hell. The kind of place no one talks about. Where names don’t matter, and losing means more than wrecked metal. It’s the kind of place where engines scream louder than people, where egos shatter on the pavement, and no one gives a fuck who makes it home.

And he’s alone. No crew. No backup. No one knows where he is and that’s the whole point. Because if anyone saw him like this, they’d ask questions. They’d see the truth behind the glassy eyes, the clenched teeth. They’d see he’s already come apart.

But he’s here to forget his thoughts. To feel something. No matter what it is.

Someone laughs nearby, short, sharp. Like a knife sliding out of a sheath. Wooyoung doesn’t turn, not right away. But he can feel eyes on him. He’s too clean. Too obvious. A target painted in neon across his back.

Footsteps crunch on gravel. “Didn’t expect to see golden boy down here. You’re lost, sweetheart?” The voice is male, rough. The kind that’s been marinated in alcohol and old fights. “Or you finally decided you wanna die somewhere interesting?”

Wooyoung lifts his eyes slowly. A man steps into the dim wash of flickering floodlights, heavyset, sleeves torn off, scars up his arms like tally marks. A long one slices through his cheekbone and disappears into his beard. His fists are wrapped in old tape, stained with something dark.

He smirks at the sight of Wooyoung’s face. “I remember you. Pretty boy from the East Strip. You used to race clean, yeah? Thought you were better than this.”

“I’m not here to talk,” Wooyoung says flatly.

The man chuckles. “Yeah, I figured. Heard some talk. Heard your little pretty thing ain’t been around lately. That’s why you’re out here? Trying to forget her?.”  

Wooyoung’s entire body goes still.

Scar-Knuckles keeps going, oblivious or cruel, maybe both. “She was a real fine thing, too. Damn shame. Wouldn't mind taking her out for a ride.”

“You say one more fucking word about her,” Wooyoung growls, stepping forward.

Scar-Knuckles doesn’t back off. His grin just stretches wider. “Or what? You’ll throw a punch? You think anyone here cares if I beat your face into the asphalt? This place doesn’t give a fuck about you or your sob story.”

Behind him, engines scream, test runs or warnings. The smell of gas and rage fills the air. “No one here’s gonna come looking if you don’t walk away from this, you know that?” the man says. “You lose out here, you lose everything. Car. Money. Life. Depends on who’s watching. Or who you piss off.”

Wooyoung steps even closer, eyes locked with his. “That supposed to scare me?”

Scar-Knuckles stares at him for a long second. Then he laughs again, colder now. “No. I think you already decided nothing matters.” Scar-Knuckles gives a soft chuckle and steps back, letting the darkness swallow him. “Go ahead then. Race your heart out. Let’s see what’s left of you when this is over.”

The man walks off with a shrug, leaving behind the echo of truth.

Wooyoung breathes hard through his nose, blinking against the sting of smoke and his own exhaustion. He gets in the car, slams the door, and rests his forehead against the steering wheel for half a second. His hands are shaking. Not from fear, at least not fear for himself. He’s past that.

He exhales and turns the key. The engine snarls to life like it’s hungry for blood.

And if the road ahead wants to kill him? He’ll fucking let it.

You’ve been driving for hours. Your phone is clutched in your hand like a lifeline, screen cracked at the corner from how hard you’d thrown it earlier, after the fifth voicemail you left him, each one angrier, shakier than the last.

The streets blur outside the windshield. You’ve checked every place he used to go when he wanted to be alone. Back lots. Rooftops. The edge of the highway where you once caught him chain-smoking, staring at nothing. A crew member is driving now, one hand clenched tight around the wheel, the other scrolling through group chats and rumor threads on his phone.

You’ve never felt this level of rage and terror at the same time. You want to scream, to hit something, to shake Wooyoung until he realizes what the hell he’s doing. But more than anything, you just want him alive. Breathing. Standing in front of you so you can yell at him properly for pulling this shit.

“He’s never done this before,” The crew member mutters, jaw tight. “Not without backup. Not without at least one of us watching his back.”

That’s what scares you the most. You’ve been in enough of those street scenes to know, some places don’t play fair. Some places, if your car flips, no one stops. If you piss off the wrong people, they don’t argue. They retaliate.

“Come on,” you whisper under your breath, staring at the dark horizon like you can summon him out of it. “Come on, you idiot. Where the fuck are you?”

The crew member rattles off a list of names. Small-time crews, illegal races still rumored to be active tonight. You recognize only half of them. The further the names go, the worse it gets. Places known for sabotage. For fights breaking out mid-race. For bets that go beyond money. For people who don’t give a fuck if you crash and burn.

You turn to him, breath catching. “Let’s go to the worst one.”

He raises a brow. “You sure?”

“No.” Your throat tightens. “But I need to find him.” Even if it drains every last piece of you. Even if you fall apart the moment you lay eyes on him. Because right now, the alternative is worse.

Right now, the alternative is never seeing him again.

You don’t say much as the car swerves through another dark stretch of road. Every second feels like it’s scraping your nerves raw. Your knee bounces restlessly, your arms crossed so tightly over your chest they hurt. “Fuck,” you whisper, voice barely holding together. “I don’t know where else to look.”

But then he slams his foot on the brakes. “Wait-, what the fuck is that?”

You lurch forward as the car skids to a halt on the side of the road, dust clouding around you like smoke. Your eyes snap forward.

And you see it.

Off the edge of the road, maybe thirty feet down a barely-visible side trail eaten up by weeds and mud and fog, there’s a car. The shape of the car is unmistakable. Low, black, dented on the passenger side door from a scrape weeks ago. You’ve spent too many nights leaning against that car, riding in it, practically living in it. You know it like you know him. And it’s just sitting there, quiet. Still.

“That’s him,” you breathe. “That’s his car.”

He curses. “That road’s not even on the map.”

He reverses hard and jerks the wheel to take the turn, tires grinding against the gravel, kicking up dirt as you veer off the main path. The closer you get, the harder your pulse hammers, because the lights are still on but no one is moving. No music. No engine running. Just the car. Waiting. Alone.

The moment he slams the brakes, you’re out the door and running, feet crunching through weeds and dirt.

And then you see him.

Leaning back against the hood, one foot on the ground, cigarette half-burned between his fingers. His head is tilted back, eyes closed like he’s been there for hours, maybe longer. He looks like the ghost of himself, silhouetted in the mist and high beams. Still. Dangerous. Untouchable.

He looks down as you approach. Sees you. And doesn’t move. Like you’re a hallucination. Like he’s not sure you’re real.

The closer you get, the more your fury uncoils.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, slamming both hands into his chest with all your weight. “You came out here alone? You shut off your phone? You didn’t tell anyone where you were going?!”

He doesn’t move. Not at first. Just stares at you like you’re something he dreamed up in a fever. Like you couldn’t possibly be real. 

You don’t give him the chance to speak. 

“I’ve been looking for you all night,” you yell, hitting him again. “We all have! You could’ve gotten hurt-, or worse-, and no one would’ve even known where to start! You think you’re invincible, is that it?! You think nothing can fucking touch you?!”

Wooyoung just stands there, staring at you like you're a ghost. His cigarette is long forgotten, half-burned, dropped to the dirt near his boot. 

“You’re not!” you snap. “You’re not invincible, Wooyoung. You’re just a fucking idiot with a death wish!” you bite out, trembling all over. “You could’ve died, Wooyoung. You could’ve left me-,” You choke on the word, a sob rising in your throat before you can swallow it down. “-left me here, alone.”

He flinches. That word punches the air from his lungs. But you’re not done.

“I came here thinking maybe you were in a ditch somewhere. I came here thinking I might have to pull your body out of a wreck. I hate you so fucking much right now-” You press your hands to his chest again, less forcefully now. Your fingers tremble, curling into the fabric of his jacket like you’re holding yourself together.

“I love you, you idiot.”

The words come out before you can stop them. Raw. Unfiltered. Not a confession, not a whisper in the dark. A curse. A scream. A truth ripped from your chest.

“I fucking love you, and you didn’t even think-” You shake your head, voice cracking. “You didn’t think about what that would do to me.”

Wooyoung stares at you like the earth just shifted under his feet. And that’s when he finally moves. His hand lifts, hesitant, like he thinks he might scare you off if he touches you wrong, and rests against your wrist, where your fingers are curled into his jacket. His grip is gentle. So fucking gentle.

“You’re here,” he says, voice low, rough. Like he doesn’t believe it.

You’re both shaking now, but for very different reasons. Your hands rise, cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth where he’s biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to fall apart.

“I love you,” you say again, softer this time. “You absolute fucking idiot. Don’t you ever pull something like this again.”

His breath shudders out.

And then he moves. Grabs your waist. And then he kisses you, fast, hard, desperate. Like he’s never going to get the chance again. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging in like he's grounding himself. 

“I love you,” he whispers back into your mouth. “Fuck, I love you.” His mouth is on yours again before the last word leaves his lips, devouring the space between you. Your back hits the hood of his car with a thud. You don’t flinch. You arch into him.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispers, burying his face in your neck. “Tell me you’re not gonna disappear when I wake up.”

You cup his face and make him look at you. “I’m right here,” you say.

The way he kisses you after that feels like the end of the world. It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s fire meeting fire. Chaos kissing recklessness. All your rage and fear and need slamming into him like a fist. You taste the danger on him. The gasoline. The smoke. The guilt. But underneath it, he's warm. He's alive.

And you’re still here.

He's breathing against your mouth now, kissing you back like he just realized he still has something to lose.

The door slams shut behind you, and he doesn’t waste a second.

His mouth is on yours in a heartbeat, hot, frantic, desperate. Like he needs you to forgive him through the kiss, like he’s trying to make you forget what he just put you through. You clutch at his jacket, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the solid heat of him.

“I thought I lost you,” you breathe against his mouth, voice trembling with the aftershock. “You fucking idiot, I thought-,”

“I know.” His voice breaks. “I know, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your back hits the door with a soft thud, but he doesn’t press hard. Not now. He cages you in with his body, but it’s not about possession, it’s surrender. He kisses you slower now, deeper, like he’s tasting the words you screamed at him earlier. I love you.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he groans into your skin, the only thing he says, and even that sounds like a confession. His jacket’s half-off already, pushed down by your greedy fingers, and he shrugs it off without pulling away, never breaking contact. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, your thighs. Like he can’t decide what to touch first, what to memorize.

When his lips dip lower again, dragging down your throat like he’s starved, you tilt your head back to give him more. He takes it like an offering.

“You’re gonna let me make this up to you,” he mutters between kisses, dropping to his knees with a thud that echoes in your spine. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips branding you through the fabric of your pants. “Right here. Right fucking now.”

And you let him, because you don’t want apologies.

You want him. Every reckless inch. Every frantic breath. Every desperate kiss he can’t stop giving you.

His mouth drops to your hipbone first. Not to tease, he’s past that. You feel the way he exhales against your thigh, shaky, reverent. Then his hands hook under the waistband of your pants. His fingertips press into your skin as he drags them down.

He presses his cheek against your thigh for a second, breathing you in. “God, I missed this. Missed you. I couldn’t fucking think straight.”

When your panties catch at your hips, his eyes flick up, and that look, wrecked, pleading, makes your breath catch in your throat. He doesn’t say a word. He just tugs the last layer down and off, letting it fall to the floor like it doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t. He guides your thigh to rest on his shoulder, giving him better access to you.

And then he leans in.

His tongue flicks out to taste you, one deliberate stroke that sends a sharp gasp ripping through your lungs. You grab at his hair, your hips twitching forward, but he holds you firm, anchoring you against the door with those strong hands on your hips.

His tongue finally finds your clit, and it’s slow. A slow, dragging stroke that has your spine arching away from the wood behind you. His lips close around it, warm and wet, and the sudden suction makes your legs tremble.

“Fuck, you taste so good-, so sweet, baby, fuck,” he pants between licks. He licks and sucks with maddening control, every stroke perfectly placed, like he knows your body better than you do.

And he does. Fuck, he does.

He tilts his head slightly, and the next pass of his tongue has you gasping, sharp and broken. Your hands tighten in his hair, tugging without meaning to. He dips his tongue lower, tasting you fully, deeply, a slow glide up through your folds before sucking your clit back into his mouth again.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. “Shit-, fuck, right there-,” Your voice is cracked open, raw. 

Your entire body is on fire, heat coiling low in your belly, thighs shaking, breath coming out in ragged moans. He lets one hand drift between your legs now, two fingers slipping between your folds with ease. He strokes you slowly, coating them, until he finally sinks one inside.

The stretch makes you gasp. His mouth doesn’t stop. “Yeah, come on,” he growls, the vibrations of his voice shooting straight through your core. “Let me feel it. Come on my face, baby. Give it to me.” He curls his finger, searching for that spot he knows so well, and the moment he finds it, you fall apart.

Your knees buckle. Your head hits the door with a soft thud. Your cry is half-sob, half-moan, your whole body trembling as the orgasm rips through you. He holds you there through it, mouth never leaving your clit, finger still stroking inside you in perfect rhythm. 

You’re panting by the time he pulls back, mouth and chin soaked, his eyes black with lust and something darker, devotion, maybe. Something that looks too much like love. He rises slowly, and your gaze drops to the way his chest rises and falls, how his fingers flex at his sides like he’s still holding himself back.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he lifts you, hands locking around the backs of your thighs, arms straining with need. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, and your back slams softly against the door as he catches your weight. His mouth finds yours again, and this kiss is deep. 

He groans into your mouth when your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling hard. “I should be mad at you,” you pant between kisses. “I should fucking hate you for scaring me like that.”

“I’d let you,” he whispers against your lips, dragging them open with his tongue, tasting the words. “I’d let you do anything, baby. Just don’t leave me.”

He turns, carrying you down the hallway, kissing you like it’s killing him not to be inside you already. The walk is messy, his lips never leave yours, your hands gripping the collar of his shirt, his fingers pressing bruises into your thighs from how tightly he holds you. 

“Jesus, I missed this,” he groans. “Missed the way you feel. The way you sound. I’ve been going fucking insane without you.”

He nearly kicks the door open.

The second your back hits the bed, he follows, never letting go. His hands are everywhere, sliding up your ribs, pushing your shirt up, cupping your breasts through the fabric with a groan.

“So fucking perfect,” he murmurs, burying his face between them, sucking the curve of one, then the other. He strips himself, rips the shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere behind him, then goes for yours, his mouth glued to your skin the moment it’s off. 

Your fingers are shaking as they move to his jeans, tugging the button open, sliding the zipper down. You push the denim off his hips and he kicks it away, breath ragged. His cock springs free, flushed and heavy and leaking at the tip. You bite your lip at the sight, thighs squeezing together.

“I need to be inside you,” he rasps, crawling up your body like he owns it. “Need to feel you.”

You nearly cry from how empty you are, grabbing at him, wrapping your legs around his hips. “Then do it,” you whisper against his lips. “Don’t you fucking dare tease me right now.”

That earns a growl low in his throat. He fists his cock, lines it up, and presses in slow. The stretch steals the air from your lungs. It’s deep, too deep after going so long without it, and your head hits the pillow with a strangled moan. “Oh my God, you feel-, fuck-”

“Say it,” he pants, burying himself all the way. “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” you gasp, hands clawing at his back. “You, always-”

He starts to move and it’s chaos after that. The rhythm is rough, relentless, desperate. His hips snap into yours like he’s chasing every second he lost, every moment you spent not tangled up in him. His hands are on your jaw, your throat, your waist, gripping like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.

“Turn around for me,” he whispers suddenly. “Wanna see you ride me.”

You barely register the words before he pulls out, already reaching for you. He tugs you up by the hips and you straddle him without thinking, bracing your hands on his chest as he guides his cock back to your entrance.

“Take it slow,” he says, voice low, hands gripping your thighs. “Let me watch you.”

You do. You sink down onto him slowly, gasping at the stretch from this angle. His head falls back, lips parting, chest rising in heavy breaths as you take every inch of him. He doesn’t move, just lets you settle, eyes flicking down to where you’re joined.

“Shit,” he groans, hands sliding up your waist. “You-, fuck, you look so good like this.”

You start to roll your hips, finding that rhythm again, slow and grinding. His hands drift everywhere, your thighs, your waist, your back, your ass, pulling you down harder when you move just right. His voice is wrecked now, quiet curses and praises tumbling out between groans.

“Just like that, baby. Fuck, ride me-, ride me just like that.”

You grind down harder, hands splayed on his chest, riding that perfect drag of him, the way he hits so deep like this, the way his cock twitches inside you every time you moan his name.

“Feels so good,” you whisper, voice cracking. “You feel so fucking good-”

He sits up suddenly, mouth hot against your collarbone, arms wrapped tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. One hand slips down to your ass, gripping hard, and he moves with you, deeper, harder, like he needs to carve himself into you.

Your breath shatters as you clutch his shoulders, shaking under the weight of it all. “I should’ve told you,” you choke out against his skin, voice breaking apart. “I should’ve said something, I didn’t know how-, fuck, I was so confused-”

He mouths at your throat, your jaw, your cheek, but you can’t stop now. You’re unravelling.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you cry, hands shaking as you hold onto him. “It wasn’t supposed to be this. I was only supposed to be here for the summer-, I thought I could leave-, I thought I could fuck you and feel nothing, but you-, God, you-”

His mouth finds yours before you can say anything more. Kisses you like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he already knows. His hand slips into your hair, keeping you close, and when he finally pulls back, his voice is rough but steady.

“I don’t care where you go,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ll love you anyway. No matter where you are. I’ll fucking love you from anywhere.” Then he thrusts up harder, making you cry out, and everything gets sharper. Faster. Wetter. Needier.

That’s when it breaks.

“I’m sorry,” you cry out, your voice cracking open around the words. “I’m so sorry-, I didn’t mean to-, I didn’t mean to fall like this, fuck-” You’re shaking in his arms, tears hot on your cheeks, your fingers digging into his back like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. “Didn’t think you’d want me like this. I didn’t think-”

“Too late,” he growls, voice almost breaking, and he holds you tighter, thrusts deeper, grounding you in him. Sweat beads on his forehead, his jaw clenched, neck straining, but his eyes are locked on yours like he’s memorizing this, memorizing you. “You’re mine,” he groans, voice wrecked as his hands grip your hips, keeping you moving, guiding you harder. “You always fucking were.”

Your clit brushes against the taut muscle of his abdomen with every thrust, sending sparks skittering down your spine. Your whole body starts to tighten, pulse quickening, breath catching.

“Fuck, I’m close,” you gasp, voice pitched high, wrecked. Your nails rake down his back. “Harder, fuck, right there-”

He wraps one arm around your back to hold you flush against him, grinding into you so deep it makes your thighs tremble. “I got you, baby,” he growls. “I got you. Come for me.” He grabs your face with one hand, pulling you down into a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and raw emotion. 

You break the kiss, moaning as you ride him faster. “I love you,” you whisper, voice cracking. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your mouth, like it’s a vow. “God, I love you.”

That’s what does it.

You shatter around him with a cry, clutching his body like he’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth. His cock pulses deep inside you, stretching you wide, the thick drag of him enough to push you to the edge all over again.

“Shit, fuck, baby-,” he chokes, and then he’s spilling inside you with a broken sound, grinding into you as he pumps thick and hot, ropes of cum flooding your tight, soaked heat. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you there as his body jerks through every last twitch of release.

You’re both panting, still clinging to each other, your chest pressed to his, your face buried in the crook of his neck. His heart’s pounding so hard you can feel it against your own. His hands stay on your back, sliding up and down, stroking your skin. 

You’re still joined, still shaking, still wrapped around each other like you can’t believe it finally happened.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was the shift.

The one where everything changed, where love stopped being a dangerous thought and started being the truth, spoken between broken kisses and whispered confessions, claimed through every thrust, every gasp, every slow grind of your bodies trying to say what words can’t hold.

***

You were supposed to leave Saturday.

But then you saw the way he looked at you, like losing you would destroy him. Like he’d just found something worth crashing for. So you changed your ticket. Just three more days.

Three more days with him. Three more days of being completely, wildly, his. And he doesn’t waste a second of them.

He keeps you in his bed and barely lets you come up for air. He fucks you like he’s starving, like he’s never going to get enough of you, because he knows he won’t. You come apart under his mouth, his hands, his voice in your ear whispering mine while he pulls you over the edge again and again.

He moans your name like it’s holy. Tells you he loves you between kisses, between thrusts, in the shower while shampoo runs down your back. You say it back every time. You mean it more every time.

You wear his jacket everywhere. Like it’s a flag. Like it’s armor. His crew barely blinks anymore.

At the races, you’re glued to his side. He spins you into his space, your back pressed to his chest, one hand resting heavy across your lower stomach. His fingers tap against your waistband like a warning. You’re his center of gravity, his magnet, his anchor.

And he’s not subtle about it. He’s got one hand on you at all times, like someone might be stupid enough to try something. His eyes track every guy that lingers too long, like he’s daring them to make a move, just so he can remind them exactly who the fuck you belong to.

He doesn’t just show you off, he marks you with every touch. Pulls you in by the belt loops, kisses you hard in front of everyone, talks to you with that low voice that turns your insides molten. He’s not sweet with it, not shy. He’s proud. Like claiming you is the boldest, smartest thing he’s ever done.

And you? You kiss him at red lights. Whisper filthy things in his ear just to watch his jaw clench. You’ve never been more yourself. Never felt more wanted.

It’s messy. Loud. Bare. Real. The sex is addictive. The love is worse.

He holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear every time you fall asleep. You run your fingers through his hair and pretend you’re not counting down the days in your head. He tells you you’ll be okay when you leave.

But you both know that’s a lie.

Your last night in the city feels like a fever dream. He keeps you in bed for hours, touching you like it’s the last time, because it is. He doesn’t hold back. Neither do you. You cry a little. He kisses it away. When you finally collapse together, bodies soaked in sweat and love, he holds you tighter than ever and doesn’t let go until morning.

And then it’s time.

The morning you leave, it rains.

