#they have moved past him and left him behind

[ruewritesoccasionally]

I Spy | Terry Richmond

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black reader

Warnings: Dark themes & explicit smut (18+) – dom/sub dynamics, power play, voyeurism kink, degradation kink, breeding kink, overstimulation, mutual masturbation, edging, rough sex, choking, spitting, hair pulling. Use of pet names (Daddy, Princess, Sweetheart, Baby, Good girl) and aftercare } Everything is consensual, but read at your own risk.

Summary: Terry Richmond is a protector—his wife’s safety, comfort, and pleasure are always his top priority. So, when he installed security cameras around their home, she thought nothing of it. That is, until one night, when her impatience gets the better of her, and Terry calls at just the right moment. How did he know what she was doing? More importantly—what is he going to do about it?

Word count: 3K

a/n: i fear i may never get sick of writing dark fics with terry 🤭🤭

The world saw Terry Richmond as a man of discipline, a protector, a security expert who made a living out of keeping people safe. His job required precision, foresight, and the ability to stay ten steps ahead of everyone else.

It was a skill set that bled into every aspect of his life—especially when it came to her.

To outsiders, he was the devoted husband, the kind of man who took care of everything so his wife didn’t have to. A provider, a leader, a steady hand to hold in a world that never stopped spinning. But behind closed doors? That carefully curated image cracked just enough to reveal something deeper, something darker.

Because Terry didn’t just protect—he controlled.

He never had to demand obedience, never had to force her submission. That wasn’t how their dynamic worked. He made sure she had everything she needed, took every burden off her shoulders, so all she ever had to do was be good for him. She was independent, of course, but not when it came to him. Not in the ways that mattered.

And she loved it.

Maybe she didn’t realise just how much, but Terry did.

The cameras in their home were supposed to be for protection. A necessary precaution—especially given his line of work. At least, that’s what he told her. And she never questioned it, never really thought about the way his eyes seemed to be on her at all times.

How he always knew things he shouldn’t.

How he’d casually mention the way she liked to stretch after a shower, in their bedroom, alone.

How he’d remind her to drink water, to take a break, even when he wasn’t home.

Little things. Tiny, insignificant moments that should’ve been easy to brush off.

And yet, every now and then, she’d jokingly accuse him of knowing everything.

And every single time, Terry would just smirk.

Terry was at work when the doorbell camera notification pinged on his phone. A routine check—he already knew who it was. His wife. Home.

He watched as she stepped inside, her shoulders sunken, bearing the weight of the day. His jaw tensed. Terry watched, letting his eyes track each motion, each flex of muscle, each quiet sigh as she exhaled the stress of the day. He made a mental note to stop by the store—flowers, wine, something to make her smile.

His eyes stayed locked on the screen as she moved through the house, each step methodical, shedding layers as she went. Bag down. Shoes off. Jewellery unfastened. Then, without pause, she stripped away the first layer of clothing and made a beeline for the shower.

A smirk played at his lips. Switching feeds.

Bedroom feed. Ensuite door left open. Perfect view.

Steam curled past the frame, misting over the lens, but not enough to block his view. After so many years together, she could still bring him to his knees, take his breath away like it was the first time. Stunning.

The water cascaded over her skin, gliding down the soft slope of her shoulders, rolling over her curves, tracing lines he had memorised by touch. Awe and jealousy twisted in his gut. Watching the way the droplets stroke along her body, touching places before he could, had his fingers flexing over his thigh.

She was relaxing now—he could see it in the way her muscles unwound, the tension draining from her limbs with the rising steam. And then…

Her hands started to wander.

Innocent at first—dragging over the length of her arms, fingertips gracing her collarbones, down her chest, ghosting over the peaks of her nipples, following the curve of her waist, down the expanse of her thighs to the soft heat nestled between them.

Terry’s trance faltered. His breath stilled.

Would she?

His jaw flexed as he watched her fingers tease at her entrance, skimming the sensitive flesh - a mere whisper of a touch.

But then as if she knew, as if she felt his eyes on her through the lens her fingers halted.

Just like that, she continued the rest of her shower.

Terry exhaled slowly, heat curling in his gut. Good girl.

He would definitely reward her tonight.

Terry watched as she left the shower, her skin glistening and soft, her routine precise and practiced. His fingers itched to replace the ones that gently massaged the oil into her body, but there was a soft warmth he felt in seeing her more relaxed now—more content than she had been when she first walked through the door. His shift was nearly over, and though he had done his best to be patient, the pressure in his trousers told him how badly he wanted her. He couldn’t wait. Not with the way his dick was fighting against the fabric.

He saw her stretch out on the bed, melting into the soft sheets, her expression a mix of contemplation and need—something that made Terry pause, unable to fully read her through the tiny screen. He wondered what thoughts had crept into her mind, but that question was quickly answered. She parted her thighs, giving in to the pressure he couldn’t see but always felt. The same motion she had started in the shower, now continuing in the sanctuary of their bed.

All thoughts of reward and praise left his mind in that instant. This... this was a challenge. And a betrayal. And he wasn’t going to let it slide. Not with the way she had been so damn careless.

He kept his focus on the live feed, watching, unable to tear his gaze away from her as she touched herself. He wanted to reach through the screen, stop her, punish her. Instead, he called her.

The frustration was evident on her face as his call interrupted her, the satisfaction on her features faltering. But then she recognised the name on the screen, and a soft smile replaced her frustration. She thought it was a casual check-in, a harmless conversation with her husband. But Terry wasn’t here for pleasantries anymore.

He teased her at first, coaxing her into comfort, his voice soft, like he hadn’t just watched her betray him in their own home.

“How’s my girl doing?” he asked, his tone deceptively casual. “What’s on your mind?”

She responded, her voice softer now, already losing some of the tension she had held when he first interrupted her. Terry let her settle into the illusion of normalcy.

But he couldn’t help himself. His gaze hardened. The possessiveness that surged through him made his next words come out sharp, laced with that commanding tone she knew all too well.

“Are you enjoying touching what’s mine, my love?” he asked, the heat of his voice sending a ripple through her. “Too greedy to wait until I get home?”

Her breath hitched at his words, a flicker of shame— or was it excitement?—crossing her face as her mind caught up with her actions.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Terry continued, his voice lowering, predatory. “I have something to fix that impatience.”

With that, he cut the call, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. He wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.

She sat up, dumbfounded, her mind reeling as she pieced things together. How did he know what she was doing? He always had a sixth sense about everything, from the mundane to the extreme. She used to joke that he had eyes at the back of his head or that there were cameras everywhere—but maybe that wasn’t just a joke anymore.

All she could do now was wait. Wait and see what was in store.

Terry came home, taking his time. He barely acknowledged her presence as he entered their bedroom, heading straight into the en-suite. If she didn’t know any better, she might’ve thought he was angry with her. But she knew better. She knew how much he loved her—too much to ever stay angry for long. No, this wasn’t about anger. This was about something else. Disobedience. That’s what he couldn’t tolerate.

She squirmed uncomfortably on the bed, her anticipation rising as she waited for him to finish his shower. Right on cue, he emerged, dressed in nothing but a towel. The sight of him—drenched, glistening, and radiating confidence—took her breath away. She couldn’t help but drink him in, her gaze lingering on the defined muscles of his chest, the water still clinging to his skin. They were both greedy, in a way. Him for being so impossibly handsome, and her for having him all to herself. That was exactly how she liked it.

His voice broke her idle reverie, smooth and knowing, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, as if he could read her thoughts. "So, do you have anything to say for yourself?" he asked, the mockery clear in his tone.

She knew there was no good answer, no way to make it right, so she chose to stay silent. Her heart raced. Her pulse quickened. She waited for him to make his move.

He tilted his head, his eyes darkening with that signature dominance of his. "No? That’s fine. I did say I have a cure for your impatience." His voice dropped lower, a dangerous edge to it now. "You have a scratch to itch? That’s fine, sweetheart. You’re going to do just that. Here. Now. Until I say stop."

She held her breath, his words settling into the heavy air between them. "And since you’ve taken on that silent streak, I’ll take it as a yes. Not that you would ever say no to Daddy."

Terry's control was absolute. He dragged the chair from the vanity, positioning it at the foot of the bed, where he had the perfect view of her centre. His gaze flicked between her, observing every response she gave him—her parted lips, chest rising and falling with each breath, the curl of her toes. He ignored her pleas, focused instead on the sight of her slowly falling apart in front of him.

The thrill of the moment wasn’t enough for him to rush. He slowly stroked himself, his fist working over his length with an even pace. He was in no hurry. Watching her unfold, helpless to stop her own reactions, was enough.

Her attention shifted when she heard a low groan pass from his lips. She blinked, eyes drawn to the bead of pre-cum that pooled at the tip of his cock, a perfect drop dribbling down the shaft. His balls rested heavy on his thighs, and their eyes locked—an unspoken understanding between them, the tension palpable. The game was his, and he played it to perfection.

Terry’s voice broke the silence, a playful yet possessive tone dripping from each word. "You wanna watch, don’t you, baby? See what you can’t have until I decide."

Her breath quickened, and her chest heaved as she clenched the sheets tighter. The sound of his voice, mixed with the image of him touching himself so slowly, made her insides ache. She could feel her orgasm building, every inch of her body begging to release. But Terry wasn’t finished with her yet.

When she tried to stop, thinking she could control the situation, he halted her attempt with a firm command. “Now, I know I might be asking a lot from that pretty head of yours, but until you hear me say stop, you don’t.”

He moved to her side, kneeling between her legs, his gaze soft yet dark. Her pulse quickened as the reality of what was about to unfold hit her. She had no idea what he was planning, but she knew it wouldn’t be gentle.

Her climax was building, more intense now with his eyes on her, the thrill of being watched making it so much more unbearable.

Terry’s hand gripped her jaw, tilting her head back as he stared into her eyes. Her breath hitched, the air thick with the weight of his control. She was trembling, the effects of his teasing leaving her both desperate and afraid of what was to come next. He hadn’t given her permission to speak, but her lips parted nonetheless, desperate for something—anything—to release the pressure that had built inside her.

Her hands gripped the sheets beneath her, her body fighting the urge to writhe under his touch. She knew he wouldn’t let her go until he’d fully reminded her who was in charge.

Terry’s smirk deepened, watching her struggle with the flood of sensations. "Good girls don’t beg, sweetheart. But you? You’ve been nothing but greedy. You’re gonna finish what you started, and you’re gonna do it right. Under my control. Understand?"

Her body was still, her eyes pleading with him, but no words left her lips. It wasn’t that she couldn’t speak—it was that she didn’t need to. He knew.

"Perfect," he murmured, his fingers moving down her body to stroke her folds, his touch slow and deliberate. She gasped, unable to hold back the soft sounds as he teased her. His other hand, still holding her jaw, forced her to keep her eyes on him, keeping her attention firmly on his every movement.

His eyes never left hers as he slid his hand back down to her body, his thumb circling her clit with torturous slowness. The sensation was overwhelming, but his control was absolute. Every inch of her body screamed to come undone, but he was in charge.

Her breaths came in shallow gasps, her skin slick with sweat as the pressure inside her built higher. She couldn’t hold it anymore. Her orgasm threatened to tear through her, but just as she reached the brink, he pulled away, a deep chuckle escaping his lips as he watched her squirm in frustration.

“Now, Princess,” he purred, his voice dripping with that predatory tone she knew all too well. “I’m not sure which I want first—a thank you or an apology?”

Confusion flickered across her face, and he smirked, knowing she hadn’t quite grasped his intentions. “Now you know I take care of you in every way I can, and I do a damn good job at it too,” he continued, his eyes darkening with the hint of a challenge. “So why’d you think it was a good idea to take that from me, huh?”

Her head spun, but his words cut through the haze, her body reacting before she could form any sort of coherent thought. The sharp bite of his dominance pierced through her, the sting of humiliation mingling with her need. Her face flushed, the power dynamic flipping in an instant.

Terry moved to her side, pulling her legs wide as he positioned himself between them. His voice dropped, commanding her attention. "It's time to remind you who you belong to."

His hands slid over her body, his grip firm and possessive. He didn’t give her a chance to protest, pulling her into his lap as he thrust inside her, every movement rough and deliberate. She moaned loudly, the feel of him filling her driving her wild with need.

"Don’t forget who owns this," he growled, thrusting deeper, harder. "You’re mine, and don’t you dare forget it."

His thrusts were relentless, punishing in their intensity. He filled her, the connection between them now absolute. As he fucked her harder, faster, he pulled her hair back, forcing her to look him in the eyes as he claimed her fully.

“Don’t fight it,” he commanded, his breath ragged. “You’re mine, baby. Always.”

As the aftershocks of their climax rippled through her, Terry didn’t let go of her right away. His hand moved to her face, brushing away the strands of hair that clung to her skin, his touch gentle despite the fierceness that had just passed between them. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, soft but unwavering, as he cupped her cheek in his large palm.

"You're okay," he murmured, his thumb tracing the curve of her jaw, soothing her with each pass. His voice was no longer rough with dominance, but warm with the comfort she desperately needed. His presence grounded her, reminded her that she was safe. She nodded slowly, her breath still unsteady, but his words had calmed the storm inside her.

He pulled her closer, guiding her to rest her head on his chest, the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear lulling her into a sense of calm. She breathed deeply, trying to steady her pulse, his hands gently massaging her back, easing the tension out of her.

“You did so good for me, baby,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "You always do. But listen to me now, alright?"

She blinked, nodding against his chest, eyes fluttering closed as she waited for his next words. His voice was softer now, but still commanding in its way, holding her attention like a tether.

"When you're out in the world, you can do all the thinking you like," he said, his voice deep and steady, "but at home, with me? You switch your brain off. You listen, and you let me lead. No questioning, no second-guessing. Just trust."

The words settled in her chest, warm and reassuring. There was no shame, no hesitation—just his quiet certainty that she belonged with him, and he would always take care of her.

Her hand found his, threading their fingers together, and she squeezed, the gesture simple but full of meaning. He pressed a kiss to her forehead, before lifting her chin to meet his gaze.

"Do you understand, princess?"

Her lips parted, a soft smile tugging at her mouth, her heart swelling with gratitude and something deeper, something all-consuming. “Yes, Daddy. I understand.”

Terry’s smile was soft, approving, as he brushed a final lock of hair from her face, his thumb grazing her lower lip. He leaned in to kiss her, slow and lingering, as though they had all the time in the world.

“You’re mine,” he murmured against her lips, the words a vow, a promise. “And that’s never gonna change.”

She melted into the kiss, content in the certainty of his love and control, knowing that no matter what the world outside brought, at least here, with him, she was safe. Always.

taglist: @writingsbytee @venusincleo @nickidub718 @notapradagurl7 @theogbadbitch @ms-mosley-ifunastyyy @wildcardmelaninfreak

comments and reblogs are appreciated as well as feedback, i hope you liked it 🫶🏾🫶🏾🫶🏾

[inkedinshadows]

Hi! Please can you write a smutty Azriel one with prompt number 5?

Temptations of the Night

Pairing: Azriel x f!reader

A/N: I literally wrote this in less than 2 hours, so sorry if there are some mistakes!

Prompt: "Who knew you had such a dirty mouth."

Warnings: smut, language, oral (m receiving)

Word count: 1.1k

You didn’t see him walking toward you.

One moment, you were drinking and dancing at Rita’s, surrounded by a crowd of sweaty, panting bodies. The next, Azriel appeared beside you. Under the colorful lights, he looked even more handsome than he already was. And in your tipsy state, you let your feelings for him overwhelm you and take control.

“Can I kiss you?” you screamed over the music, your arms already around his neck as you pressed your body against his.

He blinked. “What?”

You nodded eagerly, a huge smile on your face. “I want to kiss you!”

“Y/N…” Azriel shook his head, even as his hands found their place on your hips, his touch searing through the fabric of your dress. “You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“No, Az, I do!” you insisted. “I didn’t drink that much, I promise.”

He watched you for what felt like hours, probably trying to determine just how many drinks you’d had. People still danced and jumped around you, and you let the pounding music flow through your veins once more. You began moving again, swaying your hips as you waited for Azriel’s response.

You knew this was sudden, and you normally wouldn’t have behaved like this. But you had harbored feelings for him for months now. A little kiss couldn’t hurt. You could still blame it on the alcohol if he refused, though you hadn’t lied���you weren’t drunk. You had drunk just enough to lose your inhibitions, but not enough to not know what you were doing. Not enough to miss how Azriel’s gaze had never left you from the moment you stood up to dance.

You could see his resolve starting to crumble the more you danced against him. He didn’t stop you. No, his fingers only dug slightly into your hips, as if to guide your movements.

“Are you sure?” he asked. His voice was quiet, like he was treading on a wire, but you still heard him over the chaos of the club.

And the way he looked at you, with that gleam in his eyes—it was all you needed to know that he would do it.

“Yes!” you all but shouted. “I want to kiss you so fucking much right now!”

He didn’t waste any more time. His hands left your hips only to cup your face and pull you toward him, and then his lips found yours and you melted against him. His chest was solid against yours, the only support you had as the intensity of his kiss made your knees weak.

The taste of the drink he’d had just moments ago lingered on his lips as they moved against yours. His tongue slipped past them to brush against yours, and the whole club disappeared around you. There were only his hands on your face, your fingers on the nape of his neck, and that kiss that seemed to consume you both until you couldn’t help the small moan that escaped you.

Azriel pulled back at the sound, his hands slipping from your cheeks into your hair. He tilted your head back and your eyes locked. The same desire you felt inside shone in the hazel depths of his gaze.

“I’m taking you home,” he stated simply.

Before you could say anything, he winnowed you away.

You blinked a few times, adjusting to the dim light of his bedroom. The silence felt almost jarring after the deafening music of Rita’s, and the air was cool on your damp skin now that you were no longer pressed among writhing bodies.

Azriel pulled you in for another hungry kiss and you knew that very soon, you’d be writhing again—for a completely different reason.