Not enough to drown the city, just enough to make everything feel heavier. Dimmer. Like the world knows you’re about to break your own heart. His arm is heavy across your waist, one leg thrown over yours, his nose pressed to the curve of your neck like he’s trying to memorize your scent. You feel the steady thump of his heart against your back, strong and fast, like he never really fell asleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because if you do, it’ll be real.

You let yourself have one more minute. One more heartbeat of pretending this is just another morning, just another day where you’ll stay in his bed until noon, steal his shirt, kiss him slow and lazy like you’ve got forever.

But you don’t.

He stirs when you shift. His fingers curl tighter around your waist like he already knows. “No,” he rasps, voice wrecked with sleep and something heavier. “Don’t.”

“I have to,” you whisper, swallowing hard. Your throat burns. His hand slides up your side beneath the sheets, warm and possessive, tracing every inch he already knows by heart. He presses a kiss behind your ear and then another to your bare shoulder, lips lingering. You turn in his arms and he’s already looking at you. His eyes are swollen with sleep but open, searching your face like he’s trying to carve it into his memory. You reach up to trace his jaw, soft and slow, and the second your fingers graze his skin, he leans in.

The kiss is gentle. Painfully so. There’s no hunger in it, just grief. The kind that sits low in your stomach and makes your chest feel tight. And when he pushes the sheets down and moves between your thighs, it’s not fast, not frantic.

It’s reverent.

When he pushes into you, it’s quiet but not silent. There’s breathless gasps and whispered names. Little nothings and everything at once. He whispers I’ll miss you into your skin. You breathe don’t forget me into his mouth. He makes love to you in the grey morning light, slow and devastating. There’s no performance, no rush. Just his mouth on your neck, your shoulder, your chest. His hands gripping your hips like he can anchor you here a little longer. When you come, you clutch his back like you’re scared you won’t feel him again, and he kisses your tears without even teasing you for them.

When it’s over, he stays inside you as long as he can. Breathing heavy against your neck, arms wrapped around your back. You just lie there, tangled up in sheets and sweat and each other, listening to the minutes tick away.

“I should get up.” you say softly.

“No.”

You huff a laugh into his neck. “I’m gonna miss the flight.”

“Good.” He says it like a reflex. You lift your head and meet his eyes.

“You know I have to go.”

“I know.” He cups your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Eventually, you pull yourself from the warmth of his bed. Pull on yesterday’s clothes. Start shoving things back into your bag. It feels mechanical. Distant. Like you’re packing someone else’s life. He watches you the whole time. Silent, jaw clenched. Then he steps out of the room, just for a second, and comes back holding the leather jacket.

His jacket.

The one that’s been through hell and back with him. The one that smells like gasoline and wind and everything he is. He holds it out. Doesn’t speak.

You freeze. “You’re giving me this?”

He shrugs. Looks away, jaw tight. “What, you thought I’d let my girlfriend fly across the country without it?”

Girlfriend.

The word sucker punches you right in the chest. Not because it’s new, you’ve both known what you are, but because hearing him say it like it’s obvious, like it’s real, undoes you completely.

Your throat burns. “Say that again.”

He meets your eyes. “You’re my girlfriend.”

Your lip trembles. He notices. Steps forward and cups your face with both hands.

“You’re mine,” he says, softer now. “I don’t care where you go. You’re still mine.”

You drive to the airport in his car. Of course you do. There’s no way he’d let you leave the city in anything else.

His hand stays on your thigh the entire ride, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin. His knuckles are white on the wheel, jaw tight, eyes locked on the road like it’s the only thing keeping him from turning around and driving the opposite way.

He doesn’t say much.

You do.

You talk, not because the words matter, but because the silence feels like a countdown. You ramble about airport food, how you’ll probably get something stupid like a soggy sandwich. You joke about your job, how it’s going to eat you alive the second you clock back in. You even try to make him laugh by telling him how weird it’ll be to sleep without the sound of engines in your dreams.

His fingers tighten on your thigh once, and you know it’s coming before he even opens his mouth. “You could stay.”

Your heart stutters. You stare ahead. The traffic light turns green. “I can’t,” you say quietly.

“Don’t say ‘can’t,’” he mutters. “You can do anything.”

You reach for his hand on your thigh. Squeeze it hard. “You know I want to.”

He exhales, almost like a laugh. It’s not a happy one. “I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, eyes fixed on the side of his face. “I have a life back there,” you say. “My job, my apartment, my family…”

“I know,” he says again. But this time his voice is softer. Distant. Like maybe he’s already watching you walk away.

The rain gets heavier. A full-on downpour now.

When he finally pulls up to the airport drop-off, everything looks washed out, the sky, the pavement, the shape of people dragging suitcases beneath umbrellas. It all feels unreal. In a few more minutes, you’ll be nothing but a silhouette walking away through security. And he’ll be just a boy behind the glass, watching everything he wants disappear.

Your hand slips from his, and even that feels like too much, like a wound tearing open. You reach for your bag in the backseat and open the door before the storm of emotion inside you can make your legs freeze.

The rain hasn’t let up, but neither has he.

Wooyoung is out of the car in an instant, rounding the front before you can even lift your suitcase. He takes it from your hand like always, like muscle memory, like second nature.

He doesn’t speak much as you both walk through the terminal, but his hand doesn’t leave the small of your back. He keeps you tucked close, his fingers spread possessively across your side like he’s still trying to convince the universe that you’re his.

Every time you glance up at him, his expression is unreadable. Stoic. But you know him now. You know what it means when his jaw locks like that, when his throat moves like he’s swallowing something back. You know what it means when he won’t look directly at you too long, because if he does, he might not be able to look away.

Check-in. Baggage drop. Security line.

The minutes disappear too fast.

He stares at you like he’s trying to etch you into memory. Like he can’t decide which part of you to commit to first, the curve of your mouth, the crease between your brows, the tears welling in your lashes that you’re trying so hard to blink away.

He exhales hard through his nose. He steps forward, crowds into your space, and cups your face with both hands like he’s trying to hold you in place, to stop time, to stop you.

“Can’t believe I’m letting my girlfriend get on a fucking plane without me.”

Your stomach turns over. You choke on a laugh that’s more sob than smile. “I’ll come back.”

“You better,” he says, voice breaking on the edge of it. “If you don’t, I’ll come find you.”

You close your eyes. Press your forehead to his. You can feel his breath. His pulse. The heat of him, even through the thunderstorm building in your chest.

“I’m serious,” he whispers. “I’ll show up in your city. At your job. At your apartment. I don’t give a shit. You’re not getting rid of me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Good.”

He kisses you then, hard. With teeth and tongue and something frantic behind it, like he’s trying to brand himself into your mouth. Like it might make this less unbearable. When he finally pulls back, he’s breathing like he just ran a race. He swipes your tears away with rough fingers. Lingers on your cheek like he can’t make himself let go.

You press your face to his neck and breathe him in one last time. “I’ll come back,” you promise again.

“Fuck,” he breathes, holding you tighter. “You better.”

You pick up your bag. Step into line. He stays until the very end. Right up to the point where the TSA agent tells you to move forward. Right up until the barrier he physically can’t cross. And even then he doesn’t leave. 

He’s still standing there. Still watching you like you’re everything he never expected to need.

And now can’t imagine being without.

***

Weeks have passed since you left the city. Since you left him.

You’re back in your hometown now. The familiar streets, the same cracked sidewalks, the same tired coffee shops. Everything feels smaller somehow, quieter, but your heart is loud.

You wear his jacket like armor. It’s thick, heavy with his scent, leather and a hint of something uniquely Wooyoung. You wrap it tighter around you on the cold days, pretending it’s his arms instead of just fabric.

You crave the feel of his hands on you, not the polite, careful touches, but the ones that claim, that drag you into chaos and leave you raw. You hear it in his voice when he talks, rough and low, hinting at nights he’s spent thinking about you the way you think about him, 

You talk constantly. Texts that never stop. Calls that stretch deep into the night until you’re both too wrecked to speak. You fall asleep with the phone on your chest, wake up to good morning messages that should not be that obscene.

He tells you about the races, the wins, the near-misses. Brags about how he fucked up some cocky kid on the asphalt, then drops his voice just enough to say, “But I was thinking about you the whole time. Thinking about your thighs around my head while I floored it. Sick, right?”

You love when he says shit like that.

He laughs, dark and low.

Most nights end the same way. FaceTime calls that start off innocent, just him in bed with the covers low, tattoos out, chain resting on his bare chest. And he’s shameless. Hair messy. Smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Because he does.

“You touching yourself already?” he’ll ask like it’s nothing.

And then his hand is on his cock and yours is between your thighs, and there’s nothing sweet about it. He tells you where to put your fingers. How deep. How fast. Groans when you whimper, begs you to be louder, to let him hear how ruined you are. Sometimes he talks you through it, filthy, detailed, claiming you with every word.

“Wish I was there to spit in your mouth,” he growls, hips jerking under the camera. “Want to fuck you open and make you beg for it. You’d take it, wouldn’t you? All of me.”

You whimper his name like it’s a prayer.

“Louder.”

And you do. Because he owns you even from hundreds of miles away.

He groans your name like it hurts. Tells you how good you look falling apart for him. How no one’s ever going to touch you like he does. And then he says the things that make your toes curl and your heart twist.

“My girl,” he mutters, low and breathless as he strokes himself. “You hear me? You’re my fucking girl.” He always smiles then, dangerous and soft all at once.

And when it’s over, when you’re both wrecked, sweaty, boneless in separate beds, he stays on the line. Tells you about the engine he’s rebuilding. The fight he almost got into at the garage. How nothing feels the same without you there.

And then, after it all, the silent goodnights come heavy with promise. The way he says, “Soon,” like it’s the only word you both need to hear. Because it is.

Today starts like any other shitty weekday.

The sun’s setting slow and syrupy, casting everything in burnt gold. Your feet ache from standing too long, your shoulders are sore from stress. Work was a mess. Your phone’s dead. You forgot to eat lunch. You just want to collapse.

You step off the bus with a sigh, your breath fogs in the air. You pull his leather jacket tighter around yourself, the weight of the worn leather and the scent still faint but unmistakably his.

Then, out of nowhere, something shoves its way into your thoughts, a flash of black, sleek and familiar, parked right across from your building. Your heart stops. You freeze mid-step. The shape, the shine, the way the fading light glints off the leather interior, there’s no mistaking it. His car. His goddamn car. Here. Outside your apartment.

Your heart stutters. You stop dead on the sidewalk, stare at it, like if you blink it might vanish.

No fucking way.

Your steps quicken, your pulse louder than your footsteps. You glance around, heart in your throat. There’s no sign of him. Your fingers twitch, itching to reach out, to touch something real. You drag your palm over the hood, still warm from the engine, the heat pulsing faint against your skin. It’s so tangible, so utterly him.

You swallow hard and turn toward your building, your steps quickening. You race up the stairs, every echo of your shoes against the concrete sounding impossibly loud in the silent hallway. Your keys shake in your hand. You don’t even remember making it to your floor, you're too frantic, breath shallow, thoughts spinning.

You reach your floor and immediately stop. There. At the end of the hallway, by your door, leaning against the wall like he owns the space. His silhouette is sharp against the dim light, casual but magnetic. One foot crossed over the other, his head tilted down just enough for the loose strands of hair to fall over his eyes.

You can’t move. You can’t even think. Then, slowly, he lifts his gaze. His eyes find yours. And that smirk, that fucking smirk, spreads across his lips. It’s cocky and knowing, the kind of smirk that says he’s been here all along, waiting for you to notice, waiting for this exact second.

His voice, low and rich and dripping with everything he’s been holding back and all the fire he’s ready to unleash.

“Hey, trouble.”

And just like that, everything shifts. Time slows, your world narrows to the space between you two. The city, the distance, the ache, none of it matters anymore.

Because it was always going to be him.And you were always going to be his.

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[loredrinker]

The story of Lavellan and Solas tickles my Tolkien-influenced love for fantasy. It falls into the category of Beren and Lúthien - a love story that, by all real-world logic, is absolutely batshit insane. And yet, placed within the mythic frame of fantasy, it fits perfectly. It belongs there. These are the kinds of stories that only make sense in a world comfortable with myths, legends, ancient beings, monsters, supernatural war and absurdity - where love doesn’t follow rules, it transcends them.

That’s what I love: the illogical. Because love isn’t logical. For every argument I’ve seen that says it “makes no sense” for Lavellan and Solas to fall in love over the course of Inquisition, or that waiting that many years to be together is unrealistic. I sit back and laugh. Really? Love needs a timeline? In a fantasy?

Beren took one look at Lúthien dancing and fell irrevocably in love - and Lúthien was all in too. They didn’t take three years to build a foundation of trust and talk about boundaries or what they saw in each other. Their version of courtship was joining forces to battle literal evil so they could earn the right to be together. It was reckless, wild, insane, illogical and absolutely delicious. 

Lavellan and Solas hit that same mythic nerve for me. Their story - two people drawn together across time, fate, and existential stakes - feels like something out of The Silmarillion.

I don’t need these stories of love and pain and tragedy and trauma and desire to be logical in the real-world sense. It was never meant to be. Like all mythological love stories, it speaks to something eternal, irrational, and luminous.

There are themes and tropes woven through Lavellan and Solas’ story that utterly captivate me. And it’s partly to do with the fact that their love story isn't a comfortable one. It asks something of you. It asks you to reconcile contradiction: love and betrayal, hope and despair, violence and tenderness, destiny and choice, love as performance vs love as presence.

I’ve uncovered themes and archetypes that fit perfectly in this world of fantasy and discovered new ones in conversations with fellow Solas and Lavellan lovers as well. Here’s my attempt to weave some of those tropes and themes together. 

Their story carries what I like to call the Tolkien Effect: elven atmosphere where immortals and mortals fall in love and brave inconceivable odds just to be together. It’s the story of a man tormented by the choice between duty and love - Solas’ self-imposed responsibility to mend the world demands that he sacrifice his heart, while Lavellan’s bond with him is forged within that very conflict. He stands as the tragic anti-hero: prideful, guilt-ridden, withdrawing into self-destructive isolation because he’s convinced only he can set things right. She, meanwhile, plays Beauty to his Beast - seeing the fractured soul beneath the would-be destroyer and, by loving him, becoming the mirror that reflects his lost humanity. In classic fashion, they are star-crossed lovers - she's a mortal leader of the present, he's an immortal haunted by his past. Their timelines are misaligned, their love a sacrifice in the face of fate.

Their relationship goes from prejudice to passion. At first, Solas sees Lavellan as a biased curiosity - a product of a world he resents. But curiosity gives way to respect, respect deepens into desire, and desire transforms into love overwhelming it's held in restraint. He tries to resist her, but she becomes a gravitational force pulling him into her orbit.

Here, love becomes existential salvation or existential disruption. Lavellan offers Solas something terrifying: a path out of the endless cycle of destruction. It's a chance to choose life and yet instead he chooses to run from it, fleeing the love that might transform his path.

He tries to let her go, believing he must shield her from the darkness he carries. But he's the immortal who can't let go. He visits her dreams. Writes to her. Remembers her. Because this is love across time - a mythic bond that survives years, silence, betrayal, and distance. A love that endures even after everything else has fallen.

He's the lonely immortal whose memories stretch back to betrayals no one else can comprehend. Lavellan is shaped in the mold of Tolkien’s quiet heroes - Frodo’s endurance, Aragorn’s purpose, Éowyn’s resolve - meeting unearthly stakes with a resilience that refuses to break, even when love itself feels like punishment.

In the end, wisdom and mercy override vengeance. Lavellan’s forgiveness doesn’t excuse but provides a path to healing. She has taken on the role of mortal muse of the divine. A single, fleeting human heart - fragile, finite - a key that might yet save an ancient, wounded soul. And so great is this ancient being’s pain, so immense the guilt and fear he carries, that it takes a fellowship to save Thedas, to save him - the mortal and immortal working together. And at the end, the star-crossed lovers are reunited, a bittersweet ending as they experienced so much pain to get there. They ascend together into another world, stepping outside the boundaries of Thedas, likely to inspire new legends in the years to come. 

Should I go on? There are more themes and tropes I’ve pulled from this story - more patterns of myth and meaning that keep drawing me back. And now, with the story of Lavellan and Solas together in the Fade, it begs for new narratives, new archetypes, new emotional terrain.

The story isn’t over. It’s only deepening.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

The Telling Truth: When 'Show, Don't Tell' Doesn't Apply (You Don't Always Have To Show, Don't Tell.)

Hey there, fellow writers and beloved members of the writeblr community! 📝✨

Today, I want to talk about something that's been on my mind lately, and I have a feeling it might resonate with many of you too. It's about that age-old writing advice we've all heard a million times: "Show, don't tell." Now, don't get me wrong – it's great advice, and it has its place in our writing toolbox. But here's the thing: it's not the be-all and end-all of good writing. In fact, I'd argue that sometimes, it's perfectly okay – even necessary – to tell rather than show.

First things first, let's address the elephant in the room. The "show, don't tell" rule has been drilled into our heads since we first picked up a pen (or opened a Word document) with the intention of writing creatively. It's been repeated in writing workshops, creative writing classes, and countless craft books. And for good reason! Showing can create vivid, immersive experiences for readers, allowing them to feel like they're right there in the story.

But here's where things get a bit tricky: like any rule in writing (or in life, for that matter), it's not absolute. There are times when telling is not just acceptable, but actually preferable. And that's what you all will explore today in this hopefully understandable blog post.

Let's start by breaking down why "show, don't tell" is so popular. When we show instead of tell, we're engaging the reader's senses and emotions. We're painting a picture with words, allowing the reader to draw their own conclusions based on the details we provide. It's a powerful technique that can make our writing more engaging and memorable.

For example, instead of saying "Sarah was angry," we might write, "Sarah's fists clenched at her sides, her jaw tight as she glared at the broken vase." This gives the reader a clearer image and allows them to infer Sarah's emotional state.

But here's the thing: sometimes, we don't need or want that level of detail. Sometimes, efficiency in storytelling is more important than painting an elaborate picture. And that's where telling comes in handy.

Imagine if every single emotion, action, or piece of information in your story was shown rather than told. Your novel would probably be thousands of pages long, and your readers might get lost in the sea of details, losing sight of the main plot or character arcs.

So, when might telling be more appropriate? Let's explore some scenarios:

Summarizing less important events: If you're writing a story that spans a long period, you don't need to show every single day or event. Telling can help you summarize periods of time or less crucial events quickly, allowing you to focus on the more important parts of your story.

For instance: "The next few weeks passed in a blur of exams and late-night study sessions." This sentence tells us what happened without going into unnecessary detail about each day.

Providing necessary background information: Sometimes, you need to give your readers some context or backstory. While you can certainly weave this information into scenes, there are times when a straightforward telling of facts is more efficient.

Example: "The war had been raging for three years before Sarah's village was attacked." This quickly gives us important context without needing to show the entire history of the war.

Establishing pace and rhythm: Alternating between showing and telling can help you control the pace of your story. Showing tends to slow things down, allowing readers to immerse themselves in a moment. Telling can speed things up, moving the story along more quickly when needed.

Clarifying complex ideas or emotions: Some concepts or feelings are abstract or complex enough that showing alone might not suffice. In these cases, a bit of telling can help ensure your readers understand what's happening.

For example: "The quantum entanglement theory had always fascinated John, but explaining it to others often left him feeling frustrated and misunderstood." Here, we're telling the reader about John's relationship with this complex scientific concept, which might be difficult to show effectively.

Maintaining your narrative voice: Sometimes, telling is simply more in line with your narrative voice or the tone of your story. This is especially true if you're writing in a more direct or conversational style.

Now, I can almost hear some of you saying, "But wait! I've always been told that showing is always better!" And I completely get it. I'm a writer myself and prioritize "Show, Don't tell." in my writing all the time. We've been conditioned to believe that showing is superior in all cases. But we can take a moment to challenge that notion.

Think about some of your favorite books. Chances are, they use a mix of showing and telling. Even the most critically acclaimed authors don't adhere strictly to "show, don't tell" all the time. They understand that good writing is about balance and knowing when to use each technique effectively.

Take, for instance, the opening line of George Orwell's "1984": "It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen." This is a perfect blend of showing and telling. Orwell shows us it's a bright, cold day (we can imagine the crisp air and clear sky), but he tells us about the clocks striking thirteen. This immediate telling gives us crucial information about the world we're entering – it's not quite like our own.

Or consider this passage from Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice": "Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character." Here, Austen is clearly telling us about Mr. Bennet's character rather than showing it through his actions. And yet, it works beautifully, giving us a quick, clear insight into both Mr. Bennet and his wife.

The key is to use both techniques strategically. So, how can you decide when to show and when to tell? Here are some tips:

Consider the importance of the information: Is this a crucial moment in your story, a pivotal emotion, or a key piece of character development? If so, it might be worth showing. If it's more of a transitional moment or background information, telling might be more appropriate.

Think about pacing: If you want to slow down and really immerse your reader in a moment, show it. If you need to move things along more quickly, tell it.

Evaluate the complexity: If you're dealing with a complex emotion or concept, consider whether showing alone will be enough to convey it clearly. Sometimes, a combination of showing and telling works best for complex ideas.

Consider your word count: If you're working with strict word count limitations (like in short stories or flash fiction), telling can help you convey necessary information more concisely.

Trust your instincts (Important): As you write more, you'll develop a feel for when showing or telling works better. Trust your gut, and don't be afraid to experiment.

Now, let's talk about how to tell effectively when you do choose to use it. Because here's the thing: telling doesn't have to be boring or flat. It can be just as engaging and stylish as showing when done well. Here are some tips for effective telling:

Use strong, specific language: Instead of using vague or generic words, opt for more specific, evocative language. For example, instead of "She was sad," you might write, "A profound melancholy settled over her."

Incorporate sensory details: Even when telling, you can include sensory information to make it more vivid. "The room was cold" becomes more engaging as "A bone-chilling cold permeated the room."

Use metaphors and similes: These can help make your telling more colorful and memorable. "His anger was like a volcano ready to erupt" paints a vivid picture without showing the anger in action.

Keep it concise: One of the advantages of telling is its efficiency. Don't negate that by being overly wordy. Get to the point, but do it with style.

Vary your sentence structure: Mix short, punchy sentences with longer, more flowing ones to create rhythm and maintain interest.

Remember, the goal is to create a seamless narrative that engages your reader. Sometimes that means showing, sometimes it means telling, and often it means a artful blend of both.

It's also worth noting that different genres and styles of writing may lean more heavily on one technique or the other. Literary fiction often employs more showing, delving deep into characters' psyches and painting elaborate scenes. Genre fiction, on the other hand, might use more telling to keep the plot moving at a brisker pace. Neither approach is inherently better – it all depends on what works best for your story and your style.

Now, I want to address something that I think many of us struggle with: the guilt or anxiety we might feel when we catch ourselves telling instead of showing. It's easy to fall into the trap of second-guessing every sentence, wondering if we should be showing more. But here's the truth: that kind of constant self-doubt can be paralyzing and ultimately detrimental to your writing process.

So, I want you to understand and think: It's okay to tell sometimes. You're not a bad writer for using telling in your work. In fact, knowing when and how to use telling effectively is a sign of a skilled writer.

Here's some practical ways to incorporate this mindset into your writing process:

First Draft Freedom: When you're writing your first draft, give yourself permission to write however it comes out. If that means more telling than showing, that's absolutely fine. The important thing is to get the story down. You can always revise and add more "showing" elements later if needed.

Revision with Purpose: When you're revising, don't automatically change every instance of telling to showing. Instead, ask yourself: Does this serve the story better as telling or showing? Consider the pacing, the importance of the information, and how it fits into the overall narrative.

Beta Readers and Feedback: When you're getting feedback on your work, pay attention to how readers respond to different sections. If they're engaged and understanding the story, then your balance of showing and telling is probably working well, regardless of which technique you're using more.

Study Your Favorite Authors: Take some time to analyze how your favorite writers use showing and telling. You might be surprised to find more instances of effective telling than you expected.

Practice Both Techniques (Important): Set aside some time to practice both showing and telling. Write the same scene twice, once focusing on showing and once on telling. This can help you develop a feel for when each technique is most effective.

Now, let's address another important point: the evolution of writing styles and reader preferences. The "show, don't tell" rule gained popularity in the early 20th century with the rise of modernist literature. But writing styles and reader tastes have continued to evolve since then.

In our current fast-paced world, where people are often reading on devices and in shorter bursts, there's sometimes a preference for more direct, efficient storytelling. This doesn't mean that showing is out of style, but it does mean that there's often room for more telling than strict adherence to "show, don't tell" would allow.

Moreover, diverse voices in literature are challenging traditional Western writing norms, including the emphasis on showing over telling. Some cultures have strong storytelling traditions that lean more heavily on telling, and as the literary world becomes more inclusive, we're seeing a beautiful variety of styles that blend showing and telling in new and exciting ways.

This brings me to an important point: your voice matters. Your unique way of telling stories is valuable. Don't let rigid adherence to any writing rule, including "show, don't tell," stifle your natural voice or the story you want to tell.

Remember, rules in writing are more like guidelines. They're tools to help us improve our craft, not unbreakable laws. The most important rule is to engage your reader and tell your story effectively. If that means more telling than the conventional wisdom suggests, then so be it.

As I wrap up this discussion, I want to leave you with a challenge: In your next writing session, consciously use both showing and telling. Pay attention to how each technique feels, how it serves your story, and how it affects the rhythm of your writing. You might discover new ways to blend these techniques that work perfectly for your unique style.

Writing is an art, not a science. There's no perfect formula, no one-size-fits-all approach. It's about finding what works for you, your story, and your readers. So embrace both showing and telling. Use them as the powerful tools they are, and don't be afraid to break the "rules" when your instincts tell you to.

Remember, every great writer started where you are now, learning the rules and then figuring out when and how to break them effectively. You're part of a long, proud tradition of storytellers, each finding their own path through the winding forest of words.

Keep writing, keep growing, and keep believing in yourself. You've got this!

Happy writing! 💖✍️ - Rin T.

Before you go, why not join us at The Write Right Society? We're a supportive Tumblr community where writers lift each other up. Whether you're a newbie or a pro, we'd love to have you! Share your work, get feedback, and connect with fellow wordsmiths, writers and aspiring authors. 

[avelera]

Okay so I recently got low-key obsessed with Jayvik and I’ve been liking your posts about them (top tier analysis btw). Anyway I’m curious about your opinions on a couple of things:

If Jayce’s love language is physical touch, what do you think Viktor’s love language is?

What do you think the Anomaly actually is? My headcanon is that it’s caused by all the paradoxes/timelines that Mad Wizard Viktor keeps making, but idk why it would only be under the Hexgates.

Hmm, when taking into account that the love languages thing is basically horoscopes for real people, but they may have informed how the characters were written, I'd say:

1 ) I completely agree that Jayce's love language is physical touch. That much is obvious.

Viktor's love language is Quality Time - that would explain why he starts getting irritated and hurt with Jayce near the end of S1 and why he's so moved and touched by them solving equations and spending time together pre-time skip. Actually, so much of Viktor's attitude towards Jayce is explained by him seeing Quality Time as a love language it's actually making me a bit dizzy, I need to think about this a lot more because I think this might have cracked something for me...

2 ) Hoooo boy, I actually have an answer for what the Anomaly is in my mind, but it's a lot less character driven and a more metaphysics driven because I was feral about Arcane S1 before I had anyone else to talk to about it online and I've spent a lot of time thinking about Hextech and Shimmer. OK, here goes:

Hextech is an axiomatic (lawful) channeling of forces of nature, namely magic. However, magic to stay pure and reliable requires an anarchic (chaotic) AND the axiomatic (lawful) balancing act for each use of its power if it's to stay "pure" and reliable. Otherwise, you invite chaos in. Namely, the Anomaly.

In addition, every use of magic/the Arcane puts off a certain amount of "car exhaust" for every use, this allows it from a Doylist perspective to be a climate change metaphor but it does go deeper than that and follows its own magical rules. If you look closely, overuse of Hextech always puts off smoke. Early uses don't do so as much, though. In my opinion, each puff of that "smoke" adds to a potential Anomaly.

Now if you're good at magic, and skilled with it, say if you're good mage, as seen with The Mage / Viktor in 1.02, you make a point of scooping up up all the exhaust from any use of rune magic and pouring it back into the spell.

Look at how the mage scoops up all the exhaust coming out of the spell here and weaves it back into the spell!

Hextech doesn't bother to do that! Because Jayce doesn't fundamentally understand that advanced level of magic! He just keeps calling on its energy without dealing with the output of smoke/chaos/Anomaly fumes so it's just hanging in the air.

By the way, all the smoke in Arcane is hand animated so to my eyes, all smoke actually matters. I'm actually a little bummed that S2 didn't go deeper into explaining the smoke that comes off of some uses of the Arcane but not others but I'm assuming they'll delve more into in future shows because The Arcane Is Awake Now, thanks to my brilliant science boy dipshits.

The cleanest, clearest use of Hextech we ever see is the first time the science boys use it to float:

I draw a few conclusions from this:

1 ) The first hit is always free - first time you use magic, magic is happy to help you out! It will do the thing you ask! No consequences!

2 ) Magic gets more and more angry the more times you use it. Actually, by the time we get to Vi using the Atlas Gauntlets repeatedly in S2, there's a little puff of smoke every. time. she uses. them.

3 ) Magic requires some balance. Breaking a window before it let the boys float? Cool, that's balance. But if you just have it doing the same constructive motion over and over, like sending out airships, but you don't let it break some things too? It gets annoyed.

4 ) If it doesn't get applied in a balanced way, magic/the Arcane gets mad. Ekko compared the Arcane's frustration to a sigh. That smoke? Is the sigh. Again, first time you use Hextech, magic which is at least semi-sentient, is MORE than happy to help! The more you keep demanding repeated axiomatic actions, the more it sighs in anger.

Then we get to the crux of your question: what is the Anomaly?

The Anomaly built up at the base of a tower stuffed full with polished, axiomatic, reinforced Hexgems that do one constructive task over and over and over again all day, every day: safely send ships from one place to another.

The Anomaly builds up from the frustration of not allowing magic to be free. Jayce is an axiomatic thinker, he sees magic as a tool, not as a force of nature, so he's been channeling it super precisely and not scooping up all that extra exhaust and channeling it back into the magic and that means it builds up this... pearl of an Anomaly which is all this wild magic with tons of chaotic potential that can do basically anything, including time and dimensional travel but it's gonna be super weird about it.

Soooo... thanks for giving me the chance to yell about Hextech, hope that was sort of what you had in mind!

[sixeyesonathiel]

love thy neighbor — chapter one.

pairing – boy next door! gojo x fem reader

summary : you grew up with the boy next door, the one with wild white hair and a grin too sharp for someone who always left dirt on your doorstep. satoru lived to rile you up, stealing your snacks and outrunning you in backyard chases, weaving himself into your life despite every glare you threw. through the chaos of shared summers and endless spats, he became a constant you couldn’t quite escape.

college stretched you apart, states away, the silence of distance swallowing your usual bickering—until summer drags you back. nothing’s the same. the air feels heavier, the days stranger, and satoru’s still all smirks and sly glances, but his eyes linger now, carrying a quiet ache you’re only starting to notice. college has you questioning everything, and he’s waiting, like always, for you to catch up to something you’re not ready to name.

tags –> fluff, tiny bit of angst later, eventual smut, neighbors au, childhood frenemies to lovers, suburban warfare (moms edition), mutual pining, domestic in the pettiest way possible, slow burn, growing up together, long term pining, yearner satoru, summer vacation tension, alternating POVs.

a/n : releasing this as series with four chapters that will have 10k+ wc per chapter instead of a oneshot out of draft jail because i overyappped once again, i’m really sorry for second guessing and hesitating so much, making u all wait TvT

collection m.list. | series masterlist. | playlist. | next ch.

the neighborhood was perfect.

white fences, manicured lawns, and an unspoken rule that everything must remain picturesque. but beneath the surface of perfection, an ancient war raged: your mother versus satoru’s. it was a battle fought with gardening shears and passive-aggressive remarks, masked by polite smiles at neighborhood events.

your mother, ever the strategist, sipped her tea with a dramatic sigh whenever satoru’s mother so much as stepped onto her porch. “oh, did you see the way she over-fertilizes?” she mused, her voice dripping with feigned concern. “poor plants, suffocating under all that desperate effort.”

meanwhile, satoru’s mother, arranging her hydrangeas in full view of your living room window, would hum thoughtfully before muttering, “i’d be embarrassed if my hydrangeas were that dull. not that i’d let it happen.”

the tension was palpable, woven into every stolen glance and whispered insult disguised as gardening advice. neither woman ever admitted the rivalry outright, but the perfectly pruned rose bushes and the carefully curated window boxes spoke volumes.

their husbands, however, lived in blissful ignorance. every weekend, they could be found on the golf course or clinking beer bottles over the backyard fence, chuckling about how “our wives are gonna kill each other one day, huh?”

the rivalry simply amused them.

but you and satoru? you were casualties. you were dragged into their war from the moment you could walk, coached into side-eyed glares and dismissive huffs whenever the gojos were mentioned.

when your father first introduced you to satoru at a neighborhood barbecue, he did so with the same pride as a general uniting two warring factions. “this is satoru, gojo’s boy!” he beamed, clapping his friend on the back.

but instead of an instant friendship, all satoru got was a glare and the words your mother had fed you over breakfast that morning.

“we don’t talk to people who use fake grass as a lawn substitute.”

you said it with the confidence of someone who truly understood what that meant, though in reality, you weren’t entirely sure why fake grass was so offensive. satoru blinked at you, mouth slightly open, his white lashes fluttering as if he hadn’t processed what just happened.

“...huh?” he finally said, voice trailing off in confusion.

your dads laughed, the kind of laugh that men share when they think their kids are just being silly. it wasn’t silly. it was war. and from that moment on, satoru gojo was your enemy, whether he wanted to be or not.

the first time you’re sent outside to water the garden, you don’t think much of it—until you see satoru stepping out of his house at the same time, dragging a garden hose behind him. he’s still in his pajamas, some silly blue set with little clouds on it, his white hair sticking up in messy tufts, like he just rolled out of bed.

he’s wearing slippers—bunny slippers, to be precise—but what really catches your attention are the socks. white with tiny little blue stars, pulled up just past his ankles, the kind of socks that scream these are my favorite and if anything happens to them, i will never recover.

you freeze, fingers tightening around the nozzle as he glances at you, then at his own hose, then back at you. for a second, neither of you speak. but you both know. your moms, pretending to be absorbed in their baking and magazine-reading inside, have timed this on purpose.

“pure coincidence,” your mother had said, the corners of her lips twitching in barely concealed triumph, and you—foolish, naive—had believed her.

satoru, being satoru, tries to be friendly at first, tilting his head as he watches you water the tulips along the fence. “your tulips are kinda nice,” he says, casual, like he’s just making conversation, like he isn’t the enemy.

you whip your head toward him so fast your hair smacks you in the face, eyes narrowing, scoffing as if he’s just insulted your entire bloodline. “don’t lie. your mom says they’re ugly.”

his jaw drops, scandalized, and you swear you can hear the dramatic gasp of betrayal in the air. “well, your mom says our garden looks like a plastic factory exploded.” he crosses his arms, standing his ground, his voice rising slightly like he can’t believe you just threw that at him.

you stare at him.

he stares at you.

the hose in your hand drips onto the grass, but you’re too busy processing his words to care. your mother had what ? you had been raised on the belief that your family had the superior garden, the most elegant flowers, the healthiest grass. and now, satoru gojo, the enemy, was claiming that your mom had been talking about his garden?

your lips part in slow betrayal, nose wrinkling in distaste, and you take a slow step back. he mirrors you, blue eyes narrowed in suspicion, his fingers twitching against the hose. neither of you say another word. but you both know what’s coming next.

the next day, war begins. it starts simple—satoru ‘accidentally’ sprays you with his hose while you’re carefully pruning the roses, his grin widening when water soaks into your shirt. you shriek, stumbling back, clutching your watering can tighter like a weapon. fine. if that’s how he wants to play, then so be it. you take a step, then another, before gasping dramatically and tripping—the entire can of water spilling directly onto his feet.

he lets out a scream, the most theatrical, over-the-top wail you’ve ever heard, jumping back like he’s been set on fire. “MY SOCKS!” he yells, staring down at them in pure horror, his slippers useless against the water seeping in. his hands fly up to his head, gripping his white tufts in agony, eyes squeezed shut like he’s in a tragedy film. “they’re wet! my favorite socks are WET!”

“oh, please,” you huff, rolling your eyes even as your own shirt clings uncomfortably to your skin. “it’s just water.”

“IT’S IN MY SOCKS.” he’s pacing now, hands on his hips, face twisted in pure devastation. “DO YOU KNOW HOW GROSS WET SOCKS ARE?!”

the next thing you know, you’re both storming inside, loudly declaring your grievances to your fathers.

“she did it on purpose!”

“he started it first!”

you both jab fingers in each other’s direction, demanding justice, your voices overlapping in a chorus of whiny accusations. satoru’s slippers squelch with every step he takes, which only makes him angrier, which only makes you smugger. but your dads, ever the peacemakers, just chuckle over their beers and wave you off. “just work it out, kids!”

useless. completely, utterly useless.

you and satoru glare at each other from across the room, still damp, still fuming, both of you knowing, deep in your little childish hearts—whether you like it or not, this is only the beginning.

days slip by, your damp glares hardening into a silent pact—every sprinkler twitch, every sidelong glance a spark for the next war. your moms, oblivious or scheming, sip lemonade on the porch, their laughter sharp as pruning shears, while you and satoru circle like cats, waiting for the other to pounce.

it appears overnight.

one day, your mother’s pristine front yard is free of any unnecessary clutter, and the next, it’s there—perched right at the edge of the gojos’ flower bed, staring directly at your house with its beady, unsettling eyes.

the ugliest garden gnome you’ve ever seen. its paint is chipped in places, its smile is a little too wide, and its hat is a garish shade of red that clashes horribly with the hydrangeas behind it.

your mother nearly drops her morning tea when she spots it through the kitchen window.

“oh. oh, that woman wants to play dirty.”

she sets her cup down with the grace of a queen preparing for battle, fingers tightening around the delicate porcelain like she’s contemplating war strategies. her brows draw together, lips pressed into a firm line as she leans closer, scrutinizing the gnome like it personally insulted her taste in home decor.

by the end of the day, a stone fairy statue sits on your side of the fence, directly facing the gnome. her expression is serene, her wings spread wide, and her hands clasped together as if in prayer—yet something about her placement feels pointed. deliberate. a silent declaration of superiority in the war of aesthetics.

you and satoru meet at the line that divides your houses, staring at each other over the ridiculous decorations your mothers have so proudly planted in the soil. it’s early afternoon, the sun casting long shadows across the grass, and the air is thick with unspoken tension.

satoru stands lazily with his hands in his pockets, a knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, the summer light catching in his white hair and making it look almost silver. his eyes, bright and sharp, flit between the fairy and the gnome before settling on you, amusement flickering in their depths.

“so,” he drawls, rocking back slightly on his heels. “admiring the superior piece of art?”

you don’t answer. instead, you take a single step forward and flick his forehead, hard. his head jerks back slightly, his smirk faltering for half a second before he recovers, blinking at you like you’ve just committed a grave crime against his entire bloodline.

“your gnome looks like it crawled out of a swamp.”

satoru’s jaw drops, a scandalized gasp slipping past his lips. his hand flies to his forehead, rubbing the spot you flicked like you just inflicted some kind of irreversible damage.

“you—” he sputters, shaking his head as if in disbelief. then, with the precision of someone who has been waiting for this moment his entire life, he flicks you right back, his finger striking the center of your forehead with surprising force.

“your fairy looks like it belongs in a cemetery.”

you don’t know who lunges first, but suddenly, you’re both on the ground. hands grasping at arms, legs kicking up dirt, your yells and shrieks breaking the peaceful afternoon air.

satoru pulls at your sleeve, so you shove him, and he shoves you right back, his stupidly strong grip knocking you off balance. the scent of freshly cut grass fills your nose as your back hits the ground, satoru’s weight pressing down as he tries to pin you, but you twist, rolling and taking him with you.

“get off me, you overgrown ferret!” you hiss, your fingers grasping at the fabric of his shirt in an attempt to push him away.

“overgrown?” he scoffs, despite being half sprawled across the dirt, panting. “you’re literally—ow! stop pulling my hair, you gremlin!”

grass sticks to your clothes, dust clings to your skin, and the world tilts as you both roll across the lawn like a pair of feral raccoons fighting over food.

from the porch, your mother gasps, her hand flying to her chest in horror. satoru’s mom, less dramatic but equally exasperated, calls out something about ruining the flowers, but neither of you hear her over the sound of your bickering.

your fathers, however, are the last to react. one second, they’re sipping their beers on the porch, talking about some old golf game, and the next, their precious children are rolling in the dirt like a pair of rabid raccoons.

both men jump up at the same time, eyes wide, jaws dropping in comical horror.

“oh my god, they’re fighting.” gojo’s dad sounds genuinely distressed, like he’s just witnessed the betrayal of the century.

your dad nearly trips over the porch step as he rushes forward, his voice heavy with disbelief. “this is a disaster! we raised them better than this!”

it takes all their combined strength to pry you and satoru apart. you’re still kicking, your hand tangled in his stupid white hair, while he’s gripping onto your sleeve like he refuses to let you get the last hit. dirt smudges both your cheeks, grass stains your clothes, and the once-perfect garden is in shambles around you.

satoru’s mom lets out a horrified gasp, clutching her chest as she surveys the battlefield that was once a pristine lawn. her manicured fingers tremble, eyes darting between the trampled flowers and her son’s dirt-streaked face like she’s witnessing the collapse of civilization.

your mom, on the other hand, stands tall with her arms crossed, head tilting ever so slightly as a slow, satisfied smile curls on her lips—like a queen who just watched her heir claim victory in a brutal duel. her gaze flickers to you, pride gleaming in her eyes before she speaks, voice low and laced with amusement.

“you see?” she murmurs, just loud enough for her husband to hear, yet dripping with the unmistakable venom of a well-placed jab. “this is what happens when you let your daughter socialize with bad influences.”

she doesn’t look at satoru’s mom as she says it, but the weight of her words lands squarely where it’s meant to.

satoru’s mom bristles, her grip tightening on the pearl necklace resting against her collarbone, but she holds her tongue—for now. the war between them is long-standing, fought with polite smiles and passive-aggressive flower arrangements, but today, your mom has landed a solid hit.

your dads, however, are too emotionally wounded to acknowledge their wives’ ongoing cold war. your father looks at you like you just kicked a puppy in front of him, his hands shaking slightly as he runs them through his hair in utter disbelief.

“you’re best friends!” he exclaims, voice cracking like his entire world is crumbling before his eyes. “this—this is not how best friends act!” his horror is genuine, as if the mere thought of you and satoru, the lifelong duo, turning on each other is an omen of the apocalypse.

satoru’s dad isn’t faring any better, hands braced against his knees as if steadying himself for what might come next. he exhales, long and pained, shaking his head like he’s about to mourn the loss of something sacred.

“we failed them,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper, but heavy with grief. he looks at his son, at the tangled mess of white hair and stubborn defiance, then at you, covered in dirt and glaring daggers at his boy.

to him, this is a tragedy beyond comprehension.

for a fleeting moment, the sheer devastation in their eyes almost makes you feel bad. almost. but then you glance at satoru, and he’s already looking at you with that same ridiculous, half-offended, half-smug expression, a silent dare in those too-bright eyes.

the pity shrivels and dies instantly, replaced by a renewed wave of annoyance. because, honestly, why does he look like he won? he didn’t win.

“you’re gonna apologize and shake hands,” your dad says, attempting to sound firm despite the evident emotional turmoil in his voice.

you and satoru both freeze, breathing still uneven from the scuffle, before simultaneously turning away with identical scoffs. the idea of making peace with each other so soon, especially under adult supervision, is downright insulting.