Your lips found his neck, and you smiled against his skin when his wings twitched behind him. Your fingers made a quick work of the buttons of his shirt before pushing it open to reveal his tattooed chest. You'd seen him shirtless during training before, but you would never get tired of the view. And you could definitely get used to touching him, too.

As your hands roamed over his muscles, he tried to pull you back up to kiss you again, but you resisted. You were already working on the buckle of his belt, your lips trailing down his chest as you slowly sank to your knees before him.

“I want to suck your cock,” you said. You pushed his pants down his legs, rewarded by the sight of his erection straining against his underwear. You looked up at him through your lashes. “And then I want to fuck you.”

Azriel was caught off guard by your bold words, his brows rising, but then his lips curled into a smirk. “Who knew you had such a dirty mouth,” he mused.

You grinned and tugged down his boxers, letting them pool at his feet. “I can do a lot of things with this mouth, you know.”

He shuddered when you wrapped your fingers around him, and one of his hands settled at the back of your head. “Well then, you should show me. Don’t you think?”

You didn’t hesitate.

You stroked him a few times before taking him into your mouth. Azriel groaned, his fingers tightening in your hair, but he didn’t pull you closer or rock his hips, letting you set the pace.

Your tongue flicked around his tip, tasting the little bead of precum already leaking. Your hands rested on his strong thighs while you bobbed your head, but your gaze remained on him the whole time. His heavy-lidded stare burned into you, his every groan sending heat pooling between your legs, demanding to be acknowledged—to be satiated. But your focus was solely on Azriel.

When you hollowed your cheeks, his restraint slipped and he fisted your hair, guiding you to take more of him.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he grunted, shallowly thrusting into your mouth. “Look at how good you suck on that dick.”

You moaned around him, your desire to please him only growing. You watched as his eyes fluttered shut, as his jaw tensed and his head tilted back. You felt him twitch and throb on your tongue and knew he was close to spill himself down your throat. You eagerly waited for a taste his release.

But just before he could come, Azriel pulled you back, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound. You gasped for air, eyes wide as you looked up at him.

“I don’t want to come yet,” he explained, his voice rough with restraint.

His hands slid under your arms, helping you to your feet.

You furrowed your brow. “Why not?”

Azriel’s grin sent a thrill straight to your core. “Because I want to fuck you first.”

His gaze flickered to the bed behind you.

“Get on the bed, sweetheart.”

Taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch @georgiadixon @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret

1k taglist: @onebadassunicorn @thegoddessofnothingness

[writingwithciara]

across the hall; part 3 -quinn hughes-

summary: y/n moves in across the hall from quinn and in an emergency, she leaves her five-year old daughter in his care

word count: 3.1k

pairing: quinn hughes x reader, toxic ex-boyfriend x reader

notes:

"what the hell are you doing here?" y/n looked from abby to andy before shielding her daughter from him.

"i came to see my daughter." andy bent down and looked at abby. "hi there princess."

"how did you find me, andy?" y/n was reaching for her phone. "i left you behind for a reason. not for you to come follow me here."

"i have my ways, y/n." he was standing straight up now, over a foot taller than y/n. she was always intimidated by him and it worried her. "aren't you gonna invite me in?"

"you shouldn't be here, andy." y/n slowly inched her way to the door while clutching abby behind her. she handed her daughter the keys and stood by her while she unlocked the door. when abby made it inside, y/n closed the door and faced andy again. "you really should go."

"look, i know i was a terrible person in the past. but i've changed. honestly."

"i don't believe you. now please leave."

"i'm serious, y/n. what can i do to prove it to you?"

"that's up to you to figure out." she sighed and turned back towards her door.

"y/n, wait up." quinn called from down the hall. he jogged up to y/n, not registering that she wasn't alone. "i grabbed a puck for abby."

"you didn't have to do that, quinn."

"it was your first game and it's the game winning puck." he handed her the puck with care. "i don't know if you remember, but-"

"it's the game winning puck from the game winning goal that you scored." she looked up at quinn and smiled.

andy, who couldn't stand there quietly anymore, cleared his throat. "babe, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?"

"no. i don't think i want to." y/n opened her door slowly but stopped when she heard andy continue the conversation with quinn.

"hey man. i'm y/n's boyfriend, andy. and you are?"

"quinn." he looked between y/n and andy with a raised eyebrow. "wait, boyfriend?"

"ex-boyfriend." she turned to face him. "he's abby's father."

"oh. okay." quinn stuck his hands in his pockets. "well, it was nice to meet you, man."

"no. no it was not." y/n shook her head then pointed a finger at andy. "i think it's time you left now."

"alright. but i'll be back tomorrow." he kissed her cheek and walked down the hall.

y/n headed into her apartment and, unsurprising to her, quinn followed. he set his hockey bag by the door and looked at her.

"are you alright?"

"of course. why wouldn't i be? it's not like it's an everyday thing where your toxic ex shows up on your doorstep months after you decided to get as far away from him as possible." she looked at quinn. "i'm sorry you had to see him."

"i'm sorry i didn't ask you guys to stick around the arena after the game. this could've been avoided."

"don't blame yourself, quinn. you are a good person. and the EXACT opposite of that jackass." she chuckled dryly and turned the puck over in her hands. "i can't believe i fell for that man years ago. i was so stupid back then."

"no, you were a teenager in love. it happens to us all." quinn crossed the kitchen to come stand in front of y/n. "plus there's a bright side to your relationship."

"i supposed there is. if i didn't need to get away from him so badly, i never would've moved here and never would've met you." y/n smiled up at quinn.

"well, i was thinking about abby. but yeah. this friendship is another bright side i suppose."

"of course abby is the brightest side to it. she's my baby girl." y/n glanced down the hallway and sighed. "whenever i think of how horribly i was treated in the past, i look at abby and everything i went through before her seems totally worth it."

"i agree. she's an amazing little girl."

"she loves you, ya know? sometimes i think she loves you more than she loves me."

"no she doesn't. she could never. you're her mother and that's an immediate win over everyone else."

"thanks, quinn. not just for everything tonight. but everything you've done for me since we met. i owe you huuuuge for it all."

"it's not a problem. you're my best friend. i'm just happy making you happy."

"awe quinn." y/n smiled and slid him a glass of water. "i'm really thankful for you."

"as am i for you." he smiled and sipped the water. "it's getting late so i should head out. if andy bothers you tomorrow, do not hesitate to text me. i'll be over here in a second. do you understand me?"

"yes sir." y/n smiled and walked with quinn to the door. "see you later, quinn."

when the door was closed, y/n kept replaying quinn's words over in her head.

i'm just happy making you happy.

why was he so perfect for her and why did he have to come into her life when she was still in the middle of healing herself?

she threw herself down on her bed and groaned loudly. abby, who was sitting in her own room, walked in. "are you okay?" she asked.

"oh, honey. i'm fine. just thinking about some stuff." y/n turned to face her daughter. "come here." she made room for abby to join her on the bed. "i'm sorry about your dad. he shouldn't have just shown up."

"it's okay." abby smiled and looked at her hands. "what do you have there?"

"oh. quinn grabbed it for you. it's the puck that he won the game with." y/n handed it to her. "and he even signed it for you. how thoughtful."

"I love quinn. he's so much fun."

"more fun than me?"

"of course not, mama. you're the funnest."

"i love you, munchkin."

"i love you too. always and forever."

y/n smiled as abby slowly drifted off to sleep. she didn't even bother moving her from the bed and taking her to her own room. instead, she just cuddled her close and fell asleep with her daughter by her side.

the next morning when y/n woke up, she was expecting to have a text from her boss asking her to come into work on her day off. but when she rolled over to check it, there was nothing from him.

there was, however, a text from andy that was received nearly 40 minutes ago. see you in about an hour, it read. she groaned and turned her phone upside down so she didn't have to look at it any longer.

before she had a chance to get out of bed and decide how she was going to avoid andy for the day, there was a knock at the door. abby opened her eyes and y/n got out of bed to answer the door. quinn stood on the other side with a big smile on his face.

"good morning." he leaned against the wall. "i was just about to head out to breakfast and wanted to see if you lovely ladies would like to join me."

"that sounds like a great idea." y/n grinned. it was the perfect excuse to avoid andy. "as long as we can get ready and leave within the next 10 minutes."

"well, you look good right now so it shouldn't take too long."

ignoring the sudden intense burst of butterflies in her stomach, y/n kindly smiled at him. "thanks. but it's abby i'm more worried about. she doesn't like getting her hair brushed. and i don't want to argue with her in such a short amount of time."

"want me to try?"

"you?"

"yeah. i've been told i have an amazing gift when it comes to reasoning with children."

"okay. then, be my guest." y/n closed the door when quinn stepped in. she followed behind him as they headed down the hall to abby's room. just as quinn was about to open the door, y/n ushered him to the next door. when he gave her a raised-eyebrow look, she explained. "she slept in my room last night."

"oh okay." he opened the door and abby, who was sitting up in the bed, rushed off the mattress to give quinn a hug. "hey, sweetheart. i'm taking you girls out for some breakfast. but your mom tells me you don't like getting your hair brushed in the morning."

"i don't. i hate it."

"understood." he chuckled and bent down to her level. "how about this...if you let one of us do your hair in 5 minutes, we can go to the store and pick out a toy, or whatever else you want to do."

"a toy sounds nice." abby smiled and looked at her mom. "can quinn do my hair?"

"that's up to you. but you gotta get dressed in 5 minutes." y/n smiled as abby nodded and ran to her room. she then turned to quinn. "can you do hair?"

"i'm a natural, as you can tell." he smirked and gestured vaguely to his own hair, which only looked like he crawled out of bed and ran his hands through it a few times. but yet, she had faith he would make abby's hair look amazing.

"okay. i trust you." y/n smiled and walked out of the room. "abby, quinn's gonna do your hair while i get dressed, alright, sweetie?"

"okay." abby walked out and dragged quinn to the bathroom.

y/n got dressed and smiled. she had only known quinn for a month and he was already a better father figure to abby than andy was. and it scared her just how close abby had gotten to quinn.

now with andy in their lives, y/n had no idea if they would have to leave to get away from him again. and the idea of severing her daughters connection with quinn, felt like a knife to her own heart.

5 minutes later, y/n was standing in the doorway of the bathroom as quinn gently and calmly brushed through abby's wild hair. he set the brush down and carefully braided it. when he was done, y/n just stared at him through the mirror. he looked up and caught her staring, causing him to smirk.

"what do you think?"

"i think you did a great job, quinn. better than i probably would've." y/n smiled and checked her phone. "okay. we ready to go?"

"absolutely." quinn grabbed one of abby's hands and she used her free one to grabb y/n's. to any outsider, they would look like a typical family. but that was far from the case.

the three of them ventured out to quinn's car and to nobody's surprise, they found it was parked next to y/n's. she reached in and pulled out abby's seat before carefully setting it up in quinn's backseat. she strapped abby in before climbing into her own. quinn shut her door and walked to the driver's side.

"what restaurant are we going to?" abby smiled and looked out the window.

"wherever you want to go." quinn glanced up in the rearview mirror and smiled while he listened to the places abby was listing off.

y/n looked out her own window and they were pulling out of the parking garage just as andy was getting out of his car. luckily, he couldn't see y/n because quinn's windows were tinted. but she saw him and he had a couple of bags hanging off his arms. she couldn't tell what they were but she had a feeling they didn't look like they were meant to be a good thing.

"you alright?" quinn asked as he drove.

"yeah i'm fine." she offered him a smile. "after breakfast, what are you doing?"

"i have no plans for the day. why?"

"would you maybe want to catch a movie with us? abby and i were planning to see that new animated movie-"

"we were?"

y/n ignored abby and looked at quinn "and since one of the restaurants are close to the theater, i figured we could kill two birds with one stone, right?"

"fair point, i suppose." quinn smiled. "of course i'd love to join you."

"great." y/n looked out the window and figured she could use the movie to stall as long as possible so andy would get tired of waiting and just leave.

at the restaurant, a little old couple walked by their table. the lady stopped and smiled.

"my, what a lovely family."

"thanks, but-" y/n began but quinn reached across the table to hold her hand.

"thanks. you guys are the goals we strive for."

"oh, did you hear that marvin? we're what the kids call 'couple goals'. isn't that cute?"

"yes mel. it's so wonderful to hear, darling." he grabbed her hand and as soon as they were out the front door, quinn let go of y/n's hand.

"sorry. i thought they were gonna judge if they found out you were a single mother that looked like she was on a date."

"times have changed, quinny." y/n smiled and watched the waitress bring their food to the table. as she was setting the plates down, she winked at quinn.

usually, he enjoyed what little female attention he got, this act made him uncomfortable. couldn't the waitress see he was with someone? instead of flat out rejecting her, he smiled kindly but focused his attention on y/n and abby as the waitress walked away.

"she was cute, quinn. seemed interest too."

"not my type, honestly." he just shrugged and pulled the top part of the wrapper off abby's straw for her.

abby thanked him before shoving one end of it in her mouth and blowing the rest of the wrapper directly at y/n's face. it hit her cheek and quinn laughed.

"who taught you how to do that?" y/n raised her eyebrow, knowing that it was probably quinn who taught it to her. her suspicions were confirmed when the two of them shared a look over the table that pretty much read 'oh. busted'. y/n just shook her head slowly and smiled. "thanks for that, quinn."

"you are most welcome." he replied just as sarcastically as y/n had. he watched as she looked out the window. her gaze went across the street to the movie theater. "everything okay?"

"huh? oh yeah. i'm just thinking what movie we're gonna see."

"i thought you said we were going to see the new animated one, mama."

"right. yeah we are."

quinn looked over at y/n while abby colored on the placemat. "hey, are you sure everything is okay? i don't want to pry but you've been a little off today."

y/n knew she couldn't hide around quinn. so she sighed and told him what she saw this morning. "i saw the devil as we were pulling out of the parking garage this morning."

"oh no. is that why you wanted to get out there as quick as possible?"

"yeah. he texted me this morning and said he was stopping by. i don't know if you know this but i have a hard time of saying no to him if we're left alone."

"if you want, we can come up with plans to make sure you have no time to spend around him while he's in town."

"i would love that, honestly. but i'm gonna have to face him eventually. i just didn't feel like doing it today."

"well after breakfast and the movie, we're going shopping. but after that, we could grab dinner & do whatever you want to do while we wait it out."

"thanks, quinn. i appreciate it."

the rest of the day went by smoothly. while they were shopping, quinn ended up buying abby whatever she asked for, even though he had only promised to get her one toy for getting ready fast this morning.

when they pulled into the parking garage, y/n couldn't see andy's car so she let out a breath.

"everything okay?"

"yeah. i think so. i don't see his car anywhere so he must not be here."

"well, let's head up and see if he's actually gone." quinn grabbed the bags from the trunk and followed the girls to the elevator. he kept an eye on them when they walked out onto their floor. andy was nowhere in sight.

"thanks for today, quinn. i needed a relaxing day."

"no problem. always happy to be here for you when you need help."

"i know." y/n smiled and let abby into the apartment. she stood in the hallway with quinn for a moment. both of them were silent for at least 2 minutes before quinn spoke.

"i should let you go and get abby ready for bed." he opened his door but turned around before heading in. "you go back to work tomorrow, right?"

"yeah. from 2 to just after midnight. why?"

"well, i was wondering if you wanted me to watch abby. i mean, i have a game and will be at the arena pretty much all day but i feel like it'll be a fun experience for her. you can come too, if you want. before you have to go."

"what time do you go to the arena?"

"9 in the morning."

"okay. i'll meet you there then. you sure it's okay with everyone that abby will be there?"

"oh yeah. she can sit on the bench during the morning skate & bella will be there during the game so she'll be in good hands."

"then you technically won't be watching her, will you?" y/n smiled, causing quinn's eyes to widen.

"technically, no. but i will be responsible for her. i promise she'll be in good hands all day. if you trust me."

"relax. i trust you, quinn." y/n squeezed his hand and smiled. "we'll see you in the morning."

"can't wait." quinn headed into his apartment while y/n went in hers. he couldn't help but think back about what just happened in the hallway. she really trusted him. it had been a while since anyone had put their trust in him the way y/n has the past month he's known her.

he couldn't wait to get to the arena in the morning.

----------

tags: @alwaysclassyeagle

[aventurineswife]

“To be loved is to be known”

Summary: When you call Aventurine by his true name, Kakavasha, with love and affection, it shatters the walls he’s built around himself. As he breaks down, overwhelmed by his past trauma and survivor’s guilt, you help him heal and discover the possibility of being truly loved. Through patience and support, Kakavasha learns to love and be loved in return, though the journey is filled with emotional struggles and slow-burning trust.

Tags: @bunni-v1(thank you for feeding the Aventurine fandom🙏💛💚), Aventurine x Reader, Angst, Slow Burn, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Healing, Survivor’s Guilt, Manipulation/Control, Love & Vulnerability, First Love/Relationship, Patience, Angst with a Happy Ending.

Warnings: Emotional Trauma, References to Past Abuse and Slavery, Mental Health Struggles (survivor's guilt, emotional breakdown), Explicit mentions of Grief and Loss, Heavy Themes of Self-worth and Identity.

A/N: this was much better in my head... 🧍‍♀️

[Inspired by]

The dim light of Aventurine's private quarters cast an amber glow over the room, reflecting off the myriad of trinkets and luxurious odds and ends that adorned the shelves. He lounged in his chair as always, legs crossed, head tilted, a half-empty glass of brandy in his hand. The smile that graced his lips was one you knew well—practiced, confident, and sharp. A mask.

“You’ve been unusually quiet tonight, darling,” he said, his voice lilting with feigned amusement. “Planning something, or is the weight of my brilliance just too much to handle?”

You folded your arms, standing in the center of the room. “Kakavasha.”

The sound of his real name stopped him mid-sip. The glass hovered inches from his lips, his eyes narrowing like a predator caught off guard. The room seemed to still, the silence so heavy it was deafening.

“What did you just say?” he asked, his tone sharper now, defensive.