“absolutely not.” the rejection comes in perfect unison, as if you rehearsed it beforehand.

but then satoru’s dad straightens up, shoulders squared, and fixes you both with a rare, serious, dad look—the kind that demands obedience without words, the kind that even satoru, with all his stubborn arrogance, hesitates to challenge. suddenly, rebellion doesn’t seem worth the trouble.

grumbling under your breath, you stomp forward, satoru mirroring your reluctance with a dramatic sigh. your hands clasp together with the enthusiasm of someone being forced to shake hands with a venomous snake.

and then, just because neither of you can ever let the other win, you squeeze. hard .

satoru winces first, barely, and your lips twitch into a victorious grin. but then he recovers, tightening his grip just enough to make your fingers ache, and a smirk creeps onto his face. across the yard, your dads, completely oblivious to the ongoing war happening in your clasped hands, wipe fake tears from their eyes, murmuring about how balance has been restored.

but nothing has been solved. nothing at all.

the forced peace lasts exactly three days before you're elbowing him in the ribs for hogging the watering can. he retaliates by “accidentally” spraying your shoes.

you step on his foot.

he tugs your hair.

you pinch his arm when no one’s looking—fingers darting quick, nailing the soft spot under his sleeve. he yelps “ow!” under his breath, swatting back with a pouty glare. by the time the roses are watered, you’ve racked up twelve secret scuffles—stealthy masterpieces hidden from the kitchen windows where your moms sip grudges with their brew.

he trips you into a rosebush with a sly nudge—smug grin flashing, all teeth and blue-eyed glee. you lob a fistful of fertilizer like a prank grenade. it dusts his face gritty brown. he sputters “gross!” and wipes it off with his t-shirt hem.

your cackle cuts the air when dirt clumps in his perfect white hair. he shakes it out like a wet dog, strands spiking like a porcupine. then he shoves you—hands fast on your shoulders—sending you splashing into the birdbath. water soaks your shorts.

“jerk!” you hiss, scrambling up, nose scrunched in fury. he giggles “serves you right!” and dodges your swat, slippers squishing on the grass. it’s exhausting—this endless tug-of-war. arms ache. slippers muddy. but stopping? not an option. you’re magnets, doomed to clash.

the backyard brawl simmers all week. each morning brings sneaky jabs and muffled yelps. roses and hydrangeas stand as silent witnesses.

your dads catch on eventually—dirt-stained clothes you try to sneak past the laundry, faint bruises on your knees, satoru’s slight limp after you “accidentally” drop a watering can on his foot. they’re done. sick of scuffs. sick of whining.

sick of their wives’ icy fence-side stares—each blaming the other’s kid, their garden rivalry now a cold war over mulch tips and pta brags.

one afternoon, mid-scuffle—over who stepped on whose garden bed and if that’s an act of war—you’re shoving his chest, his elbow jabs your side. your dads roll in like tired storm clouds.

“enough!” yours barks, arms crossed, flannel sleeves rolled up, face etched with exhaustion from your week-long nonsense.

satoru’s dad nods, rubbing his temples. “you’re driving us up the wall—cut it out or you’re grounded ‘til christmas.” 

“he started it!” you snap, pointing at satoru—your pout deepens, your muddy slippers leaving a smudge on the patio as you cross your arms tight.

“she pinched me first!” satoru fires back, his voice high and whiny as he jabs a finger at you, his hair still dusted with fertilizer flecks, his blue eyes wide with mock innocence.

“that’s it,” your dad says, rubbing his temples like this is physically paining him. “you’re best friends now. deal with it.” his voice is firm, final, like a judge handing down a life sentence.

satoru’s dad stands beside him, nodding like he’s just made peace with some deep, personal tragedy.

“if you’re gonna keep fighting, you might as well do it under supervision,” he adds, voice hollow with defeat. “playdates. every day. no exceptions.”

you and satoru freeze, eyes locking in an unspoken moment of horror. playdates? every day? with him?

“no,” you start, shaking your head as panic sets in, “no, no, no, i refuse—”

“you can’t make us!” satoru cries, taking a step back like he might actually run for it.

but your dad is already walking away like the matter is settled, and satoru’s dad claps a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder, muttering something about “team bonding” before disappearing inside.

betrayal. this is betrayal of the highest order.

you whip around, jabbing a finger into satoru’s chest, voice dripping with accusation. “this is your fault.”

his jaw drops, indignant. “my fault? you’re the one who threw the first punch last time!”

“because you called my hair stupid!”

“it is stupid!” he fires back, arms flailing as he gestures wildly toward your head. “it looks like a mop!”

you take a deep, dramatic gasp, clutching your chest like you’ve been personally wounded. “oh, yeah? well, at least i don’t look like a walking snow cone!”

his mouth falls open, blue eyes wide with pure, unfiltered rage. for a moment, he just stares at you, like he can’t even process what you’ve just said.

then, with the air of a man who has lost everything, he lets out a long, exhausted sigh and stomps away, muttering under his breath about how this arrangement is going to kill him.

good.

you hope it does.

the next day, you arrive at his house with a plan. if you’re going to suffer through this nightmare, you’re dragging him down with you.

so you stride through the front yard like a queen arriving at her court, the tiny porcelain tea set clinking in your bag with each step. a plastic crown sits atop your head, slightly askew from the wind but still regal in its defiance.

your expression is the picture of authority as you set down your things, the miniature table unfolding beneath your hands with all the grandeur of a royal banquet being prepared.

“sit,” you command, voice dripping with the kind of entitlement that demands obedience.

satoru, standing barefoot in the grass with his wild white hair falling messily over his too-blue eyes, just blinks at you. then he tilts his head, gaze flicking between you, the tea set, and the absurd little chairs you’ve arranged.

“i’m not drinking imaginary tea,” he says flatly.

your smile is slow, syrupy sweet—too sweet, the kind that signals incoming disaster. “oh, but you are.”

he narrows his eyes, arms crossing over his chest. it’s a battle of wills, a silent exchange where neither of you so much as blink.

then, with the exaggerated sigh of a man facing his own execution, satoru flops onto the tiny chair, legs sprawled out, arms still folded like he’s being forced into some great injustice.

you nod in satisfaction, pouring the invisible tea with practiced elegance, your pinky raised just so. the delicate porcelain cup is extended toward him, an offering of peace—or, more accurately, an invitation to his suffering.

he takes it hesitantly, fingers curling around the dainty handle like it might shatter under his touch. then, in the most over-the-top display of mock refinement you’ve ever seen, he lifts it to his lips with the grace of a nobleman.

“ah, yes,” he drawls, eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his chin upward. “delicious. simply divine.”

your hum of approval is sharp as you sip from your own cup, matching his theatrics with an air of superiority. “good.”

the corner of his mouth twitches, his eyes peering at you over the rim of his cup, and you know—this isn’t over.

revenge comes swiftly.

the moment you step through the door, satoru is on you like a storm, all grabby hands and reckless energy, fingers locking around your wrist before you can so much as take off your shoes.

he yanks you forward with the force of a battlefield general rallying his troops, pale strands an untamed mess, sticking out in wild tufts like he’s been plotting for hours. there’s an unmistakable glint in his too-bright eyes, something electric, something that makes your stomach twist with impending doom.

you try to plant your feet, to demand an explanation, but he tugs harder, practically dragging you down the hallway like a man possessed.

“sit,” he commands, throwing his arm out with a flourish the second you cross the threshold into his room.

your gaze sweeps across the floor, and your stomach drops. an army—an entire army—is laid out before you, meticulously arranged in tight, strategic formations.

tiny soldiers stand at attention, their weapons poised for battle, knights lined up with their plastic swords raised high, towering mechs positioned like silent sentinels at the edges.

even a couple of dinosaurs lurk ominously in the back, their beady little eyes trained on the battlefield as if waiting for their cue to wreak havoc.

you swallow, suddenly aware of the tiny doll clutched in your hands—a delicate princess with golden curls, her dainty features carved into a permanent, gentle smile. she does not belong here.

satoru turns to you, the grin stretching across his face so wide it practically glows. “war,” he declares, voice heavy with self-satisfaction.

your fingers tighten around the doll. “… war?”

he nods, far too pleased with himself. “yeah. your princesses are under attack. they’re defenseless.” his head tilts, expression shifting into a mockery of pity, but the gleam in his eyes betrays him. “tragic, really.”

your lips press into a thin line, suspicion creeping in. “what happens if they lose?”

his grin sharpens. teeth. teeth everywhere. “they get executed.”

your gasp is immediate, theatrical, hands clutching your chest as if he’s personally driven a dagger through your heart. “executed?!”

satoru shrugs, the picture of nonchalance. “war’s brutal.”

your grip on the princess tightens, rage curling in your chest like a wildfire. the urge to flip his entire battlefield, to scatter his perfectly aligned soldiers like fallen leaves, is almost unbearable. you could end this before it even begins.

but then satoru smirks, slow and confident, tilting his head in that infuriating way that makes your blood boil. and just like that, losing is no longer an option.

and so, the war rages on.

tea party chaos one day, epic war games the next.

you haul out fancy tea sets, doilies, and plastic tiaras, daring him to squirm. he counters with action figures, spinning tragic tales to pin their doom on you.

you snatch his favorite snacks, munching with a glare; he traps you in marathons of your least-liked cartoon, smirking at every grimace.

playdates turn into battlegrounds, a clash of stubborn wills. you bake fake cookies; he chokes theatrically, flopping to the floor. he stages a war; you parade your princess dolls, decreeing peace to ruin his plans. neither of you yields.

yet somewhere amid tea-sipping and battle cries, the venom softens. it’s still a fight, but now it’s about who cracks a smile first. the worst days are quiet ones, no one to spar with. it’s not fun, but it’s not awful.

and maybe you don’t mind the challenge.

not that you’ll say it.

it hits like rain on a sunny day—sudden, uninvited. you didn’t plan to enjoy satoru’s chaos. but between the shouts and shoves, you laugh. he laughs too, not smug, but real, and your stomach flips, like maybe—maybe you didn’t hate him as much as you thought.

but your mom notices.

she always notices. when you come home from his house, she watches you extra close, her eyes sharp like when she’s trying to catch you sneaking extra cookies before dinner.

that night, when she brushes your hair, she doesn’t say it right away. her fingers are careful, gentle, but her voice is not. “remember, sweetheart, we don’t get too close to them.” it’s not a question. it’s a rule. the same kind of rule as don’t run with scissors or don’t talk to strangers—except this one hurts.

so the next day, you fix it. it should feel like something big is happening, like the sky should turn black and lightning should strike right between you, like the world should know this is the worst thing ever. but no. the stupid sun is still shining. the wind is still blowing. and the ugly little garden gnome by satoru’s front steps is still sitting there, laughing at you. it makes you want to kick it. but you can’t, because you have something more important to do.

“your hair is ugly.”

satoru’s head snaps up so fast you think he might get dizzy. “huh?!”

you cross your arms, lifting your chin like you totally mean it. “it’s so white. it looks like bird poop.”

there’s a long, long silence. satoru’s mouth hangs open, like he’s waiting for you to say just kidding! but you don’t. his hands ball into little fists at his sides, his face going all red—not the angry kind of red, but the kind that looks like he just swallowed a rock. “why are you being so mean?”

you look away. your chest feels all tight and weird, like when you’re about to cry but you can’t, because if you do, then it’s over. your mom’s voice rings in your head again— we don’t get too close to them. “ i was just bored.”

and just like that, everything breaks.

he stares at you like you just kicked his puppy. his stupid blue eyes get all shiny, like he might actually cry, and that makes you feel even worse. “but… but yesterday—”

he stops. his lips press together, and he swallows really hard, like there’s something stuck in his throat. then, before you can say anything else, before you can even take it back—he steps away.

“fine,” he says, and his voice sounds wobbly, like a popsicle stick bridge that’s about to snap. “i don’t care, anyway.”

but you know he does. because satoru always cares—loudly, annoyingly, in ways you don’t even understand yet. and for the first time ever, he turns away first. doesn’t yell, doesn’t push, doesn’t try to win.

he just leaves. and for some reason, that makes you want to cry more than anything in the whole wide world.

satoru didn’t talk to you after that day. not in the loud, teasing way he usually did, not in the begrudging, petty way you’d come to expect. not even when your dads gathered for the weekend barbecue, laughing over beers about how their kids had finally made peace.

you could feel his glare from across the yard, burning into your skin like a laser beam, but the second you turned to look, he was already stomping away, white hair bouncing with every step.

you’d won the war, hadn’t you? you should’ve felt victorious, you should’ve been skipping circles around him just to rub it in his stupid face. but instead, your stomach twisted up all weird, like you swallowed a rock—or maybe a whole pile of them.

and then, as if the universe had personally decided that your life wasn’t miserable enough, disaster struck.

the evening air was thick with the smell of damp dirt and fresh grass, but all you could smell was your impending doom.

your mother loomed over the flowerbed—or what was left of it. crushed petals and snapped stems lay scattered, a wreckage you caused. the porch light stretched her shadow, sharp and accusing, across the dirt. her arms were crossed, lips a thin line, but her eyes—piercing, soul-searing—made your stomach plummet.

you swallowed, glancing at the ruined flowers under your shoes. you’d only chased a butterfly, but—crunch—they were gone, and you were doomed.

“look at what you’ve done!”

your hands balled up, body rigid. “i’m sorry,” you mumbled, voice small, but she didn’t flinch.

she sighed, pinching her nose like you were her endless headache. “i work hard on this garden, and this is how you repay me?” her head shook, disappointment stinging like a slap. “these plants are my babies, and you trample them like you don’t belong here.”

…oh.

your breath snagged, heart stuttering. her babies? your chest clamped tight, ears buzzing, and it clicked—too perfectly. your mom’s lawn obsession, how you didn’t quite match your parents’ looks, your weird food quirks, her sighs, heavy with unspoken weight when she bragged about you to neighbors. 

this was it.

you were adopted.

panic flared, wild and sharp. if she knew you’d cracked her secret, would she… return you? like a mismatched shirt shoved back to the store? would she ship you to some grim place where unwanted kids ate cold broccoli forever, no cookies, no warmth? no way. you wouldn’t let her.

you had to run.

before they could box up your stuff, before their soft, syrupy voices cooed, we’re sorry, sweetheart, it’s just not right. you’d need clothes, snacks, a flashlight—money? (where did money even come from?)—maybe a blanket. you could live in the woods, charm squirrels, nibble berries. 

or you can find your real family.

maybe they were out there, longing for you. maybe you were a lost princess, a royal carriage just waiting to whisk you to a castle. maybe your true parents, rich and heartbroken, ached for their stolen kid. maybe this was your big break.

you had to get out.

you scanned the room—not yours, not anymore. glow-in-the-dark stars speckled the ceiling, stuffed animals slumped in the corner, soon someone else’s, someone who’d fit this family better. your throat tightened, but you shook it off. no time for tears. you had a mission.

you grabbed your pink backpack, stuffing it fast—three snacks, a hello kitty juice box for style, a flickering flashlight, and your stuffed bunny, because even runaways need a friend. it was heavier than you thought, tugging at your shoulders as you crept to the window. you nudged it open, wincing at the frame’s squeak. night air slipped in, whispering of adventure, maybe a real home.

but doubt crept in too.

not about running—that was still the plan. but the actual escaping? harder than it looked. your grand exit felt shaky, and you wondered if you were really built for this runaway life.

now, for the hardest part: actually leaving.

you climbed onto the windowsill, fingers gripping the edge as you looked down. it wasn’t that high… right? you just had to dangle, drop, land, and run. simple. foolproof.

you sucked in a breath and shifted forward, lowering yourself carefully, your feet searching for the ground—but it wasn’t there.

your legs kicked uselessly, toes barely brushing the wall, and for a humiliating ten seconds, you dangled there, flailing, before gravity made the decision for you.

with a yelp, you plummeted straight into the bushes, a sharp rustling of leaves accompanying your graceless fall. a dull pain shot up your arms, the sting of scraped skin making your eyes prick with tears, but you bit them back.

a true runaway does not cry! with all the dignity you could muster, you pushed yourself up, shaking off leaves and twigs, ready to make your grand escape—

“you look like an idiot.”

your breath caught in your throat. your stomach dropped.

oh no.

slowly, you turned your head, dread curling in your chest. and there he was, perched at his own window, elbows resting on the sill, white hair catching the fading sunlight. gojo satoru.

he had the nerve to look completely relaxed, chin resting in his palm, his stupidly bright blue eyes filled with unmistakable amusement.

he had been watching you.

“what are you doing?” he asked, voice laced with barely-contained laughter.

you straightened your backpack straps, shooting him a glare. ”leaving.”

“leaving where?”

“away.”

his head tilted slightly, studying you like you were the most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen. “that’s not an answer.”

ugh. always so annoying. always questioning everything. wait—why is he even trying to get you to explain yourself to him? this wasn’t his business!

you huffed, turning on your heel with a dramatic flip of your hair. "none of your business, satoru. goodbye forever."

you had barely taken four steps before the unmistakable sound of feet landing lightly on the pavement made you freeze.

your eyes widened. you turned back just in time to see him straightening up, brushing invisible dust from his pants, completely unbothered—because unlike you, he hadn’t fumbled his escape. no flailing, no tragic bush landing. just an effortless, cat-like jump from his window, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

you clenched your fists. of course he made it look easy.

he fell into step beside you, hands buried deep in his pockets, his pace maddeningly unhurried, like he had nowhere else to be but right here, ruining your night. 

it was infuriating how effortlessly he matched your pace—never rushing, never struggling, just there, lingering like an annoying ghost you couldn't shake in the darkness.

“you don’t even know where you’re going.”

his voice was light, almost teasing, but you caught the undertone of amusement laced beneath it.

you spun around so fast your backpack nearly smacked you in the face, eyes blazing as you glared up at him. “yes, i do.”

he didn’t even blink, just tilted his head, one white eyebrow arching with skepticism. “oh yeah? where?”

your mouth opened—then promptly shut. under the weight of his expectant gaze, your mind scrambled for an answer, something grand, something impressive, something that would prove you weren’t just some clueless kid storming off on a whim. but all that came out was a very unconvincing:

“...the forest.”

satoru pulled a face like you had just suggested something utterly pathetic. he actually wrinkled his nose. “lame,” he declared flatly. “if you’re running away, at least go somewhere cool.”

your eyes narrowed dangerously. “oh, and where would you go, genius?”

his expression shifted instantly, brightening with exaggerated thoughtfulness as he tapped a finger against his chin. he dragged the moment out, milking the attention for all it was worth, before finally grinning. “probably the moon. or mars. as long as it’s on space.”

you rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw the inside of your skull. “be serious.”

“you be serious.”

“i am serious.”

“then why are you running away with just a backpack?”

you froze, shoulders snapping rigid. your fingers clenched around the straps of your backpack as heat crept up your face.

right. that.

you knew something about your plan felt slightly underdeveloped, but it wasn’t like you were going to admit that. you forced your expression into something defiant, lips parting to throw back a retort—but nothing came. because, well... he had a point.

“why do you even care?” you snapped instead, turning the conversation away from your failure. “just go back inside and leave me alone!”

he shrugged, completely unaffected by your growing irritation. “nah. watching you fail at running away is way more fun.”

your jaw clenched so tight it ached.

you should have known he’d be a problem.

but you were determined. you were going to run away, and there was nothing gojo satoru could do about it.

you slung your backpack higher, stomping down the street, ignoring the patter of footsteps dogging you. maybe speed would shake him, but no—satoru’s smirk followed, wide and smug, like your escape was his evening show.

you sped up. he kept pace. you crawled; he mirrored, whistling a tune that clawed at your nerves.

hours dragged—maybe two, but each step burned eternal with him bouncing beside you, white hair aglow under streetlights, practically engineered to irk you. at first, you’d burned with purpose—flee your mom’s scolds, her heavy sighs, and start fresh, maybe in a city, baking in some cozy shop.

now? your legs screamed, feet pulsing. regret piled high, and you just wanted to collapse.

“i’m hungry,” satoru whined, his voice grating, lips twitching with mischief.

you groaned, dragging slower. “shut up, satoru,” you muttered, exhaustion coating your words, shoulders slumping.

“no!” he snapped. “this is your fault! you should’ve at least rode a bike if you were gonna run away like a loser!”

“i’m not a loser!” you shot back, voice wobbling, defensive. your glare faltered under his teasing glint.

he sidled closer, face moonlit, mischief dancing in his eyes. “you kinda are. only losers run away and don’t even know where they’re going.”

your cheeks flared. “i do know where i’m going!” you insisted, but doubt gnawed. the dream of running was souring fast.

he arched a brow, smirk widening. “oh yeah? where?”

you froze, scanning the dark—nothing. words failed. “…” you mumbled, purpose fraying.

satoru’s smug hum stung, his grin widening as he stood, hands on hips, relishing your fluster. “exactly. loser.”

you huffed, stomping toward the park’s swings. “whatever. let’s just sit.” annoyance masked relief as you sank onto a seat, sighing into the quiet night.

satoru flopped beside you, stretching with a groan. “ugh, finally. thought my legs were gonna fall off.” his white hair spilled over the swing’s chain, catching moonlight like a mocking halo.

 you rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, the swing creaking under your shifting weight. “stop being so dramatic.” your fingers gripped the cold metal chains, grounding you as a breeze rustled the leaves overhead.

“says the one who ran away over some flowers,” satoru shot back, kicking his legs lazily, bunny slippers scuffing the dirt. his smirk glinted, sharp in the dim light.

“says the one who followed me,” you snapped, arms crossed tight. damp grass and metal tinged the air, his stare prickling even without a glance.

he grinned, shameless, leaning to sway the swing. “well, yeah. what else was i supposed to do? let you get eaten by raccoons?” his brows wiggled, voice thick with fake worry.

you stiffened, rigid against the creaky seat. “…there are no raccoons here.” your tone held firm, but your eyes flicked to the shadowy bushes, doubt nibbling.