“Kakavasha,” you repeated, softer this time, stepping closer to him. “Your name. Not Aventurine. Not the persona you wear for the world. I’m speaking to you—the person behind all of this.”

His smile wavered, a crack forming in the facade. For a moment, he looked at you as if you’d struck him, as though hearing that name from your lips was a wound he hadn’t prepared to guard against.

“Don’t,” he whispered, setting his glass down with a trembling hand. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like it means something,” he hissed, standing abruptly. His movements were quick, defensive, his hands curling into fists. “That name—that name belongs to someone who should’ve died years ago.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t step back. Instead, you moved closer, your hands reaching out to gently touch his face. He recoiled slightly at first, but you persisted, cupping his cheeks with a tenderness that shattered whatever defenses he had left.

“Kakavasha,” you said again, and this time, it broke him.

A sob tore through him before he could stop it, raw and guttural. He sank to his knees, his arms wrapping around your waist as if holding on for dear life. His head pressed against your stomach, and his body shook with the force of his crying.

“I—I can’t,” he choked out, the words barely audible between sobs. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you.”

You knelt down, your hands cradling his face as you forced him to look at you. Tears streaked down his cheeks, and his eyes were wide, glassy, and vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before.

“Listen to me,” you said firmly, though your voice was laced with emotion. “You are Kakavasha. You are not the sum of your mistakes, and you are not the monster you think you are. You’re a person—a person who has been through hell and back, but you are not unworthy of love.”

He shook his head, more tears spilling over. “I don’t know how to—”

“You don’t have to know,” you interrupted, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. “You just have to let me love you. That’s all.”

His sobs quieted as your words sank in, his breathing ragged but slowing. You kissed his cheeks, his nose, his lips, each kiss gentle and patient, as though you were mending the broken pieces of him with your touch.

For a long while, he simply stayed there, his head resting against your chest as you held him. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.

“I didn’t think… I didn’t think it was possible to feel like this.”

You smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “You deserve this, Kakavasha. You deserve to be happy.”

The name lingered in the air, not as a weight but as a promise. Kakavasha—the man who had survived the desert, the betrayals, and the crushing loneliness—was still here. And for the first time, he allowed himself to believe that he could be loved.

The road to healing wasn’t easy. Aventurine—no, Kakavasha—was a man accustomed to wearing masks, to hiding behind his sharp wit and dazzling charisma. There were nights when his fears got the better of him, when he pulled away, scared of the vulnerability that came with being loved.

But you were patient.

You were there to steady him when he stumbled, to remind him that he didn’t have to face his demons alone. Slowly, he began to open up, sharing pieces of himself that he had long buried. His laughter became more genuine, his smiles less calculated.

And one day, as he watched you reading on the couch, bathed in the golden glow of the evening light, he realized that he no longer feared losing you. Instead, he felt a quiet determination—a promise to himself that he would protect this love with everything he had.

Because for the first time in his life, Kakavasha understood what it meant to be truly alive.

[meiozis]

after having read this no less than 3 times. well, 4 now. i am finally here so let's get into it :o)

Were you sad about her death? Of course you were. Death was always sad, in some deeply philosophical and uniquely human way. The ending of all things–life moving onwards to something better (or worse). Leaving everyone else behind to deal with the sorrow and suffering and debt. You could feel her death around you everywhere you went. The last breath of her life sighing over you on windy streets, the final whisper of her words in the chattering of birds in the morning dew. She was omnipresent. Oppressive. Somehow even more than she had been when she was alive. A heavy shroud over your every move.

this whole passage is so beautiful and so dear to me, and i love to see the nuance of losing a loved one. the whole beginning is so beautifully written, the storm outside and the emptiness within, how there’s a certain type of guilt when something awful happens to you, and yet you don’t have the reaction that would be expected, and how the whole story stems from loss. and the entire time i’m reading it i feel like i’m sitting in the last row and watching y/n both from afar and right through a magnifying glass and i’m also her… and it seems so obvious that things are multifaceted, but it takes such skill to make it feel so real and so seamless, and to convey these complex emotions so well and in a relatively short scene too… i am witnessing something so great

You watch a rivulet of rain carve a line through the reflection of your face, splitting you in two as you stare out through the window in your living room and into the neon darkness of the city surrounding you. Who were the heavens sad for tonight?

absolutely gorgeous imagery, and i loooove how the rain connects the past and the present, and how that empty sadness follows through. this continuing imagery of negative emotions like sadness and anger coming to reality via rains and storms is so effective and delicious, and it also gives everything this grey gloomy aura and also this very specific scent of when it rains in the city…

The melon stares up at you in askance and you set it back on the stand with its brethren before you can give the temptation a second thought.

it’s probably not, but to me… i want it to be a watermelon. and i want it to be red inside and i want it to mean the contained rage that she’s keeping locked inside, and i want her to get a melon and cut it in half and the juices to spill out

She had a husband. A man with kind eyes and a kind smile. You weren’t sure if it made you feel better or worse to know that you weren’t alone in your suffering, that someone else was tied to the other end of this red string that entangled the four of you in its noose-tight vice.

and

Not one of the scenarios you envision ends with you triumphant, in each one your husband’s arms reach forth to comfort her and leave you standing alone, consumed with the red hot fires of rage and seething hate.

it might just be how expressions work, but still, i very much enjoy the parallels of fate and rage both being red – along with the mistress’ lipstick, but that just ties it all together even more, when everything is cloaked in grey it stands out so beautifully

“I think she and your husband know each other, actually. My wife,” he says, and you freeze again, stuck now staring at him from the hallway. He waves goodbye as the doors slide closed and you’re left standing statuesque in the hallways alone. Ears ringing with the echoes of his words.

i don’t even have anything to add, i just truly felt the specific type of white hot anxious rage this sentence would unleash on me

Was his smile as soft and kind when turned upon the face of the woman who, with every breath she took, dared to remind him of the sadness that lurked beneath the surface of their life? Was the love he still held for her enough to erode all of her transgressions, even as she continued to transgress? Did he still hold her in his arms at night like no one else had ever touched her? Like he was the only one for her? Why, if he could so easily absolve her of her crimes, could you not do the same for the man you had promised yourself to?

constantly being haunted and hounded by a promised love for people who don’t return it, and you learn to take it early on from childhood because of your mother, and you transfer that empty longing into a marriage… the ever delicious concept of grieving each moment as it passes, and if something goes wrong? it’s always on you. MAN im literally floored like genuinely. when the love that goes into creating something is so clear and evident!! 

Silence. One brief, fleeting moment of hesitation. A slight lift of the eyebrow. You watch his Adam’s apple bob at the base of his throat, just above the knot of his tie.

that tie is a noose to me, that’s all

well, actually. the shift in tone now that she Knows… and he finally has to face that he’s a stranger in his own home, and it’s not his playground anymore… i need him to be knocked over like a chess piece

He would entertain these fantasies–feeding into them, one morsel at a time, filling you with the hope of your aligned future. Filling you to the point that when the proposal inevitably came you couldn’t see the hunger still gnawing inside of you.  Your husband was a good son, and his family paid for the wedding. It took little effort for you to resign yourself to ceremony and cast aside your dreams for love. The story of every fool in the world.

gnawing on concrete. this ever looming motherly inheritance of “you should’ve known better” is absolutely destroying me

You could only blame yourself. Even your mother tried to warn you, in her own way. Her own misery bearing down on you throughout your life–her inevitable cracking under the weight of everyone else’s dreams bearing down on her until she simply couldn’t take it anymore. If you had been smart you would have seen it for what it was when you were 12.

OOOOOOOH……… oooooooh i need to. something something about i am my mother i am my child i am myself but i don’t know who that actually is. audible crack where my heart breaks in two… you know when you’re reading something so good that you’re trying to read so fast to get to the end faster… yeah

You let the pain sing you to sleep–weeping and burning for what once was and what might never be again as you let the darkness consume you in the dim blue of your bedroom.

this is an ode to blue, the mood of all time

Your own dress–emerald green, accented with black florals–suited you well enough.

close enough, welcome back keira knightley’s green dress from atonement

The disinterest showed plain on his face even as he scribbled down your order (the usual, hot and sour soup and tea) and delivered it to his father in the kitchen.

hot and sour soup enjoyers rise up!!!!!

You glance at the clock on the wall, nearly 8:00pm, then down at your phone screen. No messages, no notifications.

No one had ever asked you that before. It’s your turn to be taken off guard now as you step up to the dual elevators. Joshua presses the ‘up’ button and you consider how to reply.

she is me and i am her, and i am sitting in another corner silently and hoping that she knows she’s not alone. oh y/n we're really in it now

no specific comment i just felt the weight of this moment and wanted it here

“She’s similarly occupied,” he responds, voice softening. You meet his gaze in the reflection of the doors. A spark of understanding reverberates through you and you wonder if he feels it as well. Swelling like a bloom of light bursting in your chest. He holds your gaze steady, unwavering but silent. He knows. He must.

HE MUST…….. gripping my phone. 

i cannot believe it took me this long as an avid divorce enjoyer to finally get around to leaving proper comments on this..... this was such a joy to read, which i understand is a weird thing to say about something like this, but it was! it's so delightful to read complex emotions described in such careful detail without being overbearing, and the whole thing has this perfect pendulum of weird glimmers of hope and all encompassing all-is-lost mentality

i love the way you write prose so so much, and like i said before it's so clear how much time and energy and craft and love went into all this!!! every detail feels so natural but so important at the same time, it's just so evident when someone's well read and just like. understands what makes something good and worth reading. like the way you create atmosphere and include so many details and yet they all feel so natural and like they're exactly where they're supposed to be. the entire story feels so organic and picturesque. it's also Crazy to me how you've got the range to write light-hearted romcom-esque fics and also the most grotesquely beautiful love letter to this genre. to be fair in the mood for live is one of my all time fav movies so im like literally thee target audience for this, but still!!!

this was all so beautiful and i just keep repeating myself, but i've read this 4 times now and each time i notice new things and it's just soooo... we get this for free? on tumbler dot com? insane!!! i feel like i should have this on my bookshelf and leaving annotations on every single margin, truly an obligatory read for everyone who enjoys when things are blue <333 thank you mads for blessing us with your writing

THE MIRROR-BLUE NIGHT; ACT I

―PAIRING: joshua hong x fem!reader ―GENRE: SLOW burn, affair au, suggestive, angst, romance ―CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 11.2k ―CHAPTER WARNINGS: mild language, very minimal josh in this chapter (sorry), death mentions, cheating, lots of introspection ―STATUS: ongoing

―AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is act i to my entry for svthub's world tour collab. it's heavily inspired by wong kar wai's film 'in the mood for love', and it's been fun to play around with a totally different atmosphere and setting, and i hope everyone that reads this enjoys it! if you do, please consider reblogging with your thoughts and comments i would love to hear them. hopefully before long i will have the following two acts out for you to continue <3

ACT I

. . .

It’s raining. You hear the patter of droplets as they fall against your windows, a symphony of sorrows cascading from gray skies. When you were a child your mother used to tell you that the rain meant the heavens were crying. That some angel high above was weeping for the sorrow of those below–for the tragedy of humankind. She made up a lot of lies when you were young, stories to either make you feel better or to just force you to stop asking her questions while she was trying to watch her favourite shows. 

It never worked, and you never believed her. 

It was raining, too,  on the day that you cremated her. A near torrential downpour that had washed out the roads on your way to the funeral home and caused a four car pile up on the on ramp. You made it, breathless and haggard, just in time to drip your way through the procession to the front of the church pews where you sat, cloaked in the black of mourning, to watch a small line of people espouse pretty stories and prettier lies about the woman who raised you. 

Were you sad about her death? Of course you were. Death was always sad, in some deeply philosophical and uniquely human way. The ending of all things–life moving onwards to something better (or worse). Leaving everyone else behind to deal with the sorrow and suffering and debt. You could feel her death around you everywhere you went. The last breath of her life sighing over you on windy streets, the final whisper of her words in the chattering of birds in the morning dew. She was omnipresent. Oppressive. Somehow even more than she had been when she was alive. A heavy shroud over your every move. 

You were sad about her death, but you did not feel the pang of it in your heart as you might have if she had been anyone else. Instead it was abstract–elusive. A fleeting thought that followed you throughout the day. A thought that you were sure would dissipate over time. Molecule by molecule as her soul moved on from this world it would dissolve and you would finally be left standing in a life of your own making, no longer bent to the will of the woman who molded you to fit neatly into her own life. Her death was sad but it also finally opened you up the hope for freedom. 

When it was your turn to speak, after the mass had ended and the few other speakers had said their peace with your mother overseeing from inside her casket, you hesitated. Standing in front of the crowd of people that had managed to crawl their way through traffic for the promise of a free lunch and a voyeuristic look at the poor, bereft daughter left to deal with this whole mess. The only remaining relative of this woman that had made everyone’s life around her a living hell. You stared out at their faces, blank with waiting, and expected the words you had prepared to come out as you had rehearsed. None ever did. You stood silent under the scrutiny of a hundred eyes and seconds ticked by into minutes as the blank expressions morphed into confusion or pity. Even your husband’s carefully neutral expression devolved into one of concern as he stared up at you from his seat. 

Thunder clapped outside the church, the rain picked up speed, buffeting the stained glass windows in its fury, and you thought that maybe your mother hadn’t been lying to you when you were a child. Maybe it was her fury that was clinging to your clothing–soaking you to the bone. 

You left the altar without a word–just one apologetic glance cast over the audience of mourners–and sat back down next to your husband. Head held high against the brewing storm. You realised finally that you had nothing to say. 

For your husband’s part, he played it well at the time. His silent hand found yours and gripped it tight as you both kept your gazes focused on the priest as he tried his best to stitch the proceedings back together after the abandoned eulogy. He kept your hand in his throughout the rest of the funeral–from the end of the mass, through the reception, and all the way to the committal he was there with you. The anchor at your side. 

When had he stopped? 

When had he stopped being there–holding your hand, playing his part as your partner through it all on this grand stage of life. When had he decided he no longer wanted to be that? 

You watch a rivulet of rain carve a line through the reflection of your face, splitting you in two as you stare out through the window in your living room and into the neon darkness of the city surrounding you. Who were the heavens sad for tonight? 

For your own part, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel much sadness. Only a hollow aching at the pit of your stomach, like a hunger long ignored. Gnawing at your insides as you stare out into some unfixed point on the horizon and wait for your husband to return home. Late, again. Always late these days. Always some excuse or another. Traffic, work, friends wanting to grab drinks, errands to run. Tonight though, perhaps, the excuse would be the rain. 

With a sigh you abandon your post at the window, floating through the apartment by the dim light of the city pouring inside. No reason to turn the lights on inside–you knew your way around. The remnants of your dinner sit undisturbed on the kitchen counter, steam long since evaporated, as they wait for a mouth to enter, a stomach to fill. You had lost your appetite when you received the text message. 

You knew it was coming, had known for months. At first it was easy to trick yourself into believing that nothing had changed at all. Everything was normal. These excuses were all truths and you were in fact in the wrong for not believing your husband when he told you. After a time this denial stopped working, however, and you moved on to believing that the changes were only superficial–temporary–that the fissure that had opened up in your marriage was not a yawning pit preparing to engulf you but an easily repairable crack in the foundation. Before long he would return to you as a ship to the shore. He would pour out his feelings and you would mend them easily, with tears of your own. Your relationship would grow in strength for enduring this storm and all would be well again. 

As the days and months dragged on, though, it grew harder to ignore the signs. You had seen them so many times before–on television, in film, in friends’ relationships, in your own parents’ marriage before it fell apart when you were 9. 

A whiff of an unfamiliar perfume in the air, breezing behind your husband as he enters the apartment after work–orange blossom, ginger, patchouli and jasmine. Cloying and heady. A scent of seduction and sex in the wake of a man that hadn’t touched you in days. He waited to kiss you hello now, waited until he had changed out of his clothes, maybe until after he had a shower. You would sit, perched on the arm of the couch, and stare out the window of your living room while he scrubbed the scent of another woman off of his skin. 

More evidence collected over the next few months. Pastel purple and blue splotches dotting the nape of his neck–just above the birthmark you used to trace over with a loving fingertip in the early days of your marriage. Lipstick stains faded on the white collar of a shirt–brick red, a shade that never painted your own lips. He was getting careless–bold. And you continued to observe without a word. Maintaining the calm on the surface of your life, letting the stains and perfume to sink deep underneath. 

Maybe you should have confronted him early on, when the days were still young and you still had lingering affection for this man that was becoming a stranger to you. You should have yelled, screamed, fought, let your tears flow freely in a torrent of anger and betrayal. Every rational thought in your mind was screaming out for you to face him down and do something. You would work yourself into a fury of anger and anxiety waiting for him to come home but the second he stepped across the threshold of your apartment, all of it dissolved. Melted away into nothingness and left only that old, hollow ache until that was all you had left inside.

You remember how your mother had reacted when she found out about your dad’s affair. The consequences were swift and brutal–a storm of emotions and rage bursting out and swallowing everyone in its vicinity. If rain was sadness, surely her rage had been a tsunami. Your dad left and you retreated–into your room, into yourself. Left alone to rebuild in the wake of this natural disaster. 

When you got married your mother warned you–warned you of your duties as a wife. To keep him happy, keep him home, and remember that marriage is work. Life was so hard after your father abandoned us, she would say, don’t let the same happen to you. She would sermonize his weakness and cruelty, and you would listen. But you loved your father, in spite of all his flaws and humanity. He was kind and soft-hearted and you never blamed him for what happened, how could it all have been his fault? This one man that bought you ice cream and tanghulu and took you shopping for school uniforms up until he died? No. You blamed your mother.

What would she say to you now, sitting alone in the dark staring at a photo of your husband with his arm slung casually over the shoulders of another woman, her head resting against him with a soft smile on her face. Pathetic, spineless child. 

You shrug off the ghost of your mother and focus back on the picture. They were in a restaurant, tucked into a corner booth. The low lighting cast soft shadows over their faces, obscuring the details of their features, but there was no doubt in your mind that  it was him.  It was the same slope of brow and cheek that you have run your fingers over so many times before. The same slight upturn in the corners of the mouth that you fell in love with. The glimmer of mischief and daring that so easily drew you in when you first started dating, now turned towards someone else. A stranger? You were sure you didn’t know her but there was something familiar about her in the photo, something about her profile that tugged at the recesses of your recollection. 

Your imagination has been running frantic circles in your mind since you opened the message. Where had he met her? Work? He wasn’t a part of any clubs, didn’t play mahjong on the weekends with friends, hadn’t been selected for any work trips where he might have brushed elbows with her in a conference. Might have snuck into each other's hotel rooms, followed each other onto the plane. She could have been a stewardess–as alluring as they are professional. An untouchable creature bending to your every whim and all you can do is look and hope and wish. Slip her your number as you disembark, pray she deems you worthy enough to contact. 

But he hadn’t been out of the city in at least a year. So that couldn’t be it. 

Maybe she had a more humble occupation. She worked at the hot pot restaurant his company frequented after work. That was how you had met so is it so out of the realm of possibilities that lightning might strike twice? 

Maybe he had always known her. Maybe you were the other woman–some twist of fate had led him to marrying you instead of his highschool sweetheart. A girl that had occupied his mind for longer than you had known him. Maybe she had traveled after graduation–moved to the US and taken his heart with her while he pined away and finally, losing all hope, he settled for the strange girl with the zealot of a mother. Turned you into a project to fill his loneliness and occupy his thoughts until she returned and he was reminded of all the things that she had been for him that you never could. 

Maybe. 

Or maybe she was just a whore. 

Your thoughts flitter back and forth; all possibilities confronting you at once, neon red  in alarm. You watch taxis and motorbikes speed through traffic on the rain soaked street 15 stories below your apartment–each one weaving a new thread of anxiety in your mind as you wait for one to stop in front of your building. Wait for your husband to emerge, shielding himself from the rain and rushing to get inside before his white-collared shirt is soaked through with the sins of his flesh. 

He arrives shortly after you give up waiting and prepare for bed. The rain has begun to let up and with it he steps through the front door of your apartment while you sit perched on the edge of your bed, running a hand over the embroidered silk duvet coverlet you had received as a wedding present. You listen as he drops his keys, briefcase, coat onto the kitchen counter. Focus on the sound of his footfall as he  walks through the short hallway to the bathroom. He doesn’t see you sitting in the dark, doesn’t seek you out to greet you. You watch as he flicks the light on to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. The sound of the shower running follows a few moments afterwards. 

You brace yourself when he enters the dark bedroom after washing himself free of the day. Body tense as he slips under the blanket beside you. The anticipation of something, anything, stiffens in your muscles and you wait for him to say something, to give you some explanation for his whereabouts. Nothing comes. He, believing you to be asleep, slips too into the arms of the night and you’re left alone–staring blankly into the dark of the room before you give into the heaviness of your eyes. 

Morning dawns, grey and overcast. You’re alone again, your husband having left for work with the tin of leftovers you had pre-packed for him, and the day stretches out in front of you–long and lonely–as you shove all thoughts of last night to the back of your mind and turn your attention to the household tasks that require it. 

The fluorescent lights of the supermarket buzz overhead as you make your way through the aisles with a basket hanging on your arm. You know what you’re getting–you’ve rotated through the same small selection of meals since you were 11 years old and started cooking for yourself–but you take your time anyway. Wandering through the rows of produce, fish, and imported goods. Enjoying the distant company of strangers, their idle chatter and routine conversations are a welcome reprieve from the oppressive silence that has dominated your apartment over the past few months. 

You drift to the fruits, letting their bright colours draw you in, and reach for a melon. It’s heavy in the hand, weighed down with the density of the flesh inside. It would be delicious–perfectly ripe, bursting with flavour and juice–you could almost salivate at the thought of slicing into it, bringing a cube of its sweetness to the tip of your tongue. You haven’t had it in ages. Your husband was not fond of fruits–he never had been. Always preferred spice and heat over sweetness, and you were more than happy to accommodate–to oblige his tastes and sacrifice your own for the sake of love. But now? 

The melon stares up at you in askance and you set it back on the stand with its brethren before you can give the temptation a second thought. As soon as you do, a hand reaches out to grab it, neatly manicured fingers wrapping around the fruit still warm from your touch. You smell her perfume before you see her face–that aroma of orange blossom, patchouli,  and jasmine (with a hint of ginger) cutting through the air of the supermarket like a knife through fruit. It’s even more overwhelming first hand. You turn your head, catching a glimpse of her face, her bright red lips, before she turns away and clacks towards the green wall of vegetables. 

You follow transfixed behind her as she weaves her way through the market, picking up an array of items as she goes. Mindlessly you fill your basket behind her, hands reaching out for whatever as you try to disguise your objective. You had only seen one blurry photo of her, clandestinely snapped with her head buried in the crook of your husband’s arm, but you would know her anywhere. In fact you did know her. Not by name, you had never been introduced, but you recognize her instantly now in the bright noonday lights of the shop. 

She lives in your building, a few floors up, you were sure of it. You had run into her in the elevator a few times, never exchanging a word, but always evaluating each other with that cold calculation of strangers destined to become rivals. Not that you knew that at the time. She had a husband. A man with kind eyes and a kind smile. You weren’t sure if it made you feel better or worse to know that you weren't alone in your suffering, that someone else was tied to the other end of this red string that entangled the four of you in its noose-tight vice. 

Does she recognize me? you wonder as you get in line a few people behind her at the register. Your eyes remain fixed on the back of her head while she pays and you tap your foot in anxious impatience as her form disappears through the doors and you’re left waiting for the elderly woman in front of you to deal out her entire coin purse to the cashier for spring onions and flour.

Finally you step out into the streets, bag of assorted groceries clutched tight in your fist, and you whip your head around to try to locate her. It doesn’t take long–she’s a flash of red in a sea of black–and you hasten your stride to catch up with her as she rounds the corner towards your apartment building, taking care to maintain a neutral expression. You trail her over the few blocks it takes to get back home, pulse quickening whenever her step halts–paralysed with the fear that she may turn around and realise what you’re doing. 

Does she  know who you are? Aa a neighbour, maybe, but as the wife of the man she’s having an affair with? Has he told her about you, have they shared jokes in confidence at your expense? Or are you some shameful secret he has kept hidden in his coat pocket. Maybe he slips his wedding band off before each meeting, spinning it around his finger thrice before tucking it out of sight, alongside his conscience. Does he know about her husband? Does her husband know about him the way you know about her? Were the same thoughts turning over in his mind as he sat at his desk at work, staring idly at their wedding photo? 

You follow her, a few paces behind, through the lobby of your shared building. Part of you–a bold, reckless part–wants to slip into the elevator with her, just before the doors can slide closed. Meet her face to face. Confront her and lay bare your knowledge of her discretion. Maybe she would cry, maybe she would yell, maybe she would laugh. Not one of the scenarios you envision ends with you triumphant, in each one your husband’s arms reach forth to comfort her and leave you standing alone, consumed with the red hot fires of rage and seething hate. 

You push that part of you away, back into the shadows, and watch as  she gets into the elevator. The numbers on the display above the doors climb higher and higher as she ascends and you hold your breath, waiting for them to halt. 22. Higher up than your own, more expensive. So it wasn’t money that had drawn her to your husband. You jam your finger against the button, calling the lift back down and wrestling between going home with this new knowledge or feeding into your curiosity and following her up to her door. Would you know the right one if you saw it? 

You press both floor numbers when you finally climb into the elevator, staring at the illuminated buttons as you slowly ascend. You stand still, staring at number 22, and wait as you move up and up–torn between the two options you’ve given to yourself. The doors finally slide open to reveal your floor, 15, and you stare out into the empty hallway, waiting for some unseen force to push you out of the lift. To make up your mind for you. Nothing does, and you just stand silent and still, frozen in time until they slide closed once more and you’re left looking blankly at your own twisted expression in the stainless steel. You keep eye contact with the twisted version of yourself reflected back at you and wait as the elevator continues its ascent. 

What were you hoping to gain from following this woman? Confirmation that she is, indeed, real? As if the brush of her arm against yours as she stretched out for your relinquished fruit hadn’t been enough to convince you. Her head bobbing through the crowds of people on the street as you kept pace behind her was just a figment of your imagination. Did you think you would find him there? Waiting for her? Eating slices of fruit from her outstretched hands in an act of worship? Your reflection purses her lips, eyebrows knit in thought, and you shake your head at her in askance, a silent plea, before the elevator finally stops at floor 22. 

The door slides open for the second time and you brace yourself to alight, but your path is blocked. 

“Oh, sorry,” he says, stepping aside to give you space to pass, “are you getting off here?” 

You freeze on the spot, standing on the threshold of a million converging thoughts as they crash through your mind. His smile is the same as you remember it, soft and kind. The smile of someone for whom life was easy, someone who hadn’t seen much strife. Or perhaps the opposite . Someone who had seen all the horrors life had to offer him and chose to remain soft despite them. You’re distantly aware that you look like a fool, standing there in the elevator with your mouth hanging slightly agape as you stare into the eyes of your husband’s mistress’ husband, but you can’t make yourself move. Paralyzed by a strange twist of fate that had, unbeknownst to him, entangled you in a web of deceit and betrayal.

Surely he didn’t know. 

“Is this your floor,” he asks again, prompting you to move or speak or do something more than just stand still as the elevator beeps its final warning. It wasn’t going to wait much longer. 

“N-no,” you stammer, trying to right your thoughts. “I was going down, actually.” In a panic you jam your finger against the button for floor 15. If he notices the obvious lie, he doesn’t say anything–instead politely skirting around you as he steps into the lift and presses the button for the ground floor.

The lift jerks as it starts to descend, and you hold your breath. Afraid that any movement might somehow reveal every thought you’re holding tight within. He keeps a polite distance, checking his phone as he stands in the opposite corner of the narrow, enclosed space. The elevator inches closer to your floor and your muscles tense in preparation to bolt through the door as soon as it slides open at floor 15. You stare up at the numbers as they transform–20, 19, 18. Eyes transfixed on the digital display as your brain whirrs with static noise. 

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” You jerk your attention towards him as soon as he speaks, head spinning too fast to pass off your expression as casual and you’re sure that you look as panicked as you feel. “When we first moved into the building, I mean. It’s been a while but I recognize you.” 

You nod and take a second to clear your throat of the built up nerves before replying, voice trembling with a light quiver. “Yes, I uh–it’s been over a year now I think. I’m sorry but I don’t remember your name.”

He smiles–that same soft, kind smile as earlier–and shakes his head reassuringly. “It’s Joshua. Hong.” 

“Joshua?” your voice betrays a hint of curiosity–it’s not a common name here. 

“I moved here from LA years ago with my wife,” he supplies the answer to your unspoken question. Unwittingly adding a layer of intrigue to his personage that you hadn’t expected. At the mention of his wife, however, you feel the hairs on your arms rise to attention. A cold chill ripples through your body. The elevator dings, startling you out of your daze as it arrives at your floor. You turn to face the hallway as it appears between the doors, lingering astride the threshold between him and the emptiness ahead of you. Something inside of you hesitates, hanging back to remain in his presence despite the anxiety still flooding through your body. Something about the way he spoke had drawn you in, a strange curiosity taking root in your mind. You shake it loose; it’s not your place to say anything, and it’s not your place to further entangle yourself in this web. His life is his own. You take a step forward, finally clearing the door just before it beeps its insistence at you. 

You turn to say a farewell to Joshua–it wouldn’t bode well to appear impolite after he was so courteous to you a moment before–but before you can open your mouth to speak, he beats you to it. 

 “I think she and your husband know each other, actually. My wife,” he says, and you freeze again, stuck now staring at him from the hallway. He waves goodbye as the doors slide closed and you’re left standing statuesque in the hallways alone. Ears ringing with the echoes of his words. 

Does he know? 

Nothing in the way he held himself, in the casual expression gracing his handsome, well composed features would have led you to believe so but…why else would he have said that? 

You stand still, staring at the scuffed stainless steel doors of the elevator as if they might reopen and he might still be there. That he might dull the sharpness of your anxieties with some clarity . Instead you’re alone, bag of groceries cutting the circulation in your fingertips off as they hang forgotten in your hand.

You try to search the memory of his face as it lingers in your mind’s eye for any clue–any miniscule hint–as to what thought had been hiding beneath his calm facade. His face twists and contorts in your mind, swirling and transforming as you try to keep hold of the static image. Joshua, your husband, his wife, your own warped expression in the polished metal of the door. Many parts of an ever colliding whole. 

When you finally manage to get your legs moving and step away from the elevator the hallway seems to stretch out in front of you endlessly. You walk as if to the gallows, imagining all the horrors waiting for you when you open the door to your apartment. Your husband, Joshua’s wife. Limbs entangled in carnal desire. The heat of their bodies steaming the windows and fogging your vision as you stumble through the darkness. The thought overwhelms you, slows your already stuttering pace, though you know in your logical mind that no one’s there. She’s in her own apartment, and your husband is at work, and you’re alone. A state you’ve become numbly accustomed to. 

The familiar silence of your apartment is all that greets you when you finally enter, in spite of the baseless worries of your frazzled mind. It soothes the storm of worries clouding your mind as you stow away your meager haul of groceries and set out the ingredients needed for dinner. Joshua’s face fades to darkness as you slip back into routine–letting your hands take over and your mind to narrow to a single thought. 

So what if he did know. Would that change anything about your present circumstances? If he wanted a scene he had the chance to cause one and let it go. He could have held you in that elevator and interrogated you for all your husband’s many sins; pouring his hurt and betrayal out at your feet as you bear witness to your own anguish reflected in another person. But he didn’t. Instead he was polite, almost kind, and you parted without the cosmic clash the worst parts of you might have anticipated.  

The water for the noodles starts to boil and you quickly finish chopping your small array of vegetables before turning the heat down to simmer and tossing them in. Leftover shrimp lay on the side of your cutting board, ready to add in at the end. It was a lazy meal–one you never would have made early on in your marriage–but who cared about that now? You knew it would be the same routine tonight. Eating without tasting, alone in the kitchen, lit only by the light filtering in through the windows, while you stare at the clock on the wall. He’ll show up after you’re finished–maybe 15 minutes later, maybe an hour–and eat the portion set aside for him while you disappear into the bedroom and will the day to come to an end. 

Would Joshua’s night end the same or were he and his wife better at maintaining the charade of marriage? Were their hearts as distant when they lay in bed next to each other, barely touching? 

You had a hard time imagining it. You try, between mouthfuls of noodles and broth, to capture the image of them. Joshua sidestepping his wife in the kitchen, carefully avoiding her touch–her skin stained by the kiss of another man. Was his smile as soft and kind when turned upon the face of the woman who, with every breath she took, dared to remind him of the sadness that lurked beneath the surface of their life? Was the love he still held for her enough to erode all of her transgressions, even as she continued to transgress? Did he still hold her in his arms at night like no one else had ever touched her? Like he was the only one for her? Why, if he could so easily absolve her of her crimes, could you not do the same for the man you had promised yourself to? 

You shake your head, ridding yourself of the scene that was playing out. You knew nothing about this man–about his life or his thoughts. This scene you had conjured up, fleshed out with his feelings and emotions, was just a projection of some possible life dwelling within you.

But still, you couldn’t help but wonder. How different would things be if you tried?

The night drags on as all the previous ones have. You sit in front of the window, letting the TV drone on in the background, and stare down at the street below. Watching as people come and go–each with their own thoughts, their own lives, their own worries and desires. None more or less important than your own. It was comforting, in some odd way, to imagine the lives and futures of others. It took the distinct sting out of imagining our own. 

The front door opens, earlier than expected, and you glance over your shoulder to see him enter. He nods in greeting and you return the gesture before acting on an impulse you haven’t followed through on in months. You move towards him. You don’t even realise you’re doing it until his form comes into focus only a few feet in front of you. He doesn’t notice you right away, too busy reheating the noodles; you wait and you watch as he moves through the task with a slight droop to his shoulders. He’s tired. 

“How was work today?” you ask. The question spills unbidden from your mouth but you don’t rush to stop it. 

“Long,” he sighs, stirring the food as it begins to steam in the pot. There’s no hint of surprise or shock in his voice at your sudden interest in his day. He accepts it–whether from sheer exhaustion or ignorance of the deafening silence that has defined your life for the past few months. Maybe he never noticed how distant you were. How could he when he still held someone so close? “How was your day?”

“Fine,” you reply, intending to leave it at that before a thought flashes through your mind. “I ran into one of our neighbours earlier, in the elevator. Joshua Hong. We met them once or twice when he and his wife moved in just over a year ago, do you remember them?” 

“I can’t say that I do,” he shakes his head, flicking the heat off on the stove. His back is still turned, so you focus on his tone, on the micromovements of his muscles under his shirt. Searching for anything other than the polite disinterest he was feigning. Anything that might betray some feeling brewing below the surface. Fear, love, guilt. Anything at all. 

“Hmm, yeah I couldn’t remember him well either at first,” you agree, pausing to allow him the space to settle in, to pour his dinner into a bowl and sit down at the counter. He leans forward, blowing the steam away as he prepares to take a bite. “He mentioned you though,” you say finally, watching his face as he glances up at you with his chopsticks suspended above his bowl. “He mentioned you know his wife.” 

Silence. One brief, fleeting moment of hesitation. A slight lift of the eyebrow. You watch his Adam’s apple bob at the base of his throat, just above the knot of his tie. 

“That’s odd,” he replies, voice carefully neutral, he drops his gaze from yours and brings his chopsticks the rest of the way to his mouth to slurp up the hanging noodles. You stay silent, watching–waiting–as he finishes his bite before he continues. “He must be mistaken.” 