“are you sure?” he tilted his head, blue eyes twinkling, finger tapping his chin to stretch your unease.

you froze—breath catching. the night yawned wider, leaves rustling too lively.

he leaned closer, voice a mock whisper. “you know, i heard they sneak up on dumb kids who run away.” his breath grazed your ear, swing rocking as he shifted.

your fingers clamped the chains, knuckles pale. “you’re lying.” your voice wavered, small against the vast park.

he gasped, clutching his chest, eyes wide with fake shock. “why would i lie to you?” he flailed, nearly tipping the swing, slippers flopping.

“because you’re you!” you shoved his shoulder, steadying the creaking metal. an owl hooted, siding with you.

“fair point.” he shrugged, grin lazy, settling back as the swing slowed. crickets hummed, playground groaning softly.

you kicked his shin—hard. “ow—hey!” he yelped, rubbing it, hair bouncing as he glared.

“you deserved it.” you huffed, chin high, swing swaying gently, cooling your flush.

“did not!”

“did too!”

“did not—ugh, whatever, i’m too hungry to argue,” satoru groaned, flopping against the swing, hand splaying over his stomach. “feed me.” he batted his lashes, moonlight catching his mischief.

you scrunched your nose, leaning back. “excuse me?“

“you packed snacks, right?” he flicked a finger at your bag. “hand ‘em over.” his palm opened, expectant.

“why should i?” you hugged the bag tight, zipper glinting.

“because i followed you and kept you safe from raccoons.” he puffed his chest, slippers swinging with smugness.

you scowled, lips thin. “you were literally just saying you wanted me to get eaten by them.”

“so? didn’t let it happen.” he shrugged, teeth flashing, chains rattling as he leaned in.

“ugh,” you groaned, yanking the bag off, unzipping it sharply. “fine, only so you shut up.”

you pulled out a biscuit, fingers brushing his as you dropped it in his palm. he stared at it, then you, jaw dropping. “…are you serious?”

you smirked, leaning back. “take it or leave it.”

he grumbled but bit in, crunch loud in the stillness. silence settled, heavy, until he swallowed. “gimme another one.” crumbs dusted his fingers, eyes glinting.

you scoffed, loud and dramatic, head thrown back like he’d demanded your soul. “absolutely not.”

“c’monnnn, i’m starving.” he whined, slumping forward, elbows on knees, white hair flopping over his pouty face, moonlight amplifying the ridiculousness.

“too bad. should’ve brought your own food.” you shot back, sticking out your tongue.

“i would’ve if you actually planned this runaway properly.” he muttered, crossing his arms, mimicking your huff.

“ugh! just be grateful i even shared at all!”

“pfft. what else do you got?” he asked, leaning toward your bag, curiosity undimmed.

you glared through the dim light. “nothing.” your lie was sharp, hugging the bag tight, the hello kitty juice box now a state secret.

satoru’s grin turned wicked, teeth glinting. “liar. you have a juice box, don’t you?” he leaned closer, breath teasingly warm.

your fingers dug into the fabric, heart tripping. “no.” your voice wavered, face turning away as the swing creaked.

“you totally do.”

“do not.”

“you do.”

“do not.”

“oh yeah? then what’s this?” he lunged, snatching your bag and unzipping it in one swift move.

“hey!” you yelped, diving, but he twisted away, laughing as he held it high.

“aha! knew it!” he crowed, waving the hello kitty juice box like a prize, pink design flashing in the moonlight. he leaped from the swing, chains clattering.

your face burned, horror spiking. “PUT THAT BACK!” you shrieked, lunging, but he danced away, cackling through the empty park.

satoru spun, keeping it out of reach. “oh? what’s wrong? embarrassed about your cute little juice?” he taunted, dodging your flailing hands.

“shut up! give it back!” you swiped, slippers skidding, but he sidestepped effortlessly.

“hmmm… nah,” he said, popping the straw in with flair and sipping dramatically. “mmm, tastes like victory.” he leaned against the swing pole, smirking.

you gasped, betrayal hitting hard. “YOU. DID. NOT.” your voice shook, fists clenched.

“i did,” he smirked, sipping again. “mmm. strawberry.” he twirled the box, straw bobbing.

rage narrowed your vision. “GOJO SATORU, I HOPE YOU CHOKE!” you roared, tackling him off the swing, both crashing to the dirt.

satoru yelped, hitting the ground with you on top, a tangle of fury. “OW—YOU MANIAC, GET OFF ME!” he flailed, slippers flying, juice box rolling free.

“GIVE IT BACK, THIEF!” you snarled, pinning his arms, reaching for your prize, hair falling in your face.

“I HOPE YOU CHOKE, SATORU!” you yelled, snatching at the box as he squirmed, laughing through indignation.

“JOKES ON YOU, I ALREADY SWALLOWED!” he wheezed, bucking beneath you, hair now dirt-dusted.

“YOU’RE A MONSTER!” you shrieked, shoving his chest, betrayal stinging sharp.

“AND YOU’RE A GREMLIN!” he shot back, twisting, nearly toppling you, voice cracking with laughter.

“THAT WAS MY JUICE!” you wailed, grabbing the box, clutching it like a lifeline, breath heaving.

“IT’S OUR JUICE NOW!” he argued, propped on elbows, grinning like he’d won. your elbow accidentally jabbed his ribs.

“OWWW!” he howled, flopping back, clutching his side theatrically, rolling in mock agony. “THIS IS IT. I’M DYING.”

you froze, juice box dangling, blinking down. “…what?” your voice softened, anger fading.

satoru whimpered, curling up, eyes squeezed shut for effect. “you got me. this is the end. tell my mom i love her. tell your mom i don’t love her. tell my dad he owes me twenty bucks.” he peeked one eye, gauging you, breath hitching.

your heart stuttered—he was faking, clearly, but doubt whispered: what if? tears pricked as you sniffled. “satoru, you idiot!” you choked, voice wobbling, “you can’t die! who am i gonna fight with if you die?!” you dropped beside him, dirt cold.

“i dunno…” he groaned, head lolling, faint and pitiful. “maybe get a pet goldfish. name it satoru junior.”

“but i don’t want a goldfish!”

“too bad… this is fate…” he wheezed, going limp, playing dead.

“shut up! shut up, stupid! you’re not allowed to die!” you cried, throwing yourself onto him, hugging tight, tears soaking his shirt.

satoru wailed, chest shaking, real tears mixing with fake. “ow, ow, ow! you’re squishing me!” he pushed at your shoulders.

“I’M SORRY, OKAY?! I DIDN’T MEAN TO KILL YOU!” you sobbed, hugging harder.

“YOU’RE KILLING ME RIGHT NOW! STOP HUGGING ME SO TIGHT!” he wailed, kicking, feet smacking dirt.

“DON’T DIIIIE!”

“I WON’T IF YOU GET OFF ME, YOU GREMLIN!”

“PROMISE?!”

“YES! I PROMISE!” he shouted, hoarse, flopping back in defeat.

“PINKY PROMISE?!” you pressed, holding out your trembling pinky.

“I CAN’T PINKY PROMISE IF YOU’RE CRUSHING ME, LOSER!” he snapped, tears streaming, hair sticking to his dirt-smeared face.

eventually, your sobs calmed into sniffles—your grip loosening as exhaustion took over. satoru’s cries faded into tired little hiccups, his chest still rising and falling fast beneath you. the playground settled back into quiet, the night wrapping around you like a heavy, damp cloak.

you fell asleep with him right there, sprawled across the cold playground floor, too worn out to move. you curled up against satoru, your face smushed into his shoulder, your breath evening out into soft, snotty snores. satoru, despite all his whining, let an arm flop lazily over you, his own snores mixing with yours as drool pooled between you.

your dads found you like that, a tangled heap of dirt and tears under the moonlight.

“oh, for fuck’s sake.” your dad muttered, rubbing his face with a tired hand, his voice rough with exasperation. he stood there, hands on his hips, staring down at the mess you’d made of yourselves.

“wait, wait,” satoru’s dad whispered, already fumbling for his phone, a grin tugging at his lips despite the late hour. “we have to take a picture.” he crouched down, angling the camera to catch the full disaster—your drooling face, satoru’s sprawled limbs, the abandoned juice box lying pitifully in the dirt nearby. the flash went off, immortalizing the chaos, and the night carried on, oblivious to the two little warriors who’d fought themselves to sleep.

the morning after your playground disaster hits like a dodgeball to the face, jolting you awake with your dad’s laugh booming through the walls, drowning out the birds chirping meanly outside. you blink against sunlight stabbing through your blinds, legs caught in sheets, and stumble out of bed in messy pajamas—one sleeve drooping, hair a wild puff.

you shuffle downstairs, steps creaking, eyes gummy with sleep, and freeze. there, on the mantle, sits the awful proof—you and satoru, a muddy pile under broken monkey bars, drool on your face, his arm flopped over you, both smeared with dirt and chaos.

your dad’s laugh erupts again, shaking the couch as he slaps his knee, grinning huge.

“look at you two! thick as thieves!” he hollers, wiping a tear, his flannel stretching tight.

you squeak—a whiny, horrified sound—hands flying to your face. “it’s so gross!” you wail, voice muffled, peeking at the photo—your drooly cheek squished against satoru’s shoulder—and step back, foot scuffing the floor. “burn it, pleeease!”

“oh no you don’t.” your mom snaps from the kitchen, stirring coffee like she’s brewing a curse, burnt toast smog around her. her glare could zap you dead. “running off over flowers—with that gojo boy? you’re lucky you’re not grounded forever.”

you cringe, twisting your fingers, shoulders curling.

“aw, honey,” your dad chuckles, sipping juice, all calm. “she was just eloping with satoru a little early—gotta practice for the real thing!”

“don’t encourage her!” your mom barks, slamming her mug, coffee splashing, eyes flicking to satoru’s mom’s smug hydrangeas outside.

you whine, flopping against the wall. “i’m running away forever!” you mumble into your sleeve, sun warming your pout as your mom mutters—“that boy’s trouble”—her spoon clinking angrily..

next door, satoru’s trapped in his own morning horror, stomping into the kitchen, fuzzy blue slippers squeaking on tile. he freezes, blue eyes popping wide, and jabs a finger at the framed photo wobbling by the toaster—same drooly wreck, same muddy faces, a twin to your nightmare.

“rip it up!” he wails, voice cracking like he’s auditioning for tragedy, arms windmilling wildly, nearly toppling a mug. “i look like a zombie!”

his dad leans back in his chair, coffee mug in hand, completely unmoved, a lazy grin tugging at his lips as he reaches over with a broad hand.

“aw, come on,” he chuckles, ruffling satoru’s already doomed hair until the strands rebel further, flopping into his face like a snowy avalanche. “you two are inseparable—gonna tell this story at your wedding one day.”

satoru shrieks, staggering back, knocking a spoon to the floor with a clatter. “noooo! she tried to murder me!” he howls, clutching his head like it’s about to explode, hair flying as he thrashes.

his mom sips tea at the sink, sunhat tilted primly, lips smirking sharp. “if he even survives her chaos,” she murmurs, swirling her tea with a clink, “she’s a tornado.”

satoru wails louder, flopping against the fridge, face squished in despair. “my life’s ruined!” he whines, kicking the floor, sock drooping, as warm bread’s scent mixes with his sulky gloom.

satoru groans, long and dramatic, dragging his hands down his face until his cheeks puff out, his slippers scuffing as he spins to glare at the photo again—his drool-glossed lips parted, your muddy handprint on his shirt—and flops against the fridge with a thud.

“i’m never living this down,” he mutters, voice muffled as the fridge hums behind him, the scent of warm bread from the toaster oven curling around his misery while he kicks at the floor, his sock slipping further down his ankle.

outside, the hydrangeas bob in the breeze like they’re in on the joke, a silent audience to the disaster unfolding on either side of the fence. watering plants shouldn’t be this chaotic, but with satoru involved, everything turns into a summer storm—the air already thick with cicadas and the sharp, damp scent of upturned earth.  

your mom shoves the hose into your hands, coffee sloshing dangerously as she snaps ”don’t let him ruin my tulips” before vanishing inside, the screen door slamming behind her like a warning shot.

you trudge out in your slippers—ratty pink ones with a half-peeled bunny face—squinting against the sun as it beats down, smug and unrelenting, like it’s waiting for you to crack first.  

and there he is.  

satoru slinks across the yard like a villain caught mid-scheme, dragging his hose behind him, the green coil snagging on every patch of grass. his eyes—bright, sharp, unfairly blue—lock onto yours over the fence, mischief sparking in them like a lit fuse. his hair’s a mess of white strands flopping over his forehead, one fuzzy slipper kicking at the dirt as he straightens, grin already in place.  

“your dad’s a jerk for framing that,” you snap, twisting the nozzle with a jerk—only to spray your own shin, cold water seeping into your pajama pants. you scowl.  

“yours too, idiot,” he fires back, voice dripping with faux innocence as he angles his hose, misting your toes with deliberate precision. the droplets glitter like tiny knives in the sunlight. “now everyone’s gonna think we’re friends.”  

“jerk!” you yelp, and retaliate, your aim wild but effective—water arcs straight for his chest, drenching his stupid oversized shirt until it clings to him, fabric going sheer in patches.  

he barks a laugh, half-shielding himself with the hose like it’s a sword, free hand swiping wet hair from his eyes. “hey! watch it—”  

the air crackles with spray and tension, the sun casting long, warped shadows of you both across the grass. your mom’s voice slices through from the porch: “keep it civil!”—coffee cup in hand, frown sharp enough to cut.  

his mom’s shout follows, sunhat bobbing as she leans over the railing. “watch my sod!”  

“like i’d ruin her precious grass,” you mutter, rolling your eyes as you redirect the hose toward your tulips, water pooling around them like a makeshift moat.  

“you would if you could aim,” satoru taunts, leaning forward, smirk widening as his hose dangles, dripping onto his already-wrecked slipper. 

“shut up,” you hiss, flicking another spray—just enough to make him hop back with a squelch.  

“oi!”  

you bite your lip to hide the grin, turning away before he sees it.  

later, through your window, the day fades into gold, and you catch him pacing his room, backlit by the dying light like some dramatic silhouette. he flips you off—long fingers splayed, wrist twisting with unnecessary flair—before yanking the blinds shut, hair flopping like a defeated flag.  

you press your nose to the glass, fogging it with your breath as you stick out your tongue. “loser.” 

outside, the cicadas drone on, relentless. across the gap, you can feel him glaring at his own window, probably plotting his next move—all sharp eyes and slouched shoulders, one slipper abandoned in defeat.  

you wouldn’t expect anything less.  

somehow, that’s the point. 

summer lingers, sticky and slow, your mornings a ritual of traded barbs across the fence—his smirk sharp, your eye-roll sharper. but the days stretch, and the battles blur, until the leaves hint at gold, and your dads' voices boom, calling you both to the yard like it’s time to rewrite the rules.

then—almost without warning—the air turns crisp. the hydrangeas fade from vibrant blue to dull brown, their petals curling like old paper, while the maple out back erupts in flames of red and orange. one morning you wake to find the grass glittering with frost, your breath fogging the window as you peer out at the changed world.

fall sweeps in with crisp air nipping at your cheeks, golden leaves crunching underfoot like nature’s tiny applause, and the dads declare it barbecue season with all the gusto of backyard kings.

they drag mismatched lawn chairs—wobbly legs and faded stripes—into your yard, smoke curling from the grill in lazy spirals, the scent of charred burgers doing a clumsy tango with your mom’s lavender bushes, their purple heads bobbing in the breeze.

you step outside, the grass cool against your slippers, and spot that cursed photo—yes, that one—propped dead center on the picnic table like a first-place ribbon from your playground disaster, its tacky gold frame glinting in the late afternoon sun.

your dad chuckles “look at our little warriors!”—his voice a rumble as he clinks a soda can with satoru’s dad, the aluminum clank sharp against the fire pit’s crackle. he leans back in his chair, flannel stretched tight over his belly, grinning like he’s just told the joke of the year.

satoru’s dad nods, sipping his own soda with a smirk. “bet they’ll run this neighborhood someday,” he says, his laugh booming over the snap of burning logs, the firelight dancing in his glasses.

your mom’s mouth thins into a tight line, a silent protest as she crosses her arms, muttering “over-fertilized nonsense” at the hydrangeas peeking over the fence like nosy neighbors. her eyes narrow, sharp as the lavender’s scent, while satoru’s mom hums louder—a smug little tune—pruning her bushes with a snip-snip of her shears, each cut a tiny victory carved into the air.

you and satoru are squeezed onto a rickety bench, paper plates wobbling precariously between your knees, the wood creaking like it’s begging for mercy.

he elbows you hard—his bony arm jabbing your side—making your soda fizz over the rim in a bubbly hiss, and you scrunch your nose, glaring at him through the corner of your eye.

“this is your fault,” you hiss, shoving him back with a quick nudge, ketchup smearing your fingers like war paint as your plate tilts dangerously.

“nah, yours framed it first,” he retorts, flicking a fry at your face—his long fingers quick and precise, his blue eyes glinting with mischief as it sails through the air.

you catch it mid-flight with a snap of your hand, popping it into your mouth with a defiant crunch. “good, hope they frame it in the hallway,” you snap, your pout deepening as you chew, glaring at his smug face.

“hope you get detention,” he mutters, leaning closer, his white hair flopping forward like a messy curtain, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.

“hope you get ketchup in your eye,” you fire back, flicking your stained fingers at him—he flinches just a bit, his smirk faltering for a split second.

you shove him again, a quick push with your shoulder, and he shoves back, his slipper brushing your leg—your plate flips onto your lap with a sad plop, ketchup splattering your shorts like a crime scene.

“ugh, you’re the worst!” you yelp, smearing a dollop of ketchup onto his arm—his t-shirt sleeve now a canvas of red streaks—and you pout harder, lips trembling with mock fury.

“you’re welcome!” he laughs, snagging a fry from the mess on your lap with a quick swipe, popping it into his mouth with a grin that shows too many teeth, his cheeks dimpling.

“quit stealing my food!” you snap, swatting at his hand—your fingers barely graze him as he dodges, leaning back on the bench like he’s king of the chaos, his fuzzy blue slippers swinging lightly.

“it’s payment for sitting next to you,” he says, stretching his arms behind his head, his t-shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of his stomach as he smirks, daring you to argue.

your mom’s glare from the porch could melt steel—she stands there, arms crossed, a shadow against the sunset—while his mom’s pruning pauses, her shears glinting as she shoots you both a look that screams behave, her sunhat tilting like a crown of judgment.

you huff, plotting to fling a pickle slice at his head, your fingers itching to grab one from your ruined plate. but the dusk sky turns orange behind your petty war, painting the yard in a warm glow, and you settle for glaring instead, your slippers scuffing the grass beneath the bench.

you slip away to the tire swing after dinner, the oak’s gnarled branches casting long shadows across the grass. the rope groans under your grip as you push off, bare ankles brushing cool blades of grass. the distant crackle of the fire pit fades behind you, replaced by the whisper of leaves overhead.

of course he follows.

pebbles skitter against your shins, each one a tiny declaration of war. you don’t have to look to know he’s smirking—can picture the way his slippers scuff against dirt with deliberate laziness. when you finally glance back, the dying light catches in his eyes, turning them electric. his hair glows like embers, white strands lit from within.

“quit it!” you snap, swatting at nothing as another stone finds its mark. your fingers tighten around the rope, knuckles going pale.

“make me,” he dares, and suddenly he’s there, long fingers wrapping around the rope. the world tilts violently as he spins you, your stomach lurching into your throat. his laughter cuts through the dizzying whirl—bright, sharp, dangerous.

“you’re gonna kill me!” the words tear free as colors blur into streaks, one slipper dangling precariously from your toes.

“maybe then you’ll stop hogging the swing!” the rope slips from his grasp, sending you wobbling to an unsteady stop. He rocks back on his heels, hands shoved deep in pockets, grin wide enough to split his face.

you’re moving before the world stops spinning—launching yourself at him with a wordless shout. you collide in a tangle of limbs, rolling through crushed grass and fallen leaves. the earth smells rich and damp beneath you, filling your lungs with each gasping breath.

from the porch, your dads’ voices carry across the yard, “there they go again!” their applause ringing through the twilight. firelight dances in their raised soda cans, painting their grinning faces in flickering gold.

your mom’s groan cuts through the celebration. “not again.”

satoru’s mother’s shriek follows, “not my sod!”

you come to rest with him pinned beneath you, knees digging into soft earth. “say sorry!” you demand, hair wild around your face. your breath comes in quick puffs, stirring the strands that have escaped into your eyes.

“never!” he gasps between laughter, his whole body shaking with it. one blue slipper hangs half-off his foot, swinging uselessly as he squirms. his eyes crinkle at the corners, bright with challenge even as he lies trapped in the grass.

later, when the fire’s burned low to embers and your dad shoves a half-melted popsicle between you with a gruff “sharing’s caring,” you could scream.

satoru takes the first bite—obnoxiously loud, teeth cracking through the ice—and his mouth goes instantly blue. “tastes better stolen,” he declares, tongue swiping at a drip sliding down his wrist. his hair’s a mess of white strands falling into his eyes, backlit by the dying firelight like some kind of haloed menace.

“you’re disgusting,” you mutter, yanking the popsicle back. the cold burns your teeth when you bite down, but you force your scowl to stay put, even as your slippers swing uselessly from your toes.