“Must be,” you nod, trailing a finger lazily over the countertop. You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to. You let the silence settle in between you–an observer of its own, interrogating him with the absence of speech. You’ve had months to become accustomed to it, to make friends of the stillness of the air in your apartment, but you can see as your husband carefully avoids your lingering gaze that he hasn’t. He’s been too preoccupied to even notice it as it slowly moved in, taking over his place at your side. 

After a few moments you shrug, straightening your posture and smoothing down the front of your dress–releasing him of the heaviness of your gaze. The atmosphere settles back into one of easy stalemate and your husband resumes eating in silence. Nothing more is said. You slip back into blue.

 You never wanted a traditional wedding. 

With your father long buried and your mother under the spell of religious fervor, you never saw any appeal in the tradition or ceremony. You felt estranged from your scattered family–disconnected from the broader world. You floated in blissful independence, living life on your own terms and only reigning it in to pay fealty to your mother when required. Then you met him. 

He was handsome–dark hair and dark airs and expertly sculpted features. The sort of handsome that was easy to overlook at first but unraveled more and more as soon as you tugged at a loose thread of it. You looked at him across the lecture hall and took your time, dissecting his profile as the lectern’s voice melted out into the distance. It didn’t take long for your introduction to follow these looks. College is like that. Friends of friends of friends, dorm rooms, study hangouts in the library. Before you could even notice, your blissful independence had given way to comfortable partnership. 

After college, still in the early days of your courtship, you had grand ideas of elopement. The last lingering strands of your individuality. Traveling to a foreign country, marrying on a beach under the stars, and not telling your families until you either came back or decided you were going to live out your wedded bliss and future marriage in the streets of Rio de Janeiro or Sydney. 

He would entertain these fantasies–feeding into them, one morsel at a time, filling you with the hope of your aligned future. Filling you to the point that when the proposal inevitably came you couldn’t see the hunger still gnawing inside of you. 

Your husband was a good son, and his family paid for the wedding. It took little effort for you to resign yourself to ceremony and cast aside your dreams for love. The story of every fool in the world. 

That should have been the moment you knew that this would not last. Or at least that the happiness and contentment that shrouded your relationship was just that–mere illusory material. If you could turn back time, redo the last years of your life, you would have taken your meager inheritance from your father and booked a one way flight to the US. Used what little connections you had from distant family to build a life and chase your dreams. Live for yourself instead of the external expectations that you had been raised to abide by. You could have sent your mother back what little extra income you had–supported her from a distance as she ruined her own life where you did not have to bear witness. 

Instead, like the perfect picture of a good daughter, you went along with your husband and his family’s wishes. You let them arrange the entire thing and you–a mere passenger in your own life–silently went through the motions. Assured by word and by every soft kiss that all your dreams would be realised once it was all over. Your hands would reach the farthest destinations of your imagination, your feet would touch the sands of your desire. You let yourself be carried forward into this future with a smile, unaware that the only sand your feet would see would be the foundations of your own life as it crumbled and fell around you. 

You could only blame yourself. Even your mother tried to warn you, in her own way. Her own misery bearing down on your throughout your life–her inevitable cracking under the weight of everyone else's dreams bearing down on her until she simply couldn’t take it anymore. If you had been smart you would have seen it for what it was when you were 12. 

But you didn’t. You continued to simply go with it, smile waning as the years began to drag on and none of those golden promises spoken to you at night ever materialised. Business was good, now was not the time to take a break away it would only spell financial ruin for yourself and your entire family. Fine, you could wait. Were happy to wait, in fact. Dutiful and loyal and ever patient as you filled your days with the duties you had accepted in spite of yourself. Homemaking, cleaning, cooking. You had longed to work yourself, use your degree for something other than simply occupying space on your wall, then in a drawer–but no, your obligation was to the home, to your husband. Business was good. It was the right time to start trying for children. Did you want children? Did it matter? 

The flames of passion burned bright in your union early on. Your skin was on fire in the moonlight, bathed in sweat and dappled by the heated kisses of your new husband. Your body felt like a temple of worship, and he was there to pay his respects. He was the first man you had ever been with and you felt like you had won the jackpot each night as he brought you to new heights with his devotion. 

Maybe it’s true what people say about newlyweds. That passion is fleeting. The newness and excitement of having each other at the tips of your fingers would inevitably dull down until even sex simply became a part of your daily routine. A task to be completed, to stave off the questions of family and friends speculating on the growth of your family. Yours wasn’t meant to grow, though, it seemed. No matter how often you came together in pursuit of it, your monthly courses came as consistent as the full moon. Month after month until you stopped trying.

But there was love there, in the beginning. You think about it still, lying silent in the vast wilderness of your marital bed next to your sleeping husband. When you think to yourself  ‘how could I have let this happen’ your mind drifts back to those moments–wrapped up tightly in his embrace as he peppered your face, neck, shoulders, with kisses and promised you the world. How could you have known that it was built on such faulty foundations? That it would all drift away over time? 

You run a slow finger over your thigh, tracing the paths that he would take each night before. Remembering the love that you had shared. Wondering if the woman he shares it with now feels it as deeply as you had. Did he think of you when he was with her or had she eclipsed you completely in his memory? Was her back the only one that arched as he was deep inside her, spilling his love into her? 

The thought digs its barbed wires into your chest–ripping and tearing at what little tenderness you still held for the man. You let the pain sing you to sleep–weeping and burning for what once was and what might never be again as you let the darkness consume you in the dim blue of your bedroom. 

Dawn comes, as it always does, sunlight taking the place of the filtered neon of the city–streaming its way into your windows and nudging you awake long after your husband left for work. You’re alone again, and the thoughts don’t cease for the daytime. 

The flickering bulbs of the supermarket welcome you as you hunt around for a decent bunch of spring onions for dinner. Your hands find them and you add them to your basket, moving on to the next item on your list while your mind is half-occupied by the thought of the woman from yesterday. 

You wonder if she’ll make an appearance again. Standing behind you in line, perhaps, or waiting for you in the cold section–eyes scanning tanks of crabs for the perfect one. You wonder if she’ll be wearing red again. The contrast of the colour against her milky white skin as it hugs her body just so, conveying the image of someone with the world at her fingertips. 

Your own dress–emerald green, accented with black florals–suited you well enough. It was clean, well made, and fit you well even after all these years of wear, but it was just that. A dress. Function over form. It was the dress of someone who didn’t want to stand out, who wanted to blend into her surroundings and remain unnoticed as she moved throughout her day. It was the green in the shade of the bright red orchard as it shimmered in the sun.

As if summoned, a flash of red lights up your periphery–calling your attention away from the pear you had been inspecting. You lift your gaze to see her, a few stands down from you, a beacon of red just as you had envisioned her. You blink a few times to solidify her existence–not entirely convinced that you hadn’t just conjured her up out of smoke and mirrors. She remains, gathering a small selection of tomatoes before striding out of the produce section. 

The shock of her appearance from yesterday has long since faded. You’ve had time to reckon with the weight of her existence in your proximity. What was once a desperate, aching curiosity has since dulled to a cold, calculated interest. Instead of abandoning your grocery haul you stick to your list–taking the time to pick out the right ingredients–and achieve your own goals all while keeping her in your sights. You time your actions to match hers, moving on as she adds items to her basket, lingering by the teas as she stalls at the opposite end of the aisle from you. You make your way to the till, trailing her casually, and choose the cashier adjacent to her so you can pay at the same time. 

You leave the market assured with the knowledge of your mutual destination. No need to hurry, no need to chase, no need to match her pace. You let yourself fall into easy step a few feet behind her–content with enjoying the temperate weather that the day has brought. She arrives at the apartment a minute before you but you meet her in the lobby, standing silent beside her as you both wait for the elevator to descend. 

The anxieties of your trip yesterday melt away as you evaluate her through the steel mirror of the door–letting your gaze drift over her distorted figure. How long until she starts to notice your presence as more than mere coincidence? Would you be able to maintain this routine–living alongside her and watching from the peripherals as she goes about her daily tasks without so much as a second thought? 

As if in answer her eyes meet yours in the reflection. You politely avert your gaze, unwilling to be bested in this dance before it had even begun. Whether she was aware of who you are or not, you didn’t need to relinquish the satisfaction of knowing to her. 

The doors open at your floor and you alight into the hallway, leaving her to ascend the rest of the way to her own apartment where she would maintain her own charade. Your heart lurches at the thought, an odd disruption to the calm satisfaction you had been feeling up until now. You remember Joshua’s face from yesterday–the soft curve of his lips as he spoke to you. Polite, kind. You could blame yourself easily for your own husband’s infidelity but what had Joshua done to deserve this? 

Was he plagued with the same self loathing thoughts that haunted your every step? Or was his kindness, too, an illusion? Hiding some deeper malice that lurked at the heart of everyone wrapped up in this love affair.

You shake your head free of him as you enter your apartment and set your groceries down on your kitchen counter, but he returns as swiftly as he leaves. A thought circling round and round–unable or unwilling to give you a moment's peace as you unpack your bags. 

Somewhere in life you had adopted this sense of pessimism about life and the people that walked through it. It was easy to imagine cruelty at the hearts of everyone–to picture the worst case scenario, the worst intentions. But something inside of you revolted as you tried to apply it to Joshua. 

How silly, you think. I don’t even know him. 

And yet it remains, this tiny revolution inside of you. A hope for a kinder heart amidst the sea of troubles that you had been cast adrift on. Some lifeboat in the blue-black of it all. If you just reached out, maybe you could save yourself from drowning. 

Foolish, you think, casting the thought aside. No one is coming to save you. Not from your misery, not from your life, not from yourself. You had gotten married under the guise that your life would forever be tied to another person–that you would carry each other through everything–and now that that has dissolved to nothing, you know. You are alone. You have always been alone. 

The fog of winter rolls in shortly, blanketing the city in gray. For a few weeks in the beginning of December, your husband’s mistress disappears. He comes home on time, eats dinner with you, and you spend your days together like any married couple might. You’re lulled into a false sense of security and for a moment you think you could simply float back into the life you had expected to have and forget everything that has been. But only for a moment. Before long she reappears, her hair cropped shorter and  a spring in her step as she bounds through the aisles of the market. Your temporary marital utopia dissolves into the mist and you resume your post as observer. 

The weather starts to warm again, sunlight finding its way through cloud and smog to dapple the sides of buildings, and you take up a nightly ritual of walking through the streets in your neighbourhood. You never stay out too late, or stray too far, but you were starting to feel like a caged animal as you paced through your home and your thoughts night after night. 

On the nights your husband stayed out–either still at work or somewhere with her–you would forgo cooking all together, instead heading to a nearby restaurant as the sun starts to set over the city skyline. You eat slowly, relishing in each flavour and texture, and watch the rest of the patrons as they would do the same. It makes you feel less alone–or at least, less alone in your loneliness–as you would sit and watch the strangers around you bury their own miseries in the warmth of the broth steamed over countless hours. Their minds filled with thoughts and worries of their own. 

Tonight is much the same. You linger at home, straightening cushions and wiping down already clean surfaces to keep your hands occupied while you watch the clock tick down the time. Your phone lights up with a message–your husband informing you that he will be home late, telling you not to wait up. You slip on a light jacket and head out the door. Your feet know the way by now, they carry you almost mindlessly forward–down the elevator, out through the lobby, down the street, two left turns, one right turn, a few blocks ahead. You pass by some familiar faces–vendors and other denizens of the evening that you’ve become accustomed to during your walks–and you acknowledge them as a friend in your mind. Kindred spirits. 

You enter the small restaurant, blinking away the temporary fluorescent lights induced blindness, and take up your usual seat in the corner. Time ceases to exist in this place. If it weren’t for the last vestiges of sunlight forcing their way through the small, foggy window at the front, you wouldn’t be able to tell if it was day or night. 

Over the month or so you’ve started becoming a regular fixture of the place, you’ve grown familiar with a number of the other restaurant denizens. The cook and his wife–presumably the owners of the establishment–are ever silent unless yelling instructions about orders back and forth at each other. The wife, a small woman of indeterminate age, would move with efficiency between the five tables dotting the small space–taking orders, handing them to her husband in the kitchen, taking payments, refilling tea. She never appeared to be rushing, and no one was ever left for too long waiting for anything.

Occasionally a young man would take her place–likely their son or another relation roped in to help with the family business for a night. He was young–university aged maybe–and clearly disinterested in spending what little free time he had serving customers and bussing tables. The disinterest showed plain on his face even as he scribbled down your order (the usual, hot and sour soup and tea) and delivered it to his father in the kitchen. 

Tonight it was the woman, she didn’t even bother to ask you what you wanted as you had ordered the same thing every night over the past week. After a few moments she walks over with a teapot and cup in hand, setting them down with a silent nod, before turning to greet the next customer as they enter through the front door. 

You take a sip of tea, not too hot, before leaning back in the chair to settle in for another evening of people watching. The window in the front of the restaurant is clouded slightly with steam built up from the inside, and a light dusting of grime from the outside, but your eyes have adjusted to the distortion over the past month. You sit and watch as people pass by on the street outside, a few salarymen will stop in throughout for silent meals alone before returning to the streets, but often you’re the sole patron during the few hours you spend there each night. 

You watch as the new patron takes a seat at the table nearest the entrance–you haven’t seen him here before, but he looks the same as the rest. The same white button down, creased with a long day's work; the same black trousers; the same black tie and blazer thrown haphazardly over his shoulder. They were a dime a dozen in the city, these salarymen. Your husband had been one of them, once upon a time. Even with his many promotions over the years he still dressed much the same. You wonder briefly what made him stand out from the crowd to his mistress. 

The woman returns to your table a few minutes later, bearing your soup in her work worn hands. Steam billows from the top and you thank her before straightening in your seat and picking up your spoon. 

The food is not remarkable–truly nothing about this place is. Much like the salarymen that dip in and out through its front door, it’s no different than any of the other random hole-in-the-wall establishments that populate this city. The menu varies little from the usual, and the dingy white tiled walls do little to visually differentiate it. Everything about the place appears to be almost designed to blend into its surroundings. To serve its purpose without disturbing the status quo. It was solid and reliable and it's this very reliability that keeps drawing you back. 

It could be any restaurant. You could be any woman. 

You sink into the anonymity, slowly savouring the warm comfort of your food, and watch the slightly obscured figures of people as they pass by outside under the darkening sky. The man at the table by the door finishes his food quickly–in all of 15 minutes he orders, eats, and pays–with the chiming of the front door you’re left alone again as the only customer inside and the wife returns to rifling through a stack of papers spread out across the small table next to the kitchen. 

An hour passes as you sit in your chair, draining your soup and sitting silently as the scene repeats itself twice over. You glance at the clock on the wall, nearly 8:00pm, then down at your phone screen. No messages, no notifications. The light of the evening sun has all but disappeared by now, only a faint yellow clinging still to the corners of blue that construct the city at night. You push your bowl to the side and sigh–both ready and not ready to head back out into the street and begin your short walk home. As has become the routine, the woman sets her papers aside and presses a few buttons on the old till. You linger a moment longer at the table, watching a pair of women stroll by outside, before getting up and pulling out your wallet. No word is exchanged as you set down a few paper bills on the counter in front of her. 

The night air still bites with the remnants of the winter air and you tug your jacket tighter around to your chest as you step onto the sidewalk. It’s a quieter part of your neighbourhood, but still the streets are abuzz with people even aa the sky deepens with the threat of twilight. You fall in line behind a trio of women, walking a few paces behind them and letting your mind focus in on their conversation as they talk and laugh with each other.

Their conversation is nothing interesting–daily gossip about people you know nothing about, feel nothing for–but it reminds you of when you would wander around at night with your friends in University. Aimless and carefree, talking about nothing and everything that came to mind. When was the last time you had seen any of them? Not for months, surely. Maybe you should reach out.  

The women make a left turn a few blocks later, disappearing in the opposite direction that you’re headed and you let your thoughts drift off as their voices do. Would your husband be home already? Would he be upset with the lack of prepared dinner? He hasn’t mentioned anything about it up until now, but you do wonder how long that might last. You know you should summon up some excuse for why you’ve taken up these walks, why you’re sometimes not home when he gets back, but you can’t bring yourself to care enough to lie. What does it matter anyway? 

You round the final corner towards home. The building looms ahead at the end of the street, lobby lights casting yellow highlights onto the pavement out front. 

“Mrs. _____.” You don’t hear the voice at first. Your attention is far away, lurking in the recesses of your thoughts, and it takes a minute and a repeated call for you to register that acknowledgement. With a quizzical look, you turn towards the source of the voice and see Joshua Hong striding towards you from the opposite side of the street, pace quick to avoid an encroaching motorbike. 

“Mr. Hong?” you ask, wavering with confusion. Still unsure if he’s a real person or a spectre come to warn you of some impending doom awaiting you as you approach your apartment. 

“I thought that might be you,” he smiles, coming to a stop under a streetlight a few feet away. “How are you?” 

You blink him into reality, righting your attention back to alertness after it’s time away. He’s sporting a cream coloured corduroy jacket over a plain white t-shirt. Blue jeans. He looks the same as the last time you met him in the elevator–the same dark brown hair carving waves over his forehead, the same easy smile. You return the smile, sense reasserting itself enough for you to remember your manners. “I'm well, thank you. How are you?”

“Also well,” he replies, gesturing for the pair of you to resume walking towards your shared building. “We were away for a while, my wife and I. Visiting my family in LA.” 

You know this–the kiss of sun on her skin and your previous knowledge of Joshua was enough to clue you into where they had disappeared to those few months ago. Though you weren’t about to tell him this. “Ah, that sounds lovely. How long have you been back?” Polite conversation demands the question, though the answer to it is already blaring red in your mind. 

“About two months ago or so,” he replies. “It was a nice  trip, thank you.” You arrive at the entrance to the apartment complex, Joshua reaches for the door before you have the chance and you nod a thank you as he holds it open for you. “Have you ever been?” 

“To LA?” you ask, though the question is rhetorical and serves mainly to fill the empty spaces in between. He nods, affirming. “No, I haven’t.” You fall into step beside him, low heels clacking across the well worn black and white tiles of the lobby floor. You think to leave your answer succinct but reconsider it as you approach the elevator for fear of the silence that might ensue if you do. “Though, I did once have a dream to move there and become an actress,” you laugh. 

“Oh?” He looks surprised at the sudden confession and you worry you might have said too much about yourself. “Why didn’t you?” 

No one had ever asked you that before. It’s your turn to be taken off guard now as you step up to the dual elevators. Joshua presses the ‘up’ button and you consider how to reply. 

Why didn’t you? 

“I–well,” you start, fumbling through your thoughts. “It wasn’t a very serious dream, and it wasn’t like anything would have come of it. My mother preferred that I stay here and do something more practical.” 

He nods, thoughtful, appearing to seriously consider your response as you watch the numbers descend on the display above the right side elevator. “That’s understandable,” he says after a minute, “I think most parents just want security for their kids. Acting isn’t the most stable or assured career.” 

The elevator arrives, its buffed stainless steel doors sliding open to grant you access to the lift. Joshua gestures for you to step in first, so you do, lighting up the button for your floor as he steps in behind you. 

“Which floor?” you ask. Another question you know the answer to but he humours you anyway and you press the button for him as well. 

Silence steps into the elevator with you just as the doors shut. You realise you’re twisting your fingers together in front of you–a nervous habit you thought you had gotten rid of years ago–and you shake them lightly before dropping your arms back to your sides. 

“What about your father?” Joshua breaks the silence after a moment and again you take a second to register his question, too focused on the audible sound of your breathing. 

“I’m sorry?” You glance at him, not trusting that you had heard him correctly. 

“Your father,” he repeats, soft smile still lightly dusted over his lips. “What did he think of this acting dream of yours?”

“Oh, I don’t–” you pause, clearing your throat. Truthfully, you had never even told your mother about it, you just knew what she would have said if you had. “I’m not sure, he passed away when I was 14.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, expression sombering. 

You revert to silent passengers as the lift continues to rise towards your floor. A part of you aches to say something, to break the silence again and continue polite conversation. Something about his demeanour was easy–easy to talk to, easy to be with. But you flounder for questions, comments, topics to mention. The weight of your partner’s affair presses at the front of your mind and you wonder how long you’ll be able to keep it at bay before it spills free from behind the dam of your resolve. 

“What were you doing?” he asks suddenly. Breaking the silence just as you think you might not be able to withstand it any longer. The question confuses you and it must show on your face because he clarifies, “when I ran into you outside. It was getting pretty late.” 

“Oh, right of course,” you say, “I was just out for a walk.”

He nods, understanding. “I was as well. Do you walk often?” 

“Most nights, these days,” you reply. 

“Does your husband not mind?” 

You want to laugh. “He’s not home often, these days,” you answer after a moment, casting your gaze to the floor. Dancing around the implications as the weight presses heavier in your mind. “Your wife?” you ask, flirting with the edges of truth unspoken nestled between you. 

“She’s similarly occupied,” he responds, voice softening. You meet his gaze in the reflection of the doors. A spark of understanding reverberates through you and you wonder if he feels it as well. Swelling like a bloom of light bursting in your chest. He holds your gaze steady, unwavering but silent. He knows. He must. 

The elevator dings, warning you of your arrival, and you clear your throat, tearing your eyes off his and smothering the warmth that had blossomed in your heart. “Thank you,” you say, unsure exactly what you felt compelled to thank him for but giving sound to the sentiment anyway. “For um, the chat. It was nice to see you.” 

“You as well,” he smiles as the doors slide open to let you out. You nod and step into the hallway, torn between the eagerness to be alone once more and a strange resistance at departing from his company so soon. The doors begin to slide closed behind you but you hear him call your name once and spin to see his hand blocking their attempt. “Maybe we’ll see each other again soon, on one of our walks.” 

You nod again and watch as he lets his hand fall, body swallowed back into the elevator as the doors shut and it continues its climb upwards. You stand for a minute, stock still in the hallway once more staring at the space where he was. 

It's amazing how little time it takes for your whole world to shift. It’s a fact you’ve been presented with again and again throughout life–the deaths of your parents, accepting your husband's proposal all those years ago, the photo of him sent to you by an old friend with his arms around another woman. Mere seconds of time that seemed to move entire planets–rearranging your life without your consent at a subatomic level. 

Standing in the hallway now, with the sound of Joshua’s voice lingering in your mind, you get the uncanny feeling that you’ve just lived through another of these moments. You turn away from the elevator and walk the final steps to your apartment accompanied with this knowledge, and the hope that his final statement proves true. 

© 2024, neoneun-au. all rights reserved.

please consider reblogging, i would love to know your thoughts on the story so far !

[charleslelurk]

the chances of alex running into lando in his own building 6 times a week is endless thx to a certain neighbor

Baby (my) first outsider POV fic, let’s go

The first time Alex runs into Lando, it’s as he waves his hand in the narrowing gap of the elevator door—risking his dominant appendage—to make it reopen for him.

“Lando?”

“…Alex.”

Alex enters the elevator, sure his surprise is written all over his face. “Why are you…?”

Lando shrugs and leans against the wall as the elevator begins to move. It’s so purposeful it’s anything but casual. “Just—“

Alex glances at the floor buttons as he realizes he never pressed his own. As he jams his finger into the “12” he notices the “15” already lit.

“Visiting Carlos?” Alex supplies.

“Uh yeah. Yeah.”

“We should all golf sometime,” Alex muses. “Can’t believe we’ve never, after all the years.”

Lando is nodding but has a strange, slightly tight look to his eyes. The elevator stops smoothly on floor 12.

“See you,” Alex tells Lando as he steps off. When he catches a look at Lando’s face before the doors shut, he’s viciously chewing his lip. Weird.

———

The second time, Alex is hurrying in from the street, back from breakfast with Lily, and running up to hi condo for his phone he somehow left on the kitchen counter, before he is headed back across town to meet Patrick for their workout. It’s a busy morning.

It’s why he doesn’t notice Lando sitting on the bench inside the doors, looking down at his own phone, until he turns around after entering the elevator.

“Lando?”

Lando’s head snaps upright and he is suddenly blushing, barely visible past the heavy tan he has from his recent trip to Greece. Alex has seen the Instagram carousel.

“Why are you…?”

Lando’s eyes flick around the building lobby. “I forgot my ke—Beat Carlos here. Waiting for him, to uh, get back from his bike ride.”

Alex has a hand on the sensor, keeping the elevator door open. It’s less of a risk to his appendage this time.

“How long? Is he far?” Alex almost invites him up, but remembers he was already supposed to be driving to the cross fit gym on the other side of the tunnel.

Lando pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and looks back down at his phone. “Should be fine, yeah.”

“To wait?”

Lando looks at the door and back to his phone. “Yeah, I’ll wait.”

———

The third time is on the way down.

Alex is up early, and popping down the street for a smoothie for breakfast before the photo shoot Williams has arranged—in Nice—for Carlos and him. It’s some sponsor thing they couldn’t be bothered to fly them to England for since it can all be shot on a paper backdrop set.

When the elevator dings open, Alex meets the bright, surprised eyes of Lando.

“Mate?”

“Alex… hey.”

Alex steps into the elevator. “You’re… up early.” He checks his watch to make sure he doesn’t have the time wrong, isn’t going to be late for the shoot. No, it’s 6:45, just like he thought. Enough time to stroll to the smoothie shop and get back upstairs to gather his things and look presentable before the shoot. He is in joggers, slides, and one of his own merch hoodies for now.

Lando looks nearly the same, but with Birkenstocks and his hood up. Under it, Alex can see the peak of his curls, messier than usual. Almost as messy as when he’s just taken of his balaclava.

“Why are you—“ Alex starts, but Lando steps on his tongue.

“LEFT MY… wallet at Carlos’s yesterday,” he almost yells, echoing off of the mirrored elevator walls. “Had to get it this morning, so like, yeah.”

Alex squints at Lando. “Okay. Yeah.” Lando is fussing with his hood, arranging and rearranging how it sits on his head.

When the elevator opens on the ground floor, Lando darts out of the elevator and towards the exit to the street. Alex follows slowly behind him, pondering. By the time he makes it into the fresh air, Lando is gone from view.

———

“Fancy seeing you here,” Alex chuckles when the elevator dings open on his floor and there stands Lando. It’s nearly 10 p.m. on a Thursday.

“HI,” Lando says, too loud. He’s in the corner, oversized beige sweatshirt on that hangs in a way the material has to be high quality. The hood is up again, keeping his face partially in shadow. There’s a shopping bag in his hands, that he’s worrying the handles of between his fingers. “You’re, like, going up?”

“I am, mate.” Alex steps into the elevator and turns to face the door so Lando is on his right. “Was actually going to the roof, supposed to be a super moon tonight. Hey, you should see it, come up with me!”

Lando shakes his head, and Alex turns to face him. He’s still fidgeting with the bag in his hands, the thin plastic barely concealing whatever small box is inside. The corners are pushing at the material, sharp against the bag Alex recognizes from the pharmacy on the corner. He’s studying the bag when Lando shifts it, and he realizes with a jolt that because of where Lando is holding it, Alex has been staring towards Lando’s dick. In fact, he has the bag almost perfectly centered over his crotch, almost purposef—Alex flicks his eyes up to Lando’s face.

He looks… odd; pupils big, lips bitten.

The doors ding open on Carlos’s floor and Lando steps forward.

“Rare opportunity, mate,” Alex tried again. “Super moon.”

“Sorry,” Lando says, barely turning his head back to be heard before swinging a left to head down the hall. The elevator doors shut behind him and Alex is left comically perplexed about why Lando is in such a rush to visit Carlos at such a late hour.

———

The next time, Lando is not alone.

“Well, well, well,” Alex sing songs as he steps off the elevator and into the lobby to see Carlos and Lando together, shopping bags on their arms and deer expressions on both of their faces. “If it isn’t the man, the myth, the legend.”

Carlos cracks a smile, but Alex thinks it’s very unlike the easy ones he’s been giving Alex ever since they became teammates. “Hi, mate.” He gives Alex a quick clap on the shoulder as Lando and him pass by to enter the elevator. Carlos pauses in the doorway. “See you Monday, for the flight, yes?”

“Absolutely,” Alex shoots back. Lando behind Carlos is inching towards the floor buttons as Carlos stands blocking the door, like this niceties and filler conversation needs to be had.

“Okay, I’ll see you then.” Carlos steps back, and Lando appears to grab him by the back of the hoodie to pull him fully into the elevator and let the door shut. Pulled him by the hoodie back. The hoodie. A beige hoodie. Like the one Lando had on when—

The pieces suddenly click into place for Alex.

Oh my god.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

In a Place Like This 2

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob! Frank Castle

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: your efforts to be left alone find you in bad company.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

The chime of your cell phone wakes you. You reach over blindly, head under your pillow, neck twisted, body strewn over the mattress. You silence it and fold your arm over the pillow. Just a few more minutes. 

It starts again. You snarl and drag it off the chest beside your bed. You roll over and bring the phone to shine in your face. Two-fucking-AM. You’re not scheduled until seven. What’s this noise about? 

“What is it, Alfie?” You answer without courtesy. 

“Get down here, now.” 

“I’m not on schedule--” 

“I don’t give a shit,” he snips, a quake beneath his agitation. “I need you here, now.” 

Fuck. He hangs up before you can argue. This better not be him cowering behind the counter as a bunch of teenagers make a mess again. He sure talks a big game for a coward. Well, that’s what happens when you pay people to put up with you. 

You sit up and stretch. You are fucking wiped. Still, you’re no one to say no to money. You know if you don’t show up, Alfie will try to take your apron. 

You dress in the dark. You only flip on the bathroom light and put yourself together. When you leave, your eyelids are still drooping. You force them open as you head on onto the street. You have to be alert, especially this time of night. 

You have one hand around your brass knuckles as you stroll down to the station. You catch the line to the stop closest to the diner and climb up to ground level. You rub your forehead and yawn as you swing open the door. 

You enter to silence. Even at half-past two, that’s odd. You look around at the empty diner. There’s only one guest sat. He’s face is streaked red. His hands stained a similar shade. It’s that jackass. Castle. 

Alfie hisses at you through the kitchen window and beckons you back. Your eyes meet the sole patron’s gaze but he doesn’t move or speak. You scowl and head back to meet Alfie. The door flaps shut behind you. 

“He asked for you,” he wrings his hands like a greedy mouse. “I offered him coffee. He only said your name.” 

You smile wryly. What in the hell does he want? You look around the kitchen. Vinny does days and at night he has Paulie working the grill. The man can hardly light a burner with how fucking high he is. You tut and push your shoulders straight. 

“Right,” you march over to the sink and grab a cloth. You wet it as Alfie shuffles back to the window to peek out. “Stop gawking.” 

“Do you know who that is?” He asks. 

“Yep and he’s just like the rest of them,” you sneer and leave your purse on the counter. You march out to the table and hold out the cloth, “Clean yourself up before you stain my table.” 

Castle tweaks his head as his dark eyes meet yours. He gives a sort of sway as he accepts the cloth. You shake your head. 

“Get up,” you demand. 

He snorts. 

“I’m serious. You’re making mess.” You strut away back to the window and snap your fingers above the ledge, “Alf, a garbage bag.” 

You wait and take the black plastic, then turn and snatch a cloth from under the counter. You return to the table, wipe the seat, then cover it with the bag. He continues to wipe his face as he chuckles. 

“You sure don’t stop. Even at the crack of dawn, you’re fiery,” he shakes his head. 

“What do you want?” You ask tersely. 

“Ain’t got a menu yet?” 

You huff and stomp away. You come back and slap down a menu. He’s amused. 

“Coffee, tea, juice, to get you started?” 

He holds the cloth out to you. There’s still crimson in the creases of his hands and along his hairline. You take it with a dull glare. 

“Hope I didn’t interrupt your beauty sleep. If I did, gotta say, can’t tell,” he winks. 

You don’t flinch. His brows rise and he clucks. “I’ll take coffee. Black.” 

“Coming right up.” 

You twist on your heel and go behind the counter. You toss the cloth in the window. Alfie jumps back and hides. Goddamn, you’re really the one dealing with this bullshit. Right now?! 

You fill a mug from the machine. You don’t care if it’s stale. You return to Castle’s table and set it down. 

“You know, I’m feeling like a full stack. Been a while since I had pancakes. Oh, and with that apple syrup.” He taps the menu. You reach to fold it up and he catches the other end. You pause in a tug of war. “And I’d like to enjoy it with you sitting across from me. A sweet face to go with a sweet plate.” 

You scoff. Really? You blink and yank the menu free of his grasp. 

Not what you need. You go to the window and put in the order. Alfie yells at Paulie who only slurs in return. You’ll be lucky to get anything. 

You almost regret punching him in the face. Even if it was unintentional, it felt good. You tap your heel as you crane to see through the window. What the hell is Paulie doing? You didn’t ask for bacon. 

You storm through and across the kitchen. You snip at Alfie as he watches cluelessly. 

“Damnit it, Alf. You wanna hire someone who isn’t on crank?” You shove Paulie away from the grill. 

You pull out the pancake mix and take the scoop. You go to work making three large flapjacks. Alfie mutters by the window as Paulie pulls out a smoke. 

“Do that outside,” you warn. 

The pancakes bubble and you flip them. The perfect brown. Wonderful. You’re working as owner, waitress, and cook. You pile up the plate and grab a wrapped bunch of cutlery and the apple syrup on your way out.  

You bring it to the table and place it all in front of Castle. You gesture to the caddy on the other side of the table. “Powdered sugar and maple there.” 

He smirks at you, “you forgettin’ something, sugar?” 

You roll your eyes and sigh. You pull out the chair across from him and sit. “I know who you are, Castle. You don’t need to keep this up.” 

He guffaws as he drizzles the syrup, “oh, I know. But I wanna know who you are.” 

[untilgrimes]

So I have a really weird request but I was wondering if you could write a smut with Carl Grimes where everyone was having dinner and he said he dropped something but went down to tease and pleasure the reader under the table and the reader tries to act normal and eventually they go to the bedroom. 🤭

this isn’t weird at alllll!!! i love ur brain anon :3 i added Plot so its a lil long :,) thank you for requesting <3

the annual alexandrian dinner came faster than expected and at the wrong time.

you and carl had been in his room, tangled in each other’s limbs exchanging little kisses here and there. your relaxation time with carl was cut short by a knock on his door, rick’s voice telling you guys to get ready for the dinner.

carl audibly groaned, pressing his forehead to yours and shutting his eyes. “okay.” he replied to his dad, squeezing your hips as he got up from his bed. “let’s just go and get it over with. the faster it’s over, the faster i can have you back in my arms.” carl smiled, pulling you up and wrapping his arms around your waist.

he leaned down, pressing his lips to yours, slowly deepening the kiss. his arms pulled you almost impossibly closer as his tongue grazed your bottom lip, delving in to your mouth, pulling a small moan from your throat.

another knock on the door interrupted you and carl once more, this time it was michonne, “c’mon guys, rick is waiting. you know how he gets.” carl sighed, pulling away from you as much as he’d rather go back to laying in his bed with you, away from everyone else. “lets go,” you pouted, walking past him to get to the door, “like you said, get it over with and come back quickly.”

but that was the issue.

he couldn’t just get it over with because he had a problem.. in his pants. his head tilted down, staring at the bulge in his jeans with a pained expression on his face. he gulped as he turned around, following behind you as you two left the house.

soon enough, you both arrived at the dinner, quickly making your way to the table to find your seats. carl’s hand found your thigh, which was normal for him to do. you grew used to your boyfriend always touching you in some way, whether that be holding your hand, your arm, or simply having his hand on your thigh.

but this time, carl’s touch wasn’t necessarily innocent.. within seconds his hand had traveled up your thigh and under your skirt, moving dangerously close to your panties. you snapped your head in his direction, eyes wide as you pushed his hand away, “not here,” you mumbled. there was a faint smirk on carl’s face as he continued to look forward, leaving you alone.

for now.

the dinner went on as normal, maggie asked you and carl questions about certain things around alexandria and carol made small talk with you both. soon everyone had turned to their own conversations, allowing you and carl to talk amongst yourselves.