“and you like it,” he sing-songs, leaning in so close you can smell the sugar on his breath. his tongue’s still stained, lolling out in a way that should be gross but just makes your fingers itch to shove him.

so you do.

one sharp push to his chest sends him sprawling into the grass with a soft oof. “dream on,” you snap, but he’s already laughing, arms splayed like he’s making snow angels in the dirt, gaze fixed on the purpling sky.

dusk settles around you both, thick with woodsmoke and the lazy chirp of crickets. your pout falters—just for a second—when the popsicle’s sweetness hits your tongue again. across the yard, the fire pit’s glow paints long shadows that dance over his grin when you sneak a glance, already scheming. always scheming.

by the time you drag yourself inside, the night’s gone quiet save for the memory of his laughter, clinging like burrs to your thoughts. the stars blink down, sealing your truce—or your war—in their cool, indifferent light.

the years blur like a popsicle melting under a summer sun, sticky and sweet, your battles with satoru piling up like crumpled homework in a backpack—each one louder, messier, sharper. 

sixth grade drags you into school’s squeaky halls, where lockers slam and whispers sting, and satoru’s there, always, his white hair flopping, his lanky frame shooting up overnight like a weed that won’t quit. he towers over you by spring, his sneakers scuffing the linoleum as he leans too close, smirking “shorty” while flicking your forehead—his voice cracks mid-taunt, a squeaky betrayal that makes you cackle, water spraying from your bottle like a victory fountain across his shirt. 

you chase him through the cafeteria, trays wobbling, your laughter bouncing off the walls as he trips over his own gangly legs, his blue eyes wide with mock outrage. your moms’ war rages on—hers with her smug wind chimes, yours with that chipped gnome glaring from the lawn—while you and Satoru hurl insults over the fence, hoses flailing, your shadows tangling longer now, stretching into dusk like a sloppy braid that won’t untie. 

but the walks home, your backpacks swinging, his slippers squishing, carry a rhythm neither of you name—a truce woven into scuffs and shoves, your glares softening when no one’s looking, the cicadas humming like they’re in on it.

middle school crashes in like a rogue wave, and satoru’s growth spurt turns him into a walking skyscraper, his arms too long, his grin too wide, his voice settling into a teasing lilt that makes your stomach flip in ways you won’t admit. 

you’re still elbowing him in the ribs, still dodging his paint-flecked flicks in art class, but now he’s stealing your fries at lunch, his long fingers snatching them with a lazy “tax for sitting here” while you kick his shin under the table. 

the block parties keep coming, your dads clinking beers and shouting “teamwork!” as you and satoru spill lemonade, tumble into grass, and wrestle over the last popsicle—his blue-stained tongue lolling out as he pins you, your shriek loud enough to scare the crickets. 

yet something’s shifting, soft as the breeze rustling new leaves—you catch him staring once, his ears pink, his smirk faltering when you shove him off the tire swing, and your own cheeks burn when he lingers too close, his shadow swallowing yours. through your glass window, he’s still tossing that rubber ball—thunk-thunk—his frame filling the frame now, his grin flashing across the gap like a sparkler you can’t look away from. 

you mutter “he’s so annoying” into your pillow, but your lips twitch, your glow-in-the-dark stars winking above, and the night hums with a truth neither of you will say: you’re magnets, doomed to clash, bound to stick, your war softening into something that glows brighter than the summer sun.

tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @lilychan176 @n1vi @myahfig4 @here4dafics @stfusatoru @mintcheery @44ina @twinkling-moonlilie-reblogs @getoicious @flowerpot113 @satoruxsc @whytfisgojosohot @emoedgylord @your-mum3000 @chich1ookie @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @drunkenlionwrites @katsukiseyebrows @heartsforseo @beabamboo @bnbaochauuu @cupidsfrost @ethereal-moonlit @arabellasolstice @captainhoneythebunny @scryarchives @fancypeacepersona @anathemaspeaks @ilovebeansyay

plz comment if u want to be added on the tag list xx

[oddyseye]

Odysseus is a very feminine character, now that I think about it...

Alright, let’s get something straight before anyone comes at me with a “bUt tHiS iS gEnDeR eSsEnTiAlIsM” take. I’m not saying Odysseus is literally a woman or that masculinity and femininity are these rigid, unchanging constructs. I’m talking about how the ancient Greeks perceived these traits. This is about Homeric gender coding, not modern gender politics.

Ancient Greek society had clear ideas about what was “masculine” and “feminine.” Men fought, conquered, and sought kleos (glory). Women used cunning, patience, and endurance to survive. Odysseus? He embodies the latter far more than the former. That’s the point. That’s what makes him interesting. I’m not slapping modern labels on him; I’m analyzing how he would’ve been understood in his own time.

Got it? Got it. Then let me explain.

Greek heroism is all about kleos (glory), right? You charge into battle, fight, die gloriously, and get immortalized in song. Odysseus? Not his style. His whole thing is survival. Achilles, the epitome of warrior masculinity, chooses an early death in exchange for undying fame. Odysseus chooses life, no matter what it takes. He hides, deceives, and grovels when necessary...all acts that a traditionally “heroic” warrior wouldn’t be caught dead doing.

Take the Cyclops episode: a classic strongman hero would just fight Polyphemus. Odysseus? He outsmarts him with wordplay, drugs his enemy (like a sneaky witch would), and escapes by disguising himself under sheep. You’re telling me this is masculine? If anything, it aligns him with figures like Circe and Penelope. Women who survive through wit and deception rather than brute strength.

This man’s mouth is his deadliest weapon. He doesn’t win with a spear; he wins with stories, persuasion, and trickery. The word polytropos (πολύτροπος), used to describe him in the very first line of The Odyssey, literally means “many-turned” or “twisting,” evoking the way a woman might spin or weave. The metaphor of weaving is all over his character, and weaving is, of course, the domain of women in Greek thought.

Even his lies are textile-like. He spins tales, unravels them, and reweaves them as necessary. And let’s not ignore that his narrative mirrors Penelope’s: she weaves and unweaves her shroud, delaying the suitors; he spins and unspins his identity to survive. He and Penelope are two sides of the same coin, both manipulating reality to stay in control.

If we take ancient Greek gender norms seriously, dominance in sex = masculinity, and submission = femininity. And Odysseus? The man spends years being kept by women. Calypso and Circe both hold him as a sex slave, reducing him to an object of desire rather than an active agent. That’s not exactly Achilles ravaging Briseïs, is it? He’s literally lying in bed (λέχος) while these women rule over him.

Even in Ithaca, his return isn’t some macho takeover. He sneaks in, disguises himself, and watches before making his move. Unlike Agamemnon, who storms into Mycenae post-Troy and gets murked by his wife, Odysseus waits, gathering intel like a patient, calculating woman.

He also cries...like...a lot.

Masculine heroes go out into the world to conquer (Iliadic energy). Feminine figures are more often concerned with the home. Odysseus’s entire goal? To get back to Ithaca, to his oikos, to his wife. He’s not seeking new conquests or greater glory. He wants stability, family, domesticity. He longs for the space traditionally occupied by women.

Odysseus is basically the Greek epic’s answer to the trickster woman trope. He’s wily, verbal, emotionally expressive, and constantly using the strategies of metis, not brute strength, to survive. While Homeric masculinity typically means fighting, dying, and achieving kleos, Odysseus thrives through deception, patience, and endurance. Traits that the ancient Greeks more often ascribed to women.

[gimmethatagustd]

wanna stream a porno | kth

At this point, attempting to deny that you have feelings for Taehyung is laughable. Even his subscribers can sense the chemistry between the two of you.

Pairing: Taehyung x Reader

Rating: Explicit

Genre/Trope: Frenemies to lovers, sex work, fluff (?), smut

Word Count: 4,847

Content Warning: Sex work (cam), MC uses they/them pronouns, Tae refers to MC as bunny and bun - aka rope bunny which is the term for the person being tied up in a shibari scene, BDSM, bondage, impact play, spanking, use of degrading language (that isn't actually meant to be mean), voyeurism, exhibition kink, Tae makes MC call him daddy so they won't dox him lmfao, blow job, vaginal fingering, sex toys, crying during sex, subspace/dropping, vaginal sex, forced orgasms, overstimulation, squirting, implied aftercare

A/N: I first posted this on Valentine's Day 2024, can you believe ?? Abandon all hope, ye who enter

Soundtrack: One Of The Girls (Sped Up) - The Weeknd, JENNIE, Lily-Rose Depp

the wannabe-photographer chronicles: part four

“Too tight?” Taehyung murmurs against the curve of your ear, his breath tickling your neck. 

It’s embarrassing how your body reacts to the sound of his low, velvety voice. You’d snorted when Taehyung first told you that people on the internet paid money to listen to his dirty talk and watch him jerk off. There was no fucking way; he had to be lying. You’d been sure of it. 

But now… 

Taehyung reaches around your body and tugs on the rope he’s just tied your wrists with. It looks rough, black, and twisted but smooth as it rubs against your skin when you move. 

You shiver and shake your head, forgetting what you’d discussed earlier in the day until it’s too late. The smack to your ass stings, and you bite your bottom lip to keep from making any sound. 

“What did I tell you, bun?” Taehyung asks softly, running his palm across the skin he just smacked. He squeezes your asscheek and jiggles it before removing his hand. 

“I have to use my words,” you speak up like he told you to, even though your voice is hoarse with desire and nervousness. Because, fuck, are you nervous. 

“Mhmm…” Taehyung hums in agreement, though he sounds distracted. 

You can’t see him from where you kneel on the floor in his bedroom, but you can feel it when he gets up. If you wanted to, you could twist around to face him. It would be difficult, though, with how much of your body is tied up. 

Taehyung spent at least twenty minutes carefully weaving intricate patterns against your naked skin, crossing the rope in what almost looks like a star formation across your back that wraps around to the front of your body, keeping your arms tied to your sides and your hands bound in front of you. The rope cages your chest like a harness and extends down to wrap around your legs, forcing you into a kneeling position and making you unable to straighten your legs. 

It took you three weeks of practicing before Taehyung could fully tie you up without you going into a panic attack. 

“It’s not too tight,” you announce after clearing your throat. 

You watch as Taehyung circles your body until he stands in front of you. He reaches out to flick his middle finger against the underside of your chin, prompting you to tilt your head back to look up at him. 

“My little rope bunny looks so pretty, all tied up for me,” Taehyung says with a sparkling grin that makes your whole body flush with heat. 

“I want to tell you off so badly right now,” you hiss through gritted teeth. Your frustration only makes Taehyung’s grin widen. 

“I bet you do. It’s a shame you can’t, but rules are rules.” Taehyung shrugs, not at all nonchalant in his mocking tone. 

You close your eyes as he trails his finger down your throat and past your collarbones until he reaches one of your nipples. Usually, it would take more than a gentle brush of a fingertip against your nipple for you to feel aroused, but there’s something about being tied up that has heightened your senses. Every minor touch has your nerves sparking and fraying at the ends. Taehyung isn’t even doing anything, and you’re already wet and aching. 

“Taehyung,” you do your best to sound steady and fail. 

“Let me fix the cameras and figure out what I’m gonna wear, okay? I’ll be quick; I promise.” 

Taehyung rearranged all the furniture in his bedroom to leave an open spot in the corner of the room where he set up cameras and photography lighting. His laptop rests on an end table nearby, the screen showing a mirrored image of you kneeling on the floor on a pale pink silk sheet, fluffy pillows surrounding you in a half-circle. It’s all very Y2K, softcore aesthetic – not what you’d expect from Taehyung. His followers are mostly young women, though, and he says he likes to play up his soft side for them. 

It sounds ridiculous, but there’s something about being tied up in such a gentle environment that’s making your pussy throb. 

Taehyung is quick, as he promised. He returns, shirtless and wearing a pair of black joggers to match the black rope wrapped around your body. You drag your eyes over his torso, admiring the flat plane of his abdomen and the swell of his pecs. Smooth – it’s the best word to describe Taehyung. His voice, body, and charisma when he murmurs sweet seductions in your ear are always so smooth. 

When he catches you staring, Taehyung winks at you. It makes you flustered despite your desire to remain neutral, and you quickly look down to find something else to focus your attention on. In Taehyung’s hands is a long, rectangular purple box. He sets it down next to you on the floor and opens the lid. 

You gasp when you see what’s inside. 

“Taehyung…” 

“It’s for later. Don’t worry about it,” Taehyung says softly, pressing his index finger against your parted lips to quiet you. 

On instinct, you close your lips around Taehyung’s finger and suck it gently, swirling your tongue around it. Taehyung’s eyes flutter closed for a few seconds until he pulls his hand away. 

“You’re such a slut.”

“Fuck you.” 

You can’t help but grin when Taehyung sticks his tongue out at you. He’s an idiot, but you love it. You love him, maybe. To be determined. 

Or never. Never is also fine. 

“So… what the fuck is gonna happen now? I’m starting to cramp,” you complain as Taehyung messes around with his laptop. 

“What?” Taehyung spins around quickly, nearly sending one of his floor lamps crashing when his elbow collides with the stand. “You’re in pain? Where? Let me loosen–” 

“Oh my god, Taehyung, I’m fine. I just don’t feel like kneeling naked on the fucking floor while you dick around!” 

With a snort, Taehyung turns his back on you. 

“I’m just trying to take care of my little movie star, alright?” 

The nickname, if that’s what you can even call it, makes your stomach flutter. It doesn’t matter that you’re trying your best to stay unaffected by Taehyung’s bullshit; Taehyung has you under his spell like he always does. 

“I know what to say…” you insist with a pout, flexing your fingers. “Red for stop, yellow for slow down, green for good…” 

It’s elementary, but all the prep Taehyung made you do leading up to this moment showed you how important having a system is, be it a random safe word or the colors. What you don’t want to tell Taehyung is how comforting the rope is. You don’t want him to have the satisfaction of knowing that you like being restrained. It’s like a tight embrace, and the rope causes goosebumps to spread across your body when its silkiness rubs against your skin every time you shift positions. 

Watching you over his shoulder, Taehyung calls you softly, “I’m going to start the session if that’s okay?”

You nod, adrenaline buzzing through your veins as you hear the little pings from Taehyung’s laptop, indicating that people are paying to join the livestream. It’s still shocking that Taehyung has such a large following. However, it makes sense now that he has been so interested in erotic photography and film for his projects as a university student studying art. Funny how your roommate, Hoseok, never bothered to tell you that his friend does amateur porn – though Taehyung was quick to make it clear that he has never had anyone else on his stream before you. 

You’re special.

You wonder who might be sitting on the other end, paying to watch Taehyung pleasure himself every Wednesday night. 

“It’s hump day,” Taehyung had said with an exasperated sigh when you’d asked why he chose Wednesdays, as if you were the stupidest person on the planet for asking such a question.

The worst part is wondering if someone watching Taehyung’s stream will recognize you. Taehyung doesn’t shy away from showing his face, but he’d offered you a mask or only to use camera angles that wouldn’t expose your identity. You’d turned down both offers, though you can’t remember why. You can’t remember much of anything, your mind going blank the moment Taehyung addresses the anonymous subscribers waiting for porn. 

“Hey everyone, it’s nice to see you all again this week,” Taehyung greets his followers with a deeper and richer voice than you’ve ever heard him use. It makes your body tingle. “For those of you following me on my socials or who joined last week, you’ll know I promised to do something special for Valentine’s Day, right?” 

You can’t see the laptop screen; Taehyung is standing in front of it. He’s also blocking the camera, so the people logged into the session can’t see you yet. 

“I have a special guest,” Taehyung shifts to the side so you’re in view, “This is Bunny, and it’s their first time on camera like this, so please be kind.” 

Unsure of what to do, you wave your fingers in a greeting, unable to do much else since you’re all tied up. It must be enough because Taehyung smiles when he looks at you, and you feel your face heat up from the gentle gesture. 

Luckily, Taehyung’s attention quickly returns to the livestream chat. Apparently, Jimin is hanging out in his bedroom, moderating the chat to ensure no one posts anything inappropriate. Knowing Jimin will be watching excites you a little bit. 

“Ah, no, we’re not dating,” Taehyung chuckles, and it’s strange to be able to say that you know Taehyung well enough to know that this laughter isn’t genuine. “Don’t get any ideas, though. Trust me. Our little bun might look harmless, but it’s a ruse.”

You can’t help but snort. You’d think Taehyung is stalling, but you’ve learned that his subscribers expect a sort of parasocial relationship with him. He usually warms up by feeding into that. As weirdly cute as it is, your nerves are making you impatient. 

“Even though it’s my bun’s first time, I don’t think we need to take it easy on them,” Taehyung smirks into the camera, and more pings ring through the bedroom. 

Each ping indicates that the livestream viewers are leaving messages in the chat and sending Taehyung money to request specific actions – actions he refuses to tell you about because that would ruin all the fun. 

“Hmm…” Taehyung murmurs, eyes dragging from the streaming platform’s chat feature to you, wrapped up like a pretty present for him. The look is weighty and dark, which Taehyung has never had while looking at you. 

Suddenly embarrassed, you drop your gaze as Taehyung approaches where you kneel. 

“Are you ready, bun?” Taehyung’s question is softer than the look he gives you. 

You nod in return and hope your nerves aren’t visible to Taehyung’s loyal fans. It would suck to fuck this up for him, as much as he annoys you. Admittedly, ever since that impromptu threesome with Jimin, Taehyung has been acting different around you. He’s been almost… sweet. 

Taehyung takes out a black, wide-end riding crop from the purple box. He hits the palm of his hand with it a few times as though testing it out. He looks good, the muscles in his biceps shifting and bulging every time he winds up to flick the crop. Your entire body shudders when his dark eyes flit down to meet yours. 

“How many times do I have to tell you to speak up, hm?” 

Taehyung falls into character quicker than you expect. It gives you whiplash watching him push back his hair, now a light minty color that looks pretty against the pink surrounding you, his gaze an oppressive force crushing you harder than the rope ever could. Your attention briefly falls on the laptop when a few pings ring out. 

What if people don’t like you? What if you don’t do well? You’d agreed to do this because Taehyung wanted to expand his portfolio, just like every other time you agreed to spend time with him. You both know that isn’t why you’re here, even if neither of you want to say it out loud. 

“Bun.” Using the flat end of the crop, Taehyung lifts your chin to look at him instead of the laptop. “Don’t think about them. Just focus on me, okay?” 

“Okay,” you breathe, suddenly feeling lightheaded. 

Taehyung drags the crop down your chest, tapping lightly at your tits to watch them bounce against the black rope. Goosebumps rush across your skin like waves in the wake of the crop’s path down your body. 

“How many should I give you?” 

You blink a few times, eyes suddenly bleary as you watch Taehyung walk around to stand behind you. The camera captures your side profile, allowing viewers to see you and Taehyung clearly. Despite Taehyung’s reassuring words, it’s hard not to think about the anonymous people watching Taehyung caress your body. 

“How many what?” Your breath hitches when Taehyung’s hand replaces the crop to run up the length of your spine until he reaches the back of your neck. 

“For your punishment, bun. How many hits do you deserve?” Taehyung asks, his voice with a deep timbre. “Lean forward.” 

Taehyung squeezes the back of your neck and pushes, forcing your upper body down a bit further while you stay kneeling. Lifting the crop, he smacks your ass three times in quick succession, each hit a sharp sting that makes your body jolt. 

“Oh, fuck,” you gasp as you struggle to keep your balance. “Is that really necessary?” 

Taehyung clicks his tongue, and even though you can’t see him, you’re sure he has an infuriatingly smug look on his face. 

“Count them,” he murmurs loud enough for the stream to pick up. 

It’s strange how pliant you become with each hit. Something about the pain zaps something in your brain, sending your nervous system haywire until the stings turn into pleasure. Taehyung focuses each hit on the same spot until your skin becomes tender, but he doesn’t stop until your entire body shakes. 

“T-twenty,” you count with a shudder, tears lining your eyelashes and fingers squeezing the ropes on your chest to give you something to hold onto, though it does nothing to ground. 

“Very good.” It’s a simple statement, but Taehyung’s praise does something to you. Either that or it’s the feeling of the crop being dragged over your sore asscheek to dip inward. 

You gasp when Taehyung pushes the crop through your pussy, spreading your lips open and running the crop along your folds. You’re soaking wet and on edge from him spanking you, so the glide is easy for Taehyung as he begins rubbing your clit. The crop is warm from your body heat, and though the shape is sharp and angular, any amount of stimulation feels good. 

“Please,” you beg, bending forward further to expose more of your pussy. 

The ropes around your legs keep your thighs spread, putting you on display for easy access. Even though you can’t see it, you’re sure your arousal glistens in the bright lighting, and you can feel your juices leak down your folds. 

Taehyung runs his thumb through your pussy lips, swishing your arousal around, dragging up and down your clit before he eventually sinks his index and middle fingers into your pussy. 

His name almost slips out when your thighs begin to shake. You want to call out his name and beg him to fuck you, even though everything in you doesn’t want to give him that satisfaction. It’s just too good, and you haven’t fucked since that time with Jimin. Taehyung said it would be better that way to help with your nerves, but now you’re feeling desperate, and you hate the feeling of needing to be filled. 

“Fuck, look at you. You like being tied up like this, don’t you?” Taehyung smirks when he tosses the crop to the side and uses his other hand to stimulate your clit while he continues fucking you with his fingers. 

You moan loudly, completely forgetting about the people watching Taehyung getting on his knees to finger you, twisting each time he pulls out, just to plunge back in and press downward to stimulate your front wall. 

Remembering the rules, you swallow your pride and do what Taehyung wants. 

“Yes, daddy.” 

It’s humiliating to call Taehyung that. You hate it, but you can’t say his real name on air, and this was what he’d told you to call him – or else you’d be punished. He won’t let you cum if you don’t behave. Though you can’t deny how good Taehyung sounds when he groans at the name, nor how good it feels when he speeds up his fingers. 

“Say it again,” Taehyung murmurs, leaning forward to press his bare chest to your back so he can reach your ear. “Baby, say it again.” 

“Yes, daddy.” 

“Fuck.” 

Grabbing your hips, Taehyung yanks you back so he can switch places with you, now kneeling in front of you. Being on this side gives him a better view of the livestream chat. Whatever he finds there makes him smile, something lopsided and suspicious. 

“They do have a pretty pussy, don’t they?” Taehyung grins into the camera, reaching forward to cup your pussy. He crowds your space, forcing your face against his crotch when he leans in. 

Despite how embarrassing the action is, you mouth at the bulge in his joggers.

“Hurry up,” you whine, knowing Taehyung might scold you but uncaring. “Fuck me already.” 

A slap to your tender ass makes you cry out in pain. 

“Our friends think I need to do something about your bratty mouth, bun,” Taehyung points out with his arms crossed against his firm chest. “They’re right, of course. You’ve always been so bratty with me.” 

“Fuck you,” you hiss quietly, both hoping no one hears you and also that they will.

“You’re cute when you’re acting like a slutty little bitch.” 