“what was that about earlier?” you whisper-yelled, thumping the hand on your thigh. “i can’t touch my girlfriend?” carl replied, that same smirk appearing on his face. you rolled your eyes, turning to face forward.

there was a moment of silence before a clatter rang from beside you and the hand on your thigh disappeared. “oops,” carl said before he completely ducked under the table.

you expected him to retrieve whatever he dropped and come back to his chair, but what he did was the complete opposite.

you felt his hands on both of your thighs, slowly spreading them apart as he settled between them. your leg jerked up, banging against the table causing a loud noise. everyone turned in your direction, wondering what was going on. “shit- sorry, i’m okay.” you winced, an awkward smile on your face as you rubbed the sore area softly.

you leaned back to look under the table, locking eyes with carl as he pushed your thighs apart once more. the look on your face gave you-need-to-get-the-hell-up, but carl stayed between your thighs, leaning forward as he hiked your skirt up.

thankfully, the people on your side had left the table and moved to the kitchen area or they’d have a front row seat to whatever teasing carl had planned for you.

carl’s long fingers hooked on your panties, pulling them aside you reveal your cunt to the crisp air. you shuddered as he leaned forward, his breath hot against your pussy. his tongue pressed against your clit, flicking it ever so slowly as he watched your facial expressions. your eyes fluttered shut, trying to focus on something other than carl between your legs.

carl took that as a challenge, his other hand that was holding your thighs apart trailed up, dipping into your slick before slipping two fingers into your hole. your breath hitched as he pumped his fingers in and out of your pussy, occasionally curling them to get a reaction out of you.

his tongue continued its assault on your clit as your hands bunched your skirt in your hands, trying so hard not to moan out and reveal what was happening under the table. carl wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking harshly on the bud.

you felt your orgasm nearing with every drag of his fingers against your velvet walls, causing you to bite your lip to silence any potential sounds. just when you felt your release start to intensify, carl pulled away completely, grabbing the utensil he’d dropped earlier and moving back to sit in his chair. “what the fuck?!” you whispered. smacking carl’s arm.

carl just shrugged as he took a sip of his drink, almost completely ignoring you. you scoffed and carl knew he had you exactly where he wanted. needy enough to where you’d say fuck it and ditch the dinner party.

eventually everyone had moved from the dinner table and into various areas of the house. but you weren’t up for conversation right now, you’d been stripped of your pleasure and it was fresh on your mind.

you glanced around the room, noticing how everyone conveniently had their back to you and carl.

perfect opportunity for you two to sneak away…

you grabbed carl’s hand and pulled him down the hall to an empty bedroom, closing the door as quietly as possible. “seriously?” you glared, walking up to carl. he watched silently as you came closer, a shit-eating grin on his face. “what? can’t tease my girlfriend?” he asked, fake innocence laced in his voice. you scoffed,

“no, you cannot! not while we’re out and can’t do anything about it!” carl raised his eyebrows, “can’t do anything about it, huh?” before you knew it, you were pressed against the wall, your ass against carl as he rolled his hips, “imagine how i felt not being able to do anything about this,”

your jaw dropped, a small whine escaping. “you don’t know how bad i wanted to drag you out of that room and fuck you silly.” he said as his hands fumbled with his jeans, pulling them down before hiking your skirt up. “feeling this pretty cunt all soaked for me, fuck..” he winced, “took everything in me not to snap.”

you felt his tip slide through your slick before tapping against your clit. “carl..” you moaned and carl shushed you, “gotta be quiet, baby. don’t want everyone to hear, do we?”

you bit your lip to silence any more moans that could escapes as carl finally pressed his length to your awaiting hole, pushing in inch by delicious inch. once he was fully sheathed, carl pulled all the way out before slamming back into you, causing you to jerk against the wall.

he set a quick but deep pace, his cock pistoning in and out of your cunt, hitting your sweet spot with every thrust. it was almost embarrassing how quick you started to feel your orgasm near, but carl was right behind you, his pace increasing as he panted in your ear.

“this pussy was made for me, fuck— feels so fuckin’ good-!” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise.

one of his hands dropped to your front, drawing fast circles on your clit. your mouth opened in a silent scream as your vision went white, your orgasm hitting you like a truck. “shit-!” carl cursed from behind you before he pulled out, finishing on your back side.

you slumped against the wall, your legs feeling like jelly and carl’s arm wrapped around your waist, holding you close to him. “how bout we ditch out the window and go home?” he mumbled into your hair, “wanna lay down with my pretty girl..” carl pressed a kiss to the top of your head, wrapping you in his arms with a relieved sigh. <3

[jaeyunjakesim]

Sweltering -SJY

Cw/ Jake x f!reader/ established relationship/ m.dni/ car sex/ quickie/ oral f.r./ handjob m.r./ no protection/ alcohol mention/ swearing?/ not proofread/ lmk if I missed anything

// you pick up Jake from the Prada afterparty… things get stuffy //

Wc/ 2k

An/ my first work posted here! Lmk if you like it <3

It’s sometime past 11 at night, but god it’s sweltering outside. The boys spent the night at an after party for Prada while you stayed in a hotel room, only getting updates on them by checking fansites for pictures. Jake was largely not allowed to check his phone for public appearances like this, but it was still only slightly upsetting to you that you had to learn about his whereabouts from a third party.

However, it was now twenty minutes ago that you received a text from Jake asking to pick him up, which worried you. The wording wasn’t like him, too stilted for the way he usually spoke to you, even if it was only a quick text.

You know they have a ride back, probably a limo or something similar to pick them up, but the text was too off-putting for you to ignore, and you left as soon as you read it. You round a corner and park behind the building they’re in, shooting a text back to Jake that you made it.

Two minutes later a back door opens and you see your boyfriend and Jay walk out, Jake obviously drunk. You meet them in the middle,

“Is everything okay?” You try to leave the worry out of your voice, failing. Jay has an arm around Jake’s shoulders, not exactly holding him up but close enough to it. He sighs, holding up Jake’s phone in a way that makes you feel stupid for not realizing it wasn’t your boyfriend texting you at all.

“Yeah, everything’s fine. Just too much to drink. He wouldn’t stop asking for you. Can you take him back? He’s a little less than press presentable.” You melt a little at his words, finally making eye contact with your boyfriend.

Calling the look Jake gives you puppy eyes when you finally focus on him would be an understatement. His cheeks and nose are bright pink, and his eyes are shiny with intoxication, his perfect lips falling into a pout. Before you can even respond to Jay he’s reaching out for you, out of Jay’s grasp and slipping clumsily into your arms. You laugh at him, so so smitten.

“I’ll take him off your hands. Go back to the guys. Thank you for texting.” Jay nods wordlessly, handing you Jake’s phone before turning back. He’s probably thankful to be free of responsibility for a while.

Jake’s arms are wrapped around your neck, clinging to you like you’re going to run away. He must be pretty drunk then.

“I missed you.” He mumbles into your neck. You kiss his forehead gingerly, pocketing his phone with the arm not holding him up,

“I missed you too, baby. Did you have fun?” He nods, face still stuffed into your neck,

“I need you.” You try and pry him off you so you can get back into the car, but he’s stronger than you even drunk, and he won’t move.

“I’m right here, Jake. Let’s go back to the room okay?” He whines at this, grip around you becoming even tighter.

“No baby, I need you need you.” You still don’t quite get what he means until he starts placing open mouthed kisses on your neck. Your hands fall to his waist.

“Jake we can’t, we’re in public.” You try and walk backwards towards the car, but he once again keeps you in place. He whines again into your throat and moves one of your hands below his belt buckle so you can feel him, his bulge prominent immediately. He sucking delicately on your neck and whining into your ears and your resolve is fizzling out quickly.

“Please baby, it hurts. I’ve needed you all night.” His whines are getting more and more desperate, and you both know you can’t resist him. In one motion you remove his mouth and hands from you, grabbing his wrist and yanking him towards the car.

You both climb into the back row of the car, sweating from the hot evening air. Jake doesn’t waste anytime pulling you into his mouth, plush lips against yours. His skin is on fire and he tastes like alcohol but he’s so addictive, and you can’t get enough. He looks so stupidly good in all black, his shirt already undone by two buttons and his hair disheveled in a way that makes you want to pull at it.

You knew he was drunk but it’s only obvious now how far gone he is by the way he’s kissing you, all tongue and teeth and it’s driving you crazy. Jake is always clingy when it comes to you, but drunk Jake? All bets are off. He becomes attached at the hip to you as soon as he’s got a few beers in him, and you can tell by his desperation and how hard he is he’s definitely had more than that tonight. He pulls back a fraction of an inch, both of you breathing heavy.

“Baby, I need to taste you.” He barely lets himself finish speaking before he’s pulling ungracefully at the waistband of your jeans and unbuttoning them. He pulls them down in tandem with your panties with a desperation you rarely see in him, pushing your legs open determinedly.

He’s always a people pleaser, even drunk, and he refuses to give you anything but his full attention when he goes down on you. he nips and licks at the inside of your thighs, looking at you with pupils blown wide.

You hear a mumble of “you look so good, baby,” before he loses his patience entirely and starts pressing his tongue flat against your core.

His hands on your hips are gentle but his mouth is mean, nose pressed into your clit as he laps up your wetness, already addicted to the taste. you’re hands on instinct weave their way into his hair, pulling on the dark locks. He groans against you in response, the pain and your high pitched whines only egging him on.

His thumb is rubbing slow circles into your hip, trying his best to go easy on you but it’s so so hard to hold back when he’s this horny. All night the only thing he’s been thinking about is your mouth and your pussy and how tight you are when he presses in for the first time, the night going from enjoyable to pure torture without you pressed against him. He moves his mouth back to press a kiss to your slit, reveling in the wetness of you before wrapping his lips around your clit and *sucking.* You cry out immediately at the stimulation, only at your resolve to be more weakened when you feel Jake’s finger pressing into you, your eyes pricking with tears at the pleasure. He starts pumping his finger into you at a brutal place, your brain almost going completely blank at the sensation. Almost.

“J-Jake, if you don’t slow down I’m go-“ He puts another finger in you, and you can feel the coldness of his rings when he presses them all the way into you.

“Jake!” You whimper pathetically, Jake knowing every little thing to please you. He creates even more suction on your clit and you’re so *so* close before you’re finally regaining enough willpower to push him off you. It’s a testament only to your desire to feel him inside of you that you relive yourself of his mouth and fingers, already uncomfortable at the loss of sensation.

When you make eye contact with Jake he looks upset, a kicked puppy who doesn’t know what he did wrong. His lips are red and swollen and his chin is covered in your slick, his eyes pleading with you to let him continue. You almost coo at him, so eager to please he forgets about his own arousal, and you try to console him.

You push his hair out of his eyes, “You did so good, baby. But I wanna feel you.” He moans in frustration, undoing his belt and pushing his slacks down, palming himself through his boxers.

And the way he looks right now is so irresistible you can’t help it when you sit up to pull him in for a kiss, tasting yourself on his lips, your hands going down to replace his own. It doesn’t take long before he’s melting into your mouth and your hands, breathy moans being swallowed up by your kiss as your hands push his boxers down. You glide gently up his length, teasing him just a little because you know how sensitive he must be. His cock is already so wet, even without much effort from you, always so needy. He’s immediately putty in your hands, any ego he had before pouring into your mouth with his kisses.

His breath hitches when you tighten your hands just around the head of his cock, torturing him only for a moment before you’re back to stroking him gently.

“Good boy,” you say as you guide his head into your neck, his pathetic little noises only growing louder. “Always so good for me Jake.” He’s suckling into your neck again and you’re sure it’s going to leave marks but you don’t care, your hands moving faster against him. You know he’s already hard enough but Jake is almost never this submissive with you. You can’t resist him like this. But after only a few moments of your hands against his length he’s mewling into your throat, and you want to reward him for how patience he’s been all night.

“You ready, baby?” You say, giving him no time to answer before you’re positioning yourself and sinking down onto his length with no warning. He makes a noise in between a moan and a gasp, already struggling with how warm and wet your pussy is around him. You give him no time to adjust either before you’re bouncing up and down on his cock at a brutal pace.

All he can do is take it as his hands fall to your hips, powerless against you. He’s whining and whimpering pathetically, the alcohol making him so much more sensitive than normal, the wet sounds your pussy is making only sending him closer to the edge. His hands have barely ventured under your shirt when you notice his eyes struggling to stay open, so fucked out already.

You don’t let him catch his breath before you’re leaning into his ear, “Come on Jake, come in my needy pussy. Want you to fill me up good.” Your words and the way your walls tightened around him is what finally sends him over the edge, moaning your name as he comes inside you, pleasure almost immediately giving way to overstimulation. The feeling of him filling you up is what pushes you over as well, coming all over his cock.

You pull off him shortly after, laying back against the leather seats of the car with him against your chest. He’s still leaving kisses along the parts of your neck he can reach, ever affectionate in his altered state.

You’ll have to drive back to your hotel soon, where you’ll deal with a drunk, stubborn Jake who wants nothing to do with showering or skincare and only wants to fall asleep with you in his arms, but you know trying to move him right now is mean. And until you can coax him out of the back of the car and into the passengers seat you’re content feeling his lips against your skin and his mumbles of affection to you, grateful to Prada for the open bar tonight.

[nothoughtsjustfic]

Thinking about: Hairdresser X.MH

💭Who: Xu Minghao (Seventeen) x reader 💭What: Fluff. Friends to lovers. Co-workers. Hairdresser Minghao. Hairdresser reader. 💭Word count: 2.4k 💭Warnings: None! 💭Summary:“For months now, you’ve pined after your co-worker and friend, Xu Minghao. You haven’t let yourself even entertain the possibility of your feelings being reciprocated in fear of getting your heart broken.

But, in the midst of bleaching your hair for you one evening, Minghao shows you that your heart will always be safe in his gentle hands.”

Masterlist

A/N – Thank you to my beabie @ourdawnishotterthanourday for helping me with the summary! 💗

“What are you doing?” The amused tone of your co-worker and friend makes you look over at him where he’s sweeping up from his last client, and away from the mirror you’d been staring into while holding various shades of blonde extensions up against your face.

“I think I want to go blonde,” you inform.

“Oh, really?” He looks at your natural hair in surprise. “I always assumed you don’t like to colour your own hair, you’re the only one of us who has their natural colour,” he muses, prompting you to look over the other hairdressers and stylists around the salon.

Although you logically know they all have dyed hair, even in natural colours, because you’ve probably dyed and bleached all of their hair at least once over the past few years, it hasn’t really clicked until Minghao points it out that you are genuinely the only one without coloured hair. Even Minghao as the newest member of the team, has streaks of various colours mixed in with his otherwise dark and shaggy hair, some of which you had put in only days ago with left over dye from a client, turning the last of his blond streaks a royal purple.

“I used to when I was a teen, but it got messed up so much that I don’t trust people to touch it anymore,” you explain with a shrug and turn back to the mirror to try and decide which shade you like best. “I know everyone here is incredible at their jobs and I’d highly recommend them all, but I just can’t bring myself to let them near my hair with scissors, let alone dye.”

“Ah, so offering to stay behind with you today to bleach it for you is pointless,” he realises with a chuckle and moves to empty the dustpan and wash his hands.

When he returns, you’re looking between two different extensions in your hands. He plucks them both up and turns you to him so that he can hold them either side of your face consideringly. You can only stare at his focused features and hope that your awe for this beautiful, kind hearted and endlessly talented man isn’t obvious on your expression.

From the very first moment Minghao was introduced to you as the newest member of the team months back, you were taken. At first it was his natural beauty and uniquely elegant, yet artistic style, paired with his shy smiles that pulled you in. But as you got to know him and became friends, you realised that everything about this man is utterly endearing, and you would love to have the chance to know him romantically too. Yet, you don’t want to risk ruining your working and platonic relationship with him that you do your best to keep your feelings to yourself.

“This one,” he decides, lifting the blonde hairs in his right hand higher, making you look at it instead of him. Silently, you take the extension and turn back to the mirror to hold it up. “I think you’ll look stunning in that shade.”

“Yeah?” He hums in confirmation. “This one it is,”  you agree and notice the way he smiles because you approve his choice. “So uh, you don’t have anything to do after work?” You wonder.

“Hm?”

“You said you’ll stay to do it for me?” You turn just enough to peer at him and notice his expression turn mildly surprised. “I’d like that; I think I’d really fuck up if I tried to do the back myself.”

“Oh, yeah, yeah, I’d love to have the honour,” he smiles softly. “We’ll do the patch and strand test now and bleach after work?”

“Sounds good, thanks, Hao.”

“Of course, any time.”

Which leads to a few hours later when everyone has gone home and the salon is closed for customers, the keys left with the pair of you today, Minghao pats the chair at his station invitingly, prompting you to sit and allow him to put the cape in his hands around your shoulders securely to protect your clothes.

He had finished with his last client with enough time to clean up his station and prepare everything needed to bleach your hair, including all of the foils and the bleach itself so it’s all set up neatly in wait for this moment.

“Sure about this?” He checks for the last time when he’s finished sectioning your hair and pulled on his gloves to get started.

“I trust you,” you assure, meeting his gaze in the reflection of the mirror in front of you. Minghao’s expression softens slightly, and his eyes do that tender thing they do sometimes, which never fails to make your heart race.

“Thank you,” he breathes out and brushes his hand over your shoulder before he grabs the bleach and gets started diligently painting it onto your hair.

As Minghao works, the two of you talk about everything and anything that comes to mind; art, movies, music, family, friends, work, food, nothing is out of bounds for you two but curiously, one thing Minghao never asks about, nor mentions, is romance.