Taehyung tongues the inside of his cheek and turns to the box that had held the riding crop. The insults scratch some itch in the back of your brain, and your pussy betrays you by pulsing with need. 

From the box, Taehyung pulls out a pink cordless wand vibrator. The head is smooth and fat, the rest of the wand sleek like Taehyung’s fingers as they grip around the handle. Anticipation burns in the pit of your stomach while you wait for Taehyung to turn the wand on and press it against your swollen, neglected clit. 

Instead, once the wand is on, Taehyung presses against the bulge in his joggers.

“Oh my god,” you moan as Taehyung drags the wand up his cock until he reaches the head. He circles it slowly, hips subtly thrust forward. 

It makes sense that people pay to watch Taehyung masturbate. He’s pretty when he does it, staring directly into your eyes as he whimpers, breathy and sweet.

Each of his little moans makes you wetter, and your body continues to tremble with need. It’s so unbelievably hot how he tilts his head back, exposing the V of his jaw and his Adam’s apple, bobbing each time he swallows. 

“Do you think I’m pretty, bun?” Taehyung smirks, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as he finally removes the wand from his clothed cock. It’s hard to see the wet patch in his clothes from how dark the material is, but you know it’s there. 

“Yes, daddy,” you whisper as Taehyung grabs a hold of your jaw and gives you a quick but firm squeeze that pushes your cheeks inward.  

“I know you do.” 

Letting go of your face, Taehyung hooks his thumbs in his joggers and pulls down far enough to take out his cock. It bobs and hangs heavy in front of your face, close enough that the tip brushes your cheek and smears precum across your face. 

“Be a good bun and suck my cock, yeah?” 

Not needing to be told twice, you lean forward to lap at the precum dribbling from Taehyung’s slit, making him groan. His body trembles slightly as you suck him into your mouth, and it feels good to know you’re not the only one affected.

Reaching for the wand again, Taehyung runs the tip along his shaft as you suckle the head of his cock. You can feel the vibrations in your mouth, and the sensation seems to travel down the rest of your body as your pussy pulses. 

“Fuck,” Taehyung moans, throwing his head back as you take more of his cock down your throat. “Don’t go any faster. Keep it nice and slow.” 

He only lets you suck him off for a bit longer, just enough to get his cock nice and wet from gagging around him. Then he tugs on your ropes, pulling you off of his cock as you gasp for air. 

“You okay?” Taehyung brushes his thumb against your bottom lip, wiping away spit and precum, you’re sure. It’s disgusting, but he’s so gentle when he does it that your face grows hot.

“I’m fine.” 

“You look pretty like this,” he murmurs. “I can’t wait to fuck you, baby. Been thinking about it for weeks.” 

It isn’t until Taehyung cradles the side of your face and slots his lips with yours that you realize you haven’t even kissed. You usually don’t, too caught up in the carnal need to consume each other in other ways.

But kissing Taehyung feels good.

He holds you gently as your lips glide together, Taehyung tasting himself on your tongue and moaning into your mouth when he does. You pant against each other in between kisses, Taehyung using the opportunity to bite and suck on your bottom lip until you’re pushing yourself against him, seeking more. You just want to be close, closer. 

“Turn around,” he breathes against your spit-slicked lips. It isn’t easy, but he helps you move until you’re facing away from him. 

Without being told, you begin to lower your upper body onto the floor, but Taehyung stops you with an arm around your chest. 

“Wait.” It’s spoken against your ear, his breath hot like your core as it pulses when you realize what Taehyung is doing. 

He turns on the wand to the lowest vibration setting and carefully slips it through the rope wrapped around your hips. Placement presses the head of the wand directly to your clit. 

“I can’t,” you squeak, hunching over as the subtle vibrations ripple through you. Normally, the setting would be too low to get you off quickly, but Taehyung has been edging you this whole time. 

“It’s okay if you cum, baby. I wanna see how many times I can make you cum.” 

Taehyung bites the curve of your ear before shoving the middle of your back until your upper body rests on the floor and your ass is in the air. He’s gentle when he presses his cock against your entrance, the glide easy from how sloppy wet you are. You can hear him bottom out, the sound of your arousal gushing around his cock with each wet slap of his thighs against yours as he thrusts in and out of you. 

It only takes three deep strokes before you cum, pussy fluttering around Taehyung’s cock and your body shaking underneath him. The ropes prevent you from wriggling and writhing, and the vibrator on your clit prolongs your orgasm. You feel like it never ends, just wave after wave of pleasure, making your body lock up. 

“Oh fuck, fuck, Tae-” You’re cut off by Taehyung’s hand slapped across your mouth. 

“Behave, bun,” he growls, never letting up his pace despite how violently your body reacts to the prolonged orgasm. 

Grabbing the rope tied around your back, Taehyung pulls on it, forcing you to rock back and forth on his cock at the pace he wants. You’re so wet that he slips in and out of you with wet squelches loud enough to be heard by all his subscribers. 

“Oh my god,” you moan as your body rocks against the pretty sheets and fluffy pink pillows. It helps stop you from chafing against the floor, but you don’t care. All you can focus on is how good Taehyung feels, his cock filling you up and his hands tightening the hold the ropes have on the most sensitive parts of your body. 

“God, you’re always so fucking creamy,” Taehyung groans, slapping your ass to watch it jiggle on his cock. 

You feel another orgasm ripple through you, having barely recovered from the other one. Taehyung fucks you through it still and then fucks you through the next one. 

By the time you’ve cum for the fourth time, tears stream down your face. 

“Please,” you sob, the buzz of the vibrator and Taehyung’s moans flooding your brain until there’s nothing left. 

“One more, bun,” Taehyung grunts as he reaches over to pull the wand out of the ropes. He tosses it to the side and replaces it with his fingers, rubbing quick circles over your clit. “Come on, give me one more so we can finish together.” 

The remaining pressure inside of you bursts the moment Taehyung starts playing with your clit. You feel your pussy gush around his cock as you cum even more than before, so much that you can feel it leak down your thighs and soak the bed sheet below you. 

A flurry of pings reminds you that you’re on camera. You can barely think straight long enough to understand what that means when Taehyung lets out a broken moan behind you. 

“Oh fuck, you just squirted, fuck baby, why are you so hot.” Taehyung’s grip on your hips hurts when he finally cums, still thrusting even when you’ve both been pushed beyond overstimulation. 

When he finally pulls out, you sag to the floor. Your entire body aches from being tied up and pounded into, not to mention how sore your ass and clit are from the constant stimulation. 

“You’re trying to kill me,” you accuse weakly as Taehyung takes a deep breath, head thrown back, chest sweaty. He’s still wearing his joggers, and his soft cock hangs over the waistband, shiny with cum. 

“Fuck,” Taehyung groans, running a hand over his face, “Alright, that’s, that’s all for today.” He crawls over to the laptop and gives the camera a salute. “See you all next week, assuming I’ve recovered.” 

The final pings ring out from the laptop before Taehyung snaps it shut and falls back on his butt. He finally tucks his cock back in his pants and turns to where you lie, weak on the floor. 

“Shit, let me get you out of this.” 

You’re in a haze, something floaty and free, like a cloud, and Taehyung caresses your wispy body as he unwraps you. Your head lulls to the side, and you let Taehyung lift your limbs and shift your body until he’s finished with all the ropes. 

“How are you feeling?” Taehyung asks, gently pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

Content. Satiated. Happy. In love.

“Tired,” you mumble as you stare up at Taehyung. His eyes are bright, and his cheeks are a soft pink, youthful, and pretty. 

“We can take a bath and then go to bed. You’ll stay over?” His voice is a hopeful lilt when he asks, and your stomach flutters. 

“Yes, daddy.” 

Taehyung’s mouth morphs into that lopsided grin you pretend to hate so much. 

“I love it when you call me that.” 

“I hate you,” you spit out, but Taehyung kisses you before you can pout more.

It’s a slow kiss, far too gentle for what you’ve all just finished doing. Taehyung sighs into the kiss, tilting his head to deepen it, though his lips glide languidly rather than rushed with need like they had before. 

You slip your arms around his broad shoulders and appreciate the stretch of being free from your restraints. 

“You did so well, seriously. I’m really proud of you. You were so sexy and, fuck. I’m…” Taehyung trails off as he helps you stand up, keeping you cradled against his body when you start to sway. “Thank you for doing this with me.” 

You nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck and find no bratty comeback, only a flood of happiness that nearly chokes you. 

“Maybe we can do it again if you wanna,” you offer with your lips against his neck. His skin is salty with sweat, but you flick your tongue against him anyway, just to make him squirm. 

Taehyung pulls back slightly to stare at you. “For real?” 

“If you keep asking, I might change my mind!” 

You try to wiggle out of Taehyung’s arms, but he keeps you close. It’s fine; you don’t really want to be anywhere else but here, pressed against Taehyung’s broad frame, blanketed by his gentle attention.

Even if he is annoying. 

[honeypiehotchner]

The Gambit (Hotch x Fem!Reader) -- part twenty-three

Once again, don't say a word, yes I'm uploading AGAIN, I can't help it!! I want to get to the fluffy weekend chapters!!!

Warnings: some good big brother bonding with Morgan and reader, Derek talks about the events of s2e12 "Profiler, Profiled" here, more curveballs lowkey I'm getting whiplash here (you'll see), apologies in advance (it felt too easy!!! so sorry!!!)

When you peel yourself away from Hotch, it’s only because there’s a knock at his door. The sound makes you jump and him stand to his feet, his hands slipping from yours automatically. 

He walks to the door and opens it a crack, pausing. He looks over his shoulder once at you before opening the door further.

Rossi eyes you both as he walks into Hotch’s office. “Am I interrupting?”

“No,” you say immediately, standing up. “I was just leaving, actually.”

Rossi gives you a look that tells you he sees right through you, but he doesn’t press as you weave through them and exit Hotch’s office. 

The team is just coming out of the conference room when you step out, pausing as you stare at one another.

You don’t know what to say. If you can even say anything. 

“Should we um…” You pause to clear your throat. “Should we go back to looking at all the evidence?”

“In a minute,” Morgan says. “Let’s take a walk first.”

You open your mouth, but Morgan hears none of it, shaking his head as he comes toward you, leading you out of the bullpen.

“Where are we going?”

“To get breakfast for everyone for the long day ahead of us,” Morgan replies, pressing the down arrow on the elevator. “And to get you calmed down.”

“I’m plenty calm.”

“You’re shaking.”

The elevator doors open and you step inside, glaring at the buttons on the wall instead of your team member. You press the ground floor button with a huff, crossing your arms over your chest to hide the fact that you are definitely not shaking.

Neither of you say a word as you walk to Derek’s car in the parking garage, parked in his same spot as usual. Derek breaks the silence with an insane question.

“Do you…want to stop somewhere for…cigarettes?”

You can’t help but laugh loudly at the way he says it. “No, dude, I’m fine.”

“Alright,” he says, turning the key in the ignition. “Was just asking.”

“Why?” you laugh again. “Last time that was brought up you were horrified.”

“Well,” he shrugs, not arguing with that. He pulls out of the space and heads for the exit. “That was before everything started imploding.”

You scoff. “Imploding puts it a little too nicely. But no, I’m fine, that was my one pack for the year, so I’m cut off.”

Morgan raises an eyebrow. “One a year?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “A rule I had with my mom. She never liked that I picked up the habit — didn’t find out why until later, but my dad smoked, too, and tried to hide it from her — so we made a deal. One pack a year.”

“And you stuck to it?”

“Surprisingly, yeah,” you reply. “Some days I don’t know how I did it, but I guess I just didn’t want to let her down.”

Morgan hums. “That feeling can run deep.”

“Especially after what happened with my dad,” you agree. “I knew she couldn’t take another thing, so when we compromised and made promises, we stuck to them.”

Morgan nods. “Mine too.”

A comfortable silence fills the car as Morgan drives into town, to one of the chain coffee spots that has a drive-thru. They know the BAU well from their frequent — and sometimes random — orders.

As you wait in one of the nearby parking spaces for your order to be prepared, Morgan starts talking again.

“Did I ever tell you about a case in my hometown a few years ago?”

You shake your head. “I don’t think so.”

“I was arrested as a suspect for the murder of one of the neighborhood kids,” he explains. “I was in town for my mom’s birthday, and one of the detectives had always had it out for me, he saw a connection and booked me. Hotch and everyone came to find the real unsub and get me out of there.”

“Oh my god,” you say, unsure of how else to respond to this. “But they did figure it out, obviously, right, because you’re here, and still at the BAU?”

Morgan nods, keeping his eyes focused ahead of him. “They did. But the team had to do a lot of digging into my past to find answers. Because I wasn’t willing to share those parts of my life.”

“Right.” You look down at your hands, seeing exactly where he’s going with this now.

“Garcia unsealed some of my records, Hotch practically interrogated me as if I was the unsub,” Morgan laughs, the kind of bitter sound that tells you it wasn’t funny then, it isn’t exactly funny now, but it’s less painful than it used to be. “I kept secrets because I wanted my privacy — and I still do. I still think we each have a right to our privacy, no matter how much we see each other all the damn time,” he smiles. “But I also know things might’ve gone smoother if I had opened up a little more.”

You shake your head. “That’s not on you, Derek. Just because things might have gone smoother doesn’t mean you were wrong for trying to salvage what little privacy you had left.”

“I know that,” he says. “I’m saying two things can be true at once. You can be mad at Hotch for going behind your back and digging into your past without your permission. And you can let yourself accept that he was doing what he thought was right and what he thought had to be done in order to help you.”

You sink further into the passenger seat, resisting the urge to glare at Derek. “How’d you know I’ve been battling that one in my head?”

Morgan smiles then, wide and mischievous. “You’re an open book whether you like it or not.”

“Or maybe we’re just so similar that you’re projecting and it just happens to be correct.”

“Like I said, two things can be true at once.”

You roll your eyes that time, playfully shoving his shoulder. “I hate you.”

“No, no you love me.”

“Barely.”

“Ouch.”

“Quit being dramatic and put your window down, they’re bringing our food out.”

Once the bags of breakfast are safely tucked at your feet and the drink carrier is secured in your lap, Morgan heads back for the BAU.

“Thank you,” you finally say. “For the Big Brother talk.”

He glances at you, looking only slightly surprised. “You’re welcome. Anytime.”

“Did you and Hotch ever talk about it?” you blurt.

Morgan is unfazed by the question, though. “Yeah. We did.” He pauses. “I’m assuming you guys haven’t?”

“Well,” you scoff. “We haven’t exactly had the time.”

“Touché,” Morgan nods. “I think you should. At some point.”

Like this weekend, your mind fills in for you. It would be the perfect time. The two of you will be alone, with Rossi’s entire place to yourselves. It would be easy for you to pitch the conversation or try to steer one in that direction — or, fuck it, blurt it out at one point just to rip the bandaid off. 

“Yeah,” you say. “At some point.”

+++

“Everything okay?” Rossi asks Hotch after they watch you practically bolt from the room.

Hotch shuts the door. “Fine. I was going to ask you the same, since you followed Erin out of here.”

Rossi’s on-again, off-again relationship with Erin Strauss is no secret, at least not to Hotch. It’s something he’s known about for years, having confronted Dave about it after noticing one too many not-so-subtle gestures from his friend.

But that’s not what this was about this time.

“She wants us to get to the bottom of this. Like, yesterday,” Rossi says.

“Well,” Hotch pauses to rub the headache brewing under his eyebrow. “Tell her she can join the club.”

That makes both men let out an incredulous laugh.

“What the hell are we doing here, Aaron?” Dave finally asks. “It feels like we get thrown a curveball every single day. Richard Monroe just breaks out of prison out of nowhere? Are we supposed to think the unsub helped him? Are we supposed to think Richard is going to go after Lila now?”

“I don’t know,” Aaron admits. “I don’t understand any of it. And nothing that we find seems to land us any closer than we were to figuring out who is doing all of this.”

“I know,” Rossi sighs. “I asked her last night if she remembers anything about who kidnapped her.”

“And?” Hotch sounds too hopeful, he knows he does.

Rossi shakes his head. “She might have seen his face, but she has blocked it out. What she remembered was him telling her to put the clothes she was wearing the day he took her back on, so that she’d match the description when we found her. But he was taking care of her. Giving her changes of clothes, food, water, letting her shower with a lock inside the bathroom door. She said she felt safe, despite everything. If she did see his face, she blocked it out, and it’s been two decades, Aaron. There’s no way she’d remember it now, and if she did, we couldn’t trust it to be accurate, not after this long.”

Hotch hates it, but Rossi is right. With so much time having passed, it’s no use. 

“There’s something we’re missing,” Hotch turns and heads for the window, gazing at the horizon as he thinks. “When we spoke to Richard in prison, he said his daughter was supposed to be left out of it.”

“Okay…”

“So, if the unsub we’re looking for is the same person who kidnapped Lila, and the same person from twenty years ago,” Hotch talks himself in circles, “and Richard recognized her in the interrogation room that day— he’s the heart of this, but how?”

“And now he’s missing,” Rossi muses.

“Or running,” Hotch adds, then turns around to face Rossi, something clicking in his mind. “Richard had someone framed. He admitted to that.”

“But we checked on that, the man was out on parole, it was lifted once Richard admitted to everything.”

“Where is he now?”

The pair stare at one another before Hotch practically leaps for his desk to make the necessary phone calls.

As it rings, Hotch turns to Rossi, “Get Garcia to bring up everything on him — including whatever he was doing twenty years ago — and meet us in the conference room.”

Rossi nods and leaves so Hotch can handle the calls. It’s not a definite lead, but it’s something, and it’s someone that they can potentially speak to.

+++

When you and Morgan arrive back at the BAU, you don’t expect to walk into such a flurry of chaos when you enter the bullpen.

“We might have a lead,” Prentiss explains. “Come on.”

You nearly drop the drinks as you hurry up the stairs to the conference room, joining JJ, Garcia, and Reid. “Where’s Hotch?”

“On the phone,” Rossi answers from behind you. “He’ll be in in just a second.”

Garcia starts anyway. “Does anyone remember Maxwell Herman?” She barely gives anyone a second to answer before continuing. “I doubt it, because we looked at him for all of two seconds when you were investigating Lila Monroe’s kidnapping, but here he is.” 

She points the remote at the screen and pictures fly onto it, one being Maxwell’s mugshot. The one next to it being his arrest record.

“This is the man Richard Monroe admitted to having framed,” Garcia continues. “Was on parole, that was lifted once Richard admitted to everything, you know the rest. Now, what you don’t know is that’s not his real name.”

She clicks again and a new mugshot appears, one of a younger man. Twenty years younger. 

“Meet William Easton from Georgia, with such a crazy rap sheet that I have no idea how he was able to change his name and entire identity without someone catching on. But anyway, he was arrested for anything you can name. Including but not limited to: Attempted arson, attempted armed robbery, actual armed robbery, DUI, domestic dispute, aggravated assault, and the kicker, attempted homicide.”

“Attempted?” Reid blurts.

“They never quite found enough evidence to convict him, but—”

“He was a suspect,” Rossi says. “In the original murders in Atlanta, before we connected them to Adkins. Before the BAU stepped in.”

“What?” you blurt, that being the absolute last thing you were expecting to hear, despite knowing somehow that your father was connected.

“They caught him in the area one too many times,” Rossi continues. “They thought it was because he was the unsub, but it turned out he was just a creep with a record who was fascinated by the killings.”

“Wanna see something else crazy?” Garcia adds. “Here’s the sketch that the artist came up with after speaking to Lila.” She clicks again so the sketch is side by side William’s most recent mugshot. The likeness isn’t exact, but it’s enough to be worrisome.

Hotch comes into the conference room, phone pressed to his ear. “Thank you.” He ends the call to fill everyone in. “Officers are on their way to William’s home, they’re going to call once they’ve apprehended him.”

“For what?” you ask. “If he was on parole, he couldn’t leave the house to kidnap a child.”

“No, but he could convince a child he was their father and make them come to him,” Morgan answers. “If he had good behavior, he could leave the house for a short period to meet her somewhere and grab her.”

“Exactly,” Hotch agrees. You can feel his eyes on you as you stare at the screen, at the mugshot and the sketch. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head. “Just…strange that we might have a face to put to all of this now.” Too easy, almost. Though nothing leading up to this point has been easy, this feels too easy.

You wish you hadn’t had that thought. It’s almost like you jinxed it somehow, even though you didn’t speak it out loud.

Because no less than ten minutes later, Hotch’s phone rings, and you can see on his face that it’s bad news.

“Alright, don’t— Don’t touch anything. My team and I will be there as soon as we can.”

When he hangs up the phone, everyone waits, their breaths held, for his next words.

“They found William dead in his apartment,” Hotch says. “Rossi, Morgan, Prentiss, I want you with me, we’ll be leaving in ten minutes. Everyone else,” he conveniently avoids your eyes, “stay here and continue digging. Richard Monroe might not be missing, he might be running from our unsub.”

“How do you know that?” you ask. “And why am I not going with you?”

“Because the unsub left a note on William’s body,” Hotch replies, ever firm and clinical. “And I need you to stay here.”

“Hotch—”

“I don’t have time to argue about this, we’ll be back before the end of the day,” he says, his voice softer, but that doesn’t help. Just because he doesn’t yell at you doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt — once again being shown by his actions that he thinks you can’t handle something.

“Fine, then, just go,” you look back up at William’s face on the screen. “We’ll be here when you get back.”

Everyone leaves quickly, except Hotch who lingers a bit in the doorway, like there are words just at the tip of his tongue. He calls your name once, but you shake your head.

“Go,” you repeat, just barely looking at him over your shoulder. “Take some food for the plane,” you gesture to the breakfast that is nearly forgotten. “Go.”

[sirenontheloose]

i love love love the ot6 fic sm! ot6 fics are so hard to find and you did it justice! will there be a part 2? perhaps once the morning creeps in?

part 2 is here <3

Not The Beach Trip We Booked (2)

It was getting harder to pretend this was going how the staff expected.

Inside the monitor tent, now half-buried in cords and snack wrappers, a group of cam operators and production assistants huddled around six small screens. Each showed a different angle of the island. The sun was starting to dip toward the horizon, casting gold across the sand, but there was no chaos. No breakdowns. No one had even raised their voice in hours. Every feed was calm, peaceful, and almost... productive.

One intern leaned over the main monitor, squinting.

“Is that... a meeting?”

The junior editor beside him leaned in too, her brows furrowed.

“They’re passing around a stick. Like... to talk.”

On screen, KATSEYE sat in a circle near the fire pit. It wasn’t a messy, distracted kind of circle. It was intentional. Like they’d made rules about how to sit. Y/N held a stick in one hand, using it to point at a leaf she’d scratched with tiny symbols. Megan nodded along as if it were a classroom, while Yoonchae scribbled something in the sand with a smaller stick. Sophia sat with a smooth rock in her lap, using a burnt twig to mark inventory in careful rows. No one was screaming. No one was sunburnt or crying. It was disturbingly quiet.

The head PD stood in the back of the tent, unmoving.

“They’re not just surviving. They’re thriving.”

He didn’t sound impressed. He sounded unnerved.

Someone behind the monitors whispered like they were afraid to break the spell.

“They gave Manon a vibe-related job. And she’s taking it seriously.”

A different staff member let out a coughing sound halfway through a sip of coffee.

“Wait. You mean the one who slept through that one press shoot and said she’d fight the CEO? That Manon?”

“She’s got a vine crown now.”

Another voice, thin and rattled, chimed in.

“She assigned bedtime. And they listened.”

There was a beat of silence where nobody quite knew what to say.

“They’re all... happy.”

“They weren’t supposed to be happy.”

Back on the monitor, Dani handed Lara a bundle of long, flexible vines. She held them gently, like the handoff was ceremonial. Lara nodded once, her brows lifted in quiet respect, then knelt down to begin weaving with focused precision.

“Should we... intervene?” someone asked.

The PD didn’t answer at first. Just watched as Sophia pointed to a pile of leaves and bark, nodded at Megan, then added another tally mark to her rock.

“If we try anything,” he finally said, “they’ll probably vote on a motion and handle it internally.”

The camera shifted. Manon appeared from the side of the frame, striding across the sand like she had something important to announce. She adjusted her leaf crown, held a hand to the sky, and declared her newest update “certified for morale.” Y/N looked up briefly from where she was reinforcing the tarp roof with a new vine. She smiled at Manon, gave a quiet nod of approval, then went right back to work.

Nobody said anything for a while.

Meanwhile, on the beach, it felt... normal now.

Y/N had quietly become the center. Not by asking. Not by pushing. Just by doing. She never gave speeches. Never barked orders. She simply moved with purpose, and the others followed her orbit like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Megan crouched near the fire pit, rotating a long, sharpened stick that held two fish caught earlier that morning. Her face was scrunched in concentration. She tilted the fish, then looked over her shoulder.

“Do you think this one’s done?”

Y/N stepped closer, crouched beside her without a word, and watched for a few seconds. She reached out, gently nudged the fish with the back of her hand, then nodded once.

“Looks good. The skin’s crispy.”

Megan grinned. Her forehead glistened with sweat, and her braids were half undone, but her smile was genuine.

“Not gonna lie, this might be the best fish I’ve ever made.”

“It’s also the only fish you’ve ever made,” Y/N said, completely straight-faced. Megan elbowed her.

A few feet away, Yoonchae appeared from the edge of the trees, cradling a bundle of leaves against her chest like they were fragile treasures. She dropped them next to Lara without needing to be asked. The two of them had created a silent system. Yoonchae find. Lara weave. Every leaf was sorted by texture, size, and ‘squeak’.

“I’m telling you,” Yoonchae said, brushing her hands off on her shorts. “If a leaf squeaks when you bend it, it shouldn’t be trusted.”

Sophia sat nearby on a flat rock, her makeshift logbook balanced on her knees. A piece of charcoal pinched between her fingers. She looked up with a proud smile.

“Okay. Final count. Two mangoes, one of which is purely emotional support. Three strips of cloth we can maybe use. Six coconuts. Don’t ask about the seventh. It rolled into the ocean and I refused to chase it on principle.”

Dani walked past, dragging a thick branch behind her with both hands.

“Manon says this is the good energy log. I don’t know why it’s important, but she threatened a full-on vibe strike if I didn’t bring it back.”

Y/N moved through the group without hesitation, tightening knots, adjusting supports, and making small, quiet observations that somehow always improved the setup.

Megan watched her for a long moment, then said softly,

“Seriously. How are you so calm through all this?”

Y/N didn’t pause.

“I just like knowing we’ll be okay.”

In the tent, the staff were falling apart.

“She’s got them on a rotation system.”

“They have a chore board. Made of bark.”

“They made a song. About vines.”

“They harmonized while boiling water.”

“They gave the fish a name. Then held a moment of silence before grilling it.”

The PD lowered himself slowly into a chair, hands limp in his lap.

“This was supposed to be chaos. This was supposed to be content.”

“Technically it is content,” someone muttered.

“Content that makes us look like we stranded a girl group in the wild and they became a civilization.”

On the monitor, Manon strolled past with her crown tilted to one side.

“This is my crown,” she announced to no one and everyone. “I keep the vibes in check and the water hot. If you doubt me, I will curse your shoes.”

Someone in the tent gasped.

“She’s talking to the camera like she knows we’re here.”

Night came soft and slow.

The fire crackled. The bedding mats were lined up in rows. The air smelled faintly of coconut and grilled mango. No one was panicking. No one had raised their voice in hours. They passed around bits of roasted fish like it was a festival, sharing sips of boiled water and rating who did the best leaf weaving that day.

Then, somewhere in the distance, a flashlight flickered.

The group froze.

Sophia stood first, her hand shielding her eyes from the sudden beam of light.

“Oh my god. They’re back.”

From the shadows, staff emerged one by one. They looked hesitant, like people approaching a wild animal that might speak. Each held something awkwardly in their hands. Bottled water. Camera gear. A clipboard that had lost all authority.

They didn’t speak. They just stared.

Because in front of them stood a fully functioning beach camp. The shelter had a roof. The fire was controlled. The girls were sitting in a semicircle, mid-conversation, each with something to do. Something they clearly understood.

Megan tilted her head.

“Nice of you to drop by.”

Sophia stood and pointed to the bark they'd carved with lines and symbols.

“We made shifts. Also we named the fire pit.”

Lara raised a hand.

“Hi. I do leaf duty now. I’m very good at it.”

Yoonchae leaned toward a camera and whispered.

“Don’t touch the squeaky ones.”

Manon adjusted her vine crown with dramatic flair.

“Welcome to the kingdom. We run on dried fruit and trust.”

Dani pointed up at the tarp stretched across the sleeping area.

“Y/N built the roof this morning. Took three vines and a whole lot of good vibes.”

The lead PD blinked.

“You made a roof.”

Y/N stood nearby, brushing sand from her palms.

“I just helped.”

Manon gasped, offended.

“Don’t be humble. She taught us how to tie knots. And ration supplies. And respect the concept of teamwork.”

Megan leaned against a log, her eyes still on the staff.

“She wrangled six mildly chaotic girls into a functioning system in under a day. That has to count for something.”

Sophia glanced at the nearest camera.

“I’ve survived idol bootcamps. This was somehow more structured.”

Yoonchae tilted her head.

“Are we being filmed?”

The staff didn’t answer at first. One of them nodded, a little too late.

“...yes?”

“Cool,” Megan said. “Do we get bonuses for building our own production set?”

“Or therapy vouchers?” Dani asked.

“Or at least a mango each?” Lara added.

The PD sighed. Long. Heavy.

“We were trying to prank you.”

Y/N blinked once.

“You did. We just adapted.”

She turned back toward the shelter without waiting for a reaction. A moment later, the rest of the girls followed. No one hesitated. No one looked back. They simply returned to what they were doing before, like the rhythm of the day had never been broken.

The staff stood frozen.

"...Are they ignoring us?"

“I think they just... went back to work.”

“Megan waved. Like we’re the guests.”

Silence fell heavy in the tent.

“They’ve formed a fully operational group structure.”

“Manon said they’re holding leaf evaluations tomorrow.”

The head PD didn’t look away from the screen.

“This was supposed to be a prank.”

And still, across the sand, under the stars, KATSEYE kept moving, warm, well-fed, and somehow more organized than half the crew watching them.

prev

[jaytalking]

Spoilers for the fop: a new wish ending.

TW for vague-ish allusions to child abuse/neglect

(I've never written for Tumblr before. Go easy on me.)

----

His interrogator is a child.

Timmy had started to think today was just not his day somewhere in between "coming home from vacation to an invaded Fairy World" and "Being captured by anti-fairies minutes away from the chip and tied to a chair with iron chains". Dale Dimmadone and fucking Foop (Irep. Oh who cares.) of all people being his captors had been the confirmation.

Now there's a child with sunglasses scowling at him, and he's just bracing himself for whatever this damn day throws at him next.

"Why didn't you talk?"

Timmy considers the question for about 5 seconds before deciding he doesn't care enough to weave a lie.

"Fairies can't break the rules, not directly. It applies to revealing secrets too, not my fault they couldn't figure it out."

"But you're not a fairy, the nets didn't work on you, only iron seems to have some kind of effect."

He gives the kid a wry smile. "Burning sting" was definitely An effect.

"Not that hard to figure out; once-human, means exactly what you think it means. So yeah, Maybe I just don't want to give that idiot answers, considered that?"

The kid gives him an angry look, Timmy just raises an eyebrow.

"Don't call my dad an idiot. Do you even know who he is? He seemed to know you, that's for sure."

"Did he ever tell you about a lemonade factory? I pulled him out of there, I knew THAT Dale. Whoever the golden-toothed asshole outside is he's not anyone I care to know, that's for sure."

The kid looks somehow angrier, Timmy continues undeterred.

"I do want to know your name at least, I'm getting tired of calling you "kid" in my head."

"You first."

"Smart. It's Timmy, Timmy T-... Fairywinkle-Cosma."

He's not surprised to feel a spark of recognition from the kid, the sunglasses hide his face but for the average fairy any emotion, especially a kid's, is as visible as ever. What he IS surprised to see is a curl of dread.

"Dev. Dev Dimmadone- why don't you just give up? We've got all the fairies under nets, the chip is gone so they can't do magic anyways, and you're in chains with no way to escape. Dad even offered you-"

"There's nothing he could offer that would make me give up on my family."

There's... a picture, that's starting to be painted in Timmy's mind, and he doesn't like one bit of it; Dev must be the kid Irep used to accomplish this plan, there's no other explanation for the kid being here and knowing so much about fairies otherwise. Dev is a Godkid. Dev is Peri's Godkid-

"What about letting your family go? Would that be enough?"

"... You don't know anything, do you?"

He might have put too much venom in those words by the way the kid visibly flinches and goes silent, but in that moment he doesn't care.

"Do you know what happens when a fairy doesn't grant wishes? Their magic begins to build up, bit by bit- it gets harder to breathe, to do anything without feeling absolutely horrible- and then they're gone, just like that. Without the Big Wand, without the ability to grant wishes, that's what awaits all of them- all of US. Your dad is a short-sighted idiot who doesn't realise I'm not exempt from this- so even if I did tell him how to become like me, he'd have the exact same fate. We'd both be dead and the Anti-fairies would have a grand ol' laugh about it."

"Irep-"

"Irep doesn't care about you. I don't give a damn what he told you, but it's obvious he kept you in the dark about basically all of this and now he's off to do the same to Dale. You need to accept you've been used, kid."

Dev is quiet, eyes fixed on the floor. Timmy's anger deflates slightly; the true mastermind here is Irep, he should reserve his anger for him, not for the kid he strung along.

"... He told me it would make him proud."

The question leaves his mouth before his mind can process it.

"Would that be enough? To justify all of this?"

Something has snapped, an echo of the ignored child who wished so badly his parents would pay more attention and was called selfish for it, who lashed out and wanted more, more, and more to fill a bottomless hole in his heart, felt vindicated when the truth was made evident: that love and attention is not a damn privilege, it's the right of any child.

"It wouldn't, and it wouldn't last for long. You know this, we both know this."

Dev is shaking. Timmy clams his mouth shut. He's shaking and his grip on the iron key is tight.

"There's no way they'll forgive me."

And he has to laugh at that, a short burst cut off by the pain of the chains moving and reaching new skin.

"That's the worst part- they always do. And before you even realise you're in the wrong."

[ddarker-dreams]

yan aventurine stresses choice and consequence.

you aren't given set parameters to work with. who you can talk to, for how long, and what about — these are variables you must parse out yourself. rules can be contorted, they're the ideal fabric for weaving loopholes. understanding is the first key to undoing. you're able to operate at your own discretion, unobstructed from the many obstacles he could easily dole out.

it's up to you to gauge risk and reward.

you can unlock the door to the quarters you share with him. yes, there are IPC grunts on the other side, but they're like statues, remaining immobile as you flit about. corridors respond to your biometrics and unseal, granting you easy access. his approach is decidedly laissez-faire. he wants to see what you'll do, how you'll go about undermining him. will you bet it all on one daring escape? or will you bide your time, concocting an elaborate web of little schemes meant to ensnare him?

the endless possibilities excite him.

for you, it's far less fun.

aventurine never outright says you can't leave. should you work up the courage to ask, his answer is enigmatic and induces dread, encapsulating the theme that'll go on to shape your foreseeable future:

"you can do whatever you want," he says. then, resting his chin atop his steepled fingers, he adds, "but so can i."

you don't get it until you amass some experience.

flirt with the waiter serving you dinner to try and needle at him, he won't interrupt. steal evidence that incriminates the IPC and begin a dialogue with a journalist, his internet access is all yours. kiss him while waiting for the chance to use a knife concealed on your person, he'll act like he never saw you swipe it.

the next time you play roulette with aventurine, he later reveals the number you chose went on to decide how many hours that waiter has left to live. the day you collect all your evidence, you'll find him playing with the USB, fully willing to hand it over... if you don't mind the IPC obliterating the publisher you've been contacting. aim for his heart with your hidden blade and he'll pin you, along with the hand holding it, to the wall whilst never parting from your lips.

he meant it when he said do what you want. still, don't mistake a lack of explicitly established rules for total impunity. rules might impede you, but they lend a degree of consistency. you know what to expect, how the punishment fits the 'crime.'

without them, though, every choice has never been such a gamble.

[lilithlounge]

Rising Signs & Physical Appearance

Ko-fi & Buy Me A Coffee for a personal Astro Appearance Analysis!

If you’ve ever wondered why people see you a certain way before they even get to know you, your Rising Sign (Ascendant) might hold the answer. It’s that first impression you leave, the energy you naturally project. Of course, genetics and lifestyle are huge factors too but after years of just observing people, I’ve noticed the rising sign often colors our appearance and vibe in fascinating ways.

For example, I have a Leo Rising at 13 degrees and honestly, it fits. My hair has always been a thing whether it’s good or bad, it’s noticeable plus. I keep touching it and I’m so sorry that I do but I just wanna look good 😂.

Here’s a little un-important guide to how each rising sign can show up physically and energetically based on the people that I’ve known:

Fire Risings People notice them immediately, they walk into a room and light it up without even trying.

Aries Rising: strong bone structure, athletic build, confident walk. Their eyes often have this fierce spark, like they’re always ready to fight argue with you.

Leo Rising: Regal vibe, strong features, thick or dramatic hair. They carry themselves like royalty even when they’re wearing their trash bag pajamas…or a potato sack 👀.

Marilyn Monroe, Gemini Sun, Aquarius Moon…Leo rising.

Sagittarius Rising: Tall or giving the illusion of height, long limbs, animated expressions. They move like they’re on a mission. Literal horses.

Earth Risings Grounded, classic and just elegant. They tend to make everything look effortless.

Taurus Rising: Soft, Venusian features, gorgeous skin a relaxed and sensual energy.

Virgo Rising: Keanu Reeves? Anyone? delicate but precise features, sharp eyes, a clean polished presence that makes you feel like they have their life together. You’ll know so much about their current mental state based on their looks.

Capricorn Rising: You’ve probably heard that millions of times but yes, they do have angular features, strong jawlines and a serious but magnetic vibe. They often seem to "grow into" their beauty over time.

Air Risings Light, witty and hard to pin down, you feel like you could talk to them for hours.

Gemini Rising: Youthful, quick expressions, playful eyes. They always look like they know something you don’t and you probably don’t.

Libra Rising: Symmetrical, balanced features. There’s something soothing and beautiful about just being around them.

Aquarius Rising: Unique, futuristic beauty and something a little offbeat but mesmerizing. Their style is often ahead of its time.

Water Risings Deep, emotional and unforgettable.

Cancer Rising: Soft, moon-like features, big expressive eyes. They have a warmth that makes you feel at home instantly.

Scorpio Rising: Intense, magnetic presence. Their gaze alone can stop you in your tracks. Actually, it DOES stop you in your tracks.

Pisces Rising: Dreamy, mystical beauty like they live halfway between this world and another.

More than looks, your energy speaks louder

It isn’t just about your face or your body, it’s the vibe you walk around with. Fire risings might burn bright and bold, Earth risings ground a room with their calm, Air risings bring a breeze of fresh ideas and conversation, and Water risings move people with an almost invisible emotional pull.

When I started really paying attention to my Rising and how it interacted with my chart ruler (the Sun, in my case), things started to click liked it never clicked. The way I dress, the way I show up when I meet new people, even how I approach first impressions.

If you’re curious about the layers of your appearance, aura, and first impression energy especially how your rising sign, ruling planet and aspects weave together, I offer personal readings where we can dive into it. It’s way deeper than just “Leo Risings have good hair.” (Although, yeah, we usually do.) 🐥.

[snoopyhq]

TYPE: Viktor x GN Reader

GENRE: Fluff

SCENARIO: Adopting a cat with Viktor <3

WORD COUNT: 797

SETTING: Modern day, essentially

A/N: Hi chat! So first post here for this silly little sideblog of mine, hehe. First time writing an x reader too, lowkey kinda nervy. This is very much a self-indulgent, impulsive 1 AM kind of work, so I hope you enjoy, Viktor Nation ⚙️💛 Requests are open! I pretty much will write whatever, within reason, so go wild <3 :3

BONUS! Picture of my kitty Delilah at the end <3 !!! I love her :3

“Are you excited? I am,” you said, killing the engine.

“Me too. Whichever we decide on, I know we’ll both love the creature,” Viktor replied.

In front of you was a quaint building tucked between two other shops in Uptown Square. It was the same building you both had been wanting to visit for quite a while, and today was the day.

The two of you have been talking about potentially adopting an animal, and now that life has fallen into a livable routine within your apartment, it was time to make the crucial decision.

You both quickly figured you were cat people, and it was easy to agree on going to the one of local cat cafés to meet your future pet. Piltover Paws had a section in their website that showcased which cats were available for adoption, as well as brief descriptions of each one.

Lovey, a beautiful black-and-white kitten, had immediately caught your attention. Viktor, on the other hand, was drawn to Prism, a calico with a missing eye.

Even then, you were both open-minded to see how all the cats would intersect with you both.

The café staff were kind in their greetings. After rules were explained, you two were led to the cat room, which was separate from the café area. A chorus of curious meows immediately greeted you, and there were a couple other people who had booked the hour there too.

Viktor sat on one of the many plush couches scattered around the room, and you went off to mingle with some of the cats in the play area.

All the kitties were wonderful. You tried to remember which was which based on the photos you saw on the sight. Lovey, of course, had you wrapped around her paws immediately. Her purrs and chirps melted your heart, and as she batted at the toy you held out for her, you looked up at Viktor. He met your eyes and smiled softly. The sight of you melting over such an adorable critter would be one of his favorites for the rest of his days.

While you kept busy with Lovey, Viktor was observing Prism. The calico was hiding in a corner, away from the other cats. He was clearly shy, and nervous to approach. So Viktor waited. His patience proved fruitful, because Prism had slowly begun emerging, curiously sniffing at Viktor’s cane. He laughed to himself, letting the feline acquaint itself with him.

“Good kitty,” he whispered.

Slowly, he reached out his head towards Prism’s right side.

“You’re like a little puzzle piece of me,” he murmured. Prism allowed Viktor to gently pet him. His fur was soft as can be, his good eye closing halfway in contentment.

Soon, Prism had decided Viktor’s lap made the perfect napping spot. He was stuck to his seat, but he didn’t mind. When you walked over with Lovey trailing behind you and weaving in between your legs (the little troublemaker), a mutual agreement passed. You had to adopt both these kitties.

The application was filled out. The team explained they would be in contact with you two shortly to go over some general housekeeping and to ensure your home would be suitable for the cats.

The date was set.

You went home and began waiting with bated breath. While Viktor went to his study, you decided to pass some time to read some more of a recent novel you’d checked out.

It was around 6:30 when the call came through. Ten minutes conversing with the volunteer, and your adoptions were approved! You could come pick Lovey and Prism up anytime between 9:00 and 3:00 tomorrow, and you were eager to get there quickly.

By 9:30 the next morning, you two were well on your way home with the two new additions to your growing household. Prism remained quiet in his carrier, while Lovey chittered at every corner, much to your and Viktor’s amusement.

“Talkative, isn’t she?” he inquired.

“It was in one of her descriptions. Glad to see it’s true outside the café,” you answered.

“Much like you,” he teased. That earned him an annoyed huff, but the affection in your eyes dispelled any actual grievance.

“They’ll do well adjusting,” you said after a while.

The city was behind you now, the sounds of Piltover fading away. The carriers were set down and slowly opened.

Viktor watched Lovely immediately went sniffing around the living room, ducking beneath the couch. Prism slowly followed suit, making it a few steps before finding his way back to Viktor, nudging at his leg.

“I think they will,” he nodded, leaning down to pet him. “They’ll look lovely in future postcards, wouldn’t you agree?”

You couldn’t help but snicker at the thought. Holiday cards to Jayce and Heimerdinger, and any other friends, with photos of your cats in holiday gear and cheer? It was perfect.

“Absolutely.”

•• ━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━ •••• ━━━━ ••●••

here she is! my little diva 💜