You know he’s single thanks to co-workers having been excited to learn as much when he started, and they still regularly seem to be updated on his lack of love life, but he hasn’t once mentioned it to you or asked about your own. You can’t tell if he’s purposely not talking about it or if he’s just following your lead and not bringing it up.

Honestly, you’re kind of glad either way because you dread to think of the day he is no longer single, and you have to learn that someone else has his attention.

Sometimes, you think about just biting the bullet and asking him to get dinner with you after work as a date, not just as co-workers and friends. But every time you approach him to ask, you lose all your nerve and fail to make the distinction, so you end up sitting with him in the same restaurant as usual with your heart aching. Though his sole attention and bright smiles on you always picks you back up before dessert is over, so it’s not a complete loss. At least you still have him by your side as a dear friend, something you hope will remain for a long time.

By the time Minghao is putting the last foil in and moving around to stand in front of you with his careful gaze glued to the crazy silver mess atop your head, the conversation has only just ceased, to be replaced with a comfortable quiet.

It always amazes you that Minghao is a man of few words with his clients, he’ll respond to them politely and give smiles, but his clients know he’s not the one to go to if they want someone to listen to then blather away the whole time or gain a reciprocated line of conversation with.

Minghao is quiet and efficient, professional yet still friendly.

Yet he has barely stopped talking since he first started on your hair and not even just to respond. He’s started new topics, made jokes, and even walked away at one point from laughing so hard that he had to lean against the chair of the next station until he gained his composure, only to return with sweet giggles spilling from his lips.

It makes you feel beyond privileged to see the man like this; so open and bright when he’s always careful with his reactions and sparse words with all of your shared colleagues. Even outside of work when you go for staff meals and drinks out, Minghao tends to remain content in his calm bubble while watching everyone else act like fools with a little smile on his face. You would assume he’s just naturally a listener in all regards, but with you he instigates and talks, laughs, and playfully nudges you when you make jokes or tease him.

If you weren’t already so infatuated with the man, you’d think he likes you, but you refuse to entertain that thought and get your hopes up. You think it would crush you too much to have your heart broken by Minghao, even if you know he would be nothing but gentle with it all the same. He’d hand your shattered heart back in delicate, tender hands, and that would hurt even more than the rejection.

Sometimes you wish Minghao isn’t such a kind person, sometimes you wish he’d tell you to stop talking or turn down dinner invites, but he never does. He always turns to you to listen patiently and accepts with a smile on his pretty face. It both lifts you up into the clouds and drags you deeper into the aching abyss of your own feelings for him.

“There,” he declares once he leans back, eyes still darting over your head to check everything is correct even as he removes his gloves to toss onto the station behind him. “Now, we wait.”

“Now we wait,” you agree with a nod, causing the foils to bob above you, making Minghao giggle. “Don’t laugh,” you complain, gently nudging his leg with your foot in something so weak it can’t even be considered a scolding kick. He smiles at you brighter. “You should count yourself lucky to be here with me like this, I wouldn’t let just anyone make me look this insane.”

“I always count myself lucky when I’m with you,” he retorts simply and turns to tidy up as if he hasn’t just caused your heart to body-slam against your ribs erratically.

You can only watch, struck silent by his words, as he moves around to clean up, disappearing into the backroom to wash everything he needs to and put away items.

When he returns he starts to talk, though about what you’re not really sure, at least not actively because a part of you is always tuned in to Minghao enough to understand the topic and carry on the conversation naturally, as if a part of you isn’t still having a breakdown over his blasé words.

Minghao perches on the table of his station in front of you as you talk despite there being a chair a few metres on your left at the next station. His feet are on the floor pretty much underneath where your own are propped on the bar of the chair.

There’s not that much space between you right now so you’re glad he didn’t sit in the next chair, while also wishing he had so that your heart would stop racing with nervous hope.

As the topic ends, Minghao doesn’t start another one and you don’t have the brain capacity to even attempt to either. He hasn’t looked away from you once and there’s something contemplative in his eyes that doesn’t match his relaxed expression.

Then, only seconds after quiet envelops you both, Minghao leans forward, one hand lifting from where it’s holding the edge of the desk beside him so that he can gently cup your cheek a second before his lips touch yours.

You’re too shocked to respond, mind whirling and screaming as your heart tries to break free of the confinements of your chest to jump into his elegant hands to make a home there in his peaceful touch.

When Minghao pulls back after only a few seconds of soft pressure, he gives you small, apologetic smile and settles back against the table while both hands grip the edge. “Sorry, I just…I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time and couldn’t stop myself anymore.”

“Y-you have?” He nods and then yelps when you reach out to hit his arm.

“Ow! I said sorry!” He defends and flails to grab your hands before you can whack him again, even if you are barely adding any sting to your touch, not wanting to hurt him and he knows that, he has to know that.

“Why did you have to pick now when I look like this?!” You exclaim and free one hand from his hold to motion to your hair.

He glances up at the foils then looks at you. “I don’t understand.”

“I look crazy, Minghao! Of all the times you could kiss me, you chose this to be the first? Now this is what we’re both going to think of every time our first kiss comes up! Couldn’t you have chosen a time when I look decent?”

“You’re ridiculous,” he declares flatly then leans over to press a quick peck to your lips again. “You’re always beautiful to me,” his lips brush against yours as he speaks.

“Hao…” You reach up to touch your fingers to his jaw gently. “Do you mean that?”

“When have I ever said something I don’t mean?”

“I…Good point,” you concede then tilt your chin up the miniscule distance needed to kiss him. You feel his lips turn up into a smile before he kisses you back.

“I want to clarify,” he says when he’s leaning against the table again, but he’s slouched more now so that he can comfortably hold your hand with your fingers laced together. “I really like you and I would like to date you, not just kiss. But I’d of course like to do that too, a lot, if possible.”

“Very possible,” you confirm with an emphatic nod that makes him giggle as the foils flop around your head comically. “I’ve been trying to ask this for so long now but tonight, please get dinner with me, as a date, not just friends.”

Minghao doesn’t answer at first, but he does light up with joy before he sweeps back in to kiss you happily, hands cupping your cheeks to brush his thumbs over your skin adoringly.

After many kisses, Minghao finally agrees to get dinner as your first date before you kiss, and kiss until he has to wash the bleach from your hair.

Then you kiss some more and barely make it to the restaurant in time to eat. You don’t mind not being able to order dessert when Minghao pulls you in close once outside of the restaurant and out of the way, to slot his lips adoringly against yours.

You’d pick kissing this beautiful man over dessert any day and you’re finally understanding that the feeling, your feelings, are entirely mutual.

Don’t forget to reblog if you liked to help spread the story and let others read it too! And don't be shy to leave comments or send an ask so I can see your thoughts 🥺 💖

Permanent taglist: @okiedokrie, @tusswrites, @svtiddiess

[miss-vanta-likes-to-write]

He Canceled Hot Girl Summer 🔥

18+mdni

Series Master List

Brunch with the ladies…|

“She was talking about, my man my man my man, whole time mind you, her man had downloaded Grindr in order to see hole and I only found out because he matched with Autumn and asked if he was down to fuck. Whole time even after I told her and sent the screen shots that Autumn sent me when he figured out who the dude was, she had the nerve to say and I quote ‘Aaliyah don't be jealous bitch because you can't keep a man even as a whore’, mind you she only made her goal for that week because I invited her to do a double with me.’” Aaliyah is busy telling a story about her acquaintance that she sometimes works doubles with.

The table erupts in laughter, and for once in five months, you feel alive. It's been forever since you left the house without worrying about Omari. Johnny had insisted that you go and have a girl's day with your friends, and he was gonna have a guy's day with his mini-me. Sure, you were apprehensive about the whole ordeal, leaving Omari with his father while you went to therapy, or got your hair and nails done was one thing. Each little outing would be done and completed within three hours. Brunch with the girls, though? That was damn near an all-day thing. You four would meet at some ritzy ditzy outdoor place and order bottomless drinks and food. Trade dating stories about your sex lives, talk about family drama as if you four didn't all grow up within walking distance of each other, complain about missed connections and give opinions on flavors of the week. Then after the bill was fought over because one of you always wanted to treat the other three, you'd all stumble out, find some boutique or mall and make questionable clothing purchases, only to find yourselves back in an open patio restaurant for an early dinner, trying to chase away a brunch time hangover.

You hadn't done this in months. It was like breaking through an endless wave of depression and depersonalization. You didn't feel the immediate tug of motherhood. Instead, you felt like…well you again. Loud, fun, flirty (the cute guy at the bar had sent you and the girls drinks all because you smiled so pretty at him), and most of all like a whole person and not some milk dispenser.

Your name cut through the laughter and huffs as the girls all calmed down. Rosette was beaming at you from behind her glass. She waits until the table is quiet before she begins, “So tell us all about John and how he's been these past few weeks?”

You shift in your seat as everyone stares at you, “what is there to tell?” You sip your mimosa and sigh, it's been so long since you've drank but Johnny had insisted you do that. He'd taken the liberty to research the best formula for Omari and said in that sweet Scottish accent, that his mini-me would be fine for a day without milk from the source.

“Well one, you aren't sleeping with him, right?” Aaliyah snarks. She raises an eyebrow, “Just wanting to make sure.”

“No…we aren't doing that. Truth be told, I like having John around. My only issue is that he's an NDA soldier, and suddenly, all the cameras and the privacy film on the windows make sense.” You sigh. Just as expected, the girls all stare in shock. “He wants us to move somewhere else, safe and secure. It was an argument, really.”

“Well you aren't married to him, so you don't need to.” Jay sips her drink with a frown, “He isn't trying to make you stay out in the middle of nowhere, right?”

“Some little village out in the highlands, an hour or so from his own family.” You snort, your eyes don't miss how everyone cringes. You all have the same experience, growing up in some middle of nowhere commune, land bought by four well decorated and wanted black-ops soldiers that wanted to hide their families. Homeschooling done by your mothers, every outsider vetted carefully, the small town didn't really trust you all but accepted your strange clan.

It's Rosette that places a hand on top of yours, “It'll be fine, I'm sure if you explain your reservations, he'll understand.”

“Other than that, he and I have been fine.” You quickly change the subject, “He has started taking me and Omari out to do what he explains is his idea of family activities. You know the zoo, aquarium, and picnics at the park.” You strategically leave out that for the past two weeks, he's been staying at your place. He takes night duty with Omari and only wakes you to breastfeed so you don't wake up with sore and swollen breasts.

You leave out that Johnny speaks with your mom as much as his own. While he doesn't particularly enjoy speaking with your stern father, he does, and he's respectful. Sure, the girls know that he pays for your hair and nails, but they don't ever need to know that he helps regulate you after a hard therapy session. Holding you close in a tight hug, whispering that he's got you and that you aren't failing your son and that you are indeed a good mother and an even better woman. Calming your fears that your family will only see you as irresponsible for making Omari without being married.

Your three best friends don't need to know any of the emotional episodes you have when your hormones become too much, and Omari demands all of you. When you feel wrung out with nothing to give him and it's Johnny who has been picking up those pieces. They don't need to know that he has planted himself into your life as much as his son's and that you've let him practically move into your apartment.

“Adorable that he's doing daddy duties.” Rosette smiles.

‘Yeah’ you think. ‘Adorable’. You clear your throat and grin at Rosette and look to Aaliyah, "How did that double date go the other week with Kyle and Simon?”

Rosette sighed dreamily, “Other than Aaliyah trying to fight the chef and getting the four of us banned from that restaurant. I think Kyle might be the one.”

Jay snorted, “How did that happen?” She places her arm around Rosette and glances at her “And you sure you want the other military guy to be the one?”

Aaliyah only shrugged and didn't even look like she was ashamed. That was your best friend though, “Look, he asked for medium well steak, and they brought that man well done steak, and he was just gonna suffer through it silently. I wasn't about to let anyone eat that dry ass steak and then pay for it? Fuck out of here!”

Rosette still had heart in her eyes, twirling her hair around her finger. She had recently dyed the end of her locks a pretty shade of deep red. “I can overlook him being in the military. He likes me for me, warts and all.”

You smiled at her, “Get to know him a bit longer, we gotta make sure it isn't dick-matism”

Chapter 6: The Soap Chapter 🧼

Johnny had settled into his new life as a dad. Sure, when he started his leave, he didn't expect to be a dad. When he looked at Omari, stared into his pretty blue eyes, brushed his fingers through his curly hair, and held his tiny little hand; well, Johnny knew he had to be better in all aspects of his life. The mother of his son had done such a remarkable job without him for a year and four months. He wants, no, needs to take care of them both and give them a good life.

He still felt a pang of sadness and anger at himself for sneaking out and not staying to at least leave you his number or Instagram. Often, his mind would wander back to the night you had both made Omari. He thinks about the wild night you shared. The way your eyes stared at him as if you didn't want to be anywhere else but with him, drinking and bar hopping, playing pool, and taking shots off of each other. He replays in his mind the kiss that broke the damn. That moment was frozen in his psyche, engraved in his mind as a core memory. He was tipsy then, too smitten by you to understand that he had found what he teased and secretly envied Price for having.

Having Omari Malachi- God willing, you let him change both of your last names - MacTavish - just made him want the whole thing all at once. Him always being in the line of danger made him want to speed run everything and break his Captain’s record of getting married in four months. If you had him, he'd get married at the court house and deal with his mother's and sister's ire later.

He's on base with Omari, his little bairn strapped to his chest. The past two weeks he's been staying off base with you and his wee one, crashing on the couch and taking night shifts and then more often just taking the brunt of the work with Omari, insisting that you rest. Every cry his son let out was met with him picking him up and setting him right, and if he could swing it, done without having to wake his Chuilein.

Most of the other soldiers on base and in the hallways stop and give him a double take. There's a sense of pride that swells in his chest as he catches the way people stare at his son. People stare with shock because there's no way Soap is carrying a babe on his chest! He gets to Price's office and hears the gruff sound of Simon talking.

“I've never actually been told before that my mask wearing was a sign of anxiety and complex ptsd…the woman is a pain in my ass.” He is complaining, which is a rare thing that he seldom does.

Instantly Johnny knows who he is talking about. His friend is referring to the date he was swindled to go on by Kyle the other week. Shaking his head, he knocks on the door and when he enters, it's to his Captain and Lieutenant looking over papers. “From what mah lassie says,” Johnny grins widely, “Aaliyah actually likes ye or she would've charged ye for the hours after the agreed upon date ended.”

Price chuckles at the glare that Simon sends him before looking at the squirming baby strapped to his chest. His mustache twitches and lips pull into a smile, “So that's him, huh?”

“Yeah,” He pulls Omari out of his wrap and promptly drops him into Simon's lap, “Meet mah boy Omari M MacTavish.”

Upon getting put in Simon's lap, Omari immediately goes for his mask. His chubby little fingers are trying and failing to grip onto the fabric. He squeals and settles on patting his face and trying to eat the mask instead by placing his mouth on Simon's cheek.

“How did she come up with the name Omari?” Simon asks. He's careful with the boy, squishing his cheeks. “Don't try to eat my mask…it's my second skin.” To which Omari only doubles down and babbles away.

He plops down in the open seat next to Simon with a shrug, “She said she picked it ‘cause he looked like an Omari an’ Malachi got pushed inta being his middle name.” He smiles at his son, “an’ he looks like an Omari.” His eyes trail over to the papers on the desk, “aren't we on leave? We have like three more weeks left?”

Price sighs and shakes his head, “Laswell needs us for an op, so we may need to cut it short.” He at least looks apologetic, “estimate on moving out is next week.”

Johnny feels his blood run cold because it's currently Monday, and he's got a week or less to make sure his girl and son will be okay. He thinks back to the argument that he and you had three days ago. He had finally sat you down and told you what he did, how his missions were dangerous, and that he's made enemies in high places. That part, he was surprised that you took well, you didn't flinch and really only sighed with resignation. It was when he asked you to move out to be near his family, to let him set you and Omari up in a small village, that you snapped and told him no. The conversation devolved into him being a bit more stern than he wanted and you raising your voice. He tried to explain that your second floor flat wasn't safe, that he would feel better moving you somewhere more secure, and it would keep his nerves from being shot when he was gone.

“John, I'm not letting you just show up and tell me that I need to let your choice in a high-risk career dictate my life.” You had said when the argument calmed down. You had been telling him repeatedly that you weren't leaving your very public job, you weren't going to be in some little village, and you definitely were not just going to do whatever he said.

“Steamin’ Jesus, that's gonna be a fun one.” He runs his fingers through his hair and notes that he needs to give himself a cut. “Chuilein may actually murder me.” He gives his captain a pleading look.

Simon grunts, “You said that she was okay with your work. So I don't think she's going to kill you.”

“She's gonna kill me, but not fo’ the reason ye think.” He reaches over and pulls Omari into his arms, “She's got some important event next week with her boss an’ some client an’ I already agreed that I'd keep Mini for the week while she travels.”

Price raises both brows in shock, “What exactly does she work as?”

“Some type of assistant at a talent agency.” He says, “Captain, how do you tell the Missus when you have ta ship out?”

Price laughs a bit before leaning back in his chair, “I usually take my wife out to do something fun or a nice night in before we ship out. Make some good memories in case things happen.”

It's a sobering thought that puts his new life perspective. He looks down at Omari and frowns. He doesn't plan on dying and leaving his family anytime soon. “Thanks for the advice, Captain.”

Seemingly not pleased with his dad and the change of mood, Omari starts babbling and squealing. Patting his face and giving him a gummy smile. Johnny sighs with a smile, “ So like…I also kinda wan’ tae ken what do I have tae do ta make sure Mini and his mam will be safe and taken care of if somethin’ happens ta me?”

Price and Simon both look at each other. They know that Johnny had gone through a quick and rushed lifestyle change. He declines going to the pub more often, opting to be with his son and his girl (as he puts it). He most recently started the habit of staying off base and where he normally would have had a short fling by now, which obviously didn't happen. He by no means is awkward, normally just saying whatever he wants and laughing off any and everything. Seeing him actually act like a dad was the same as seeing him rapidly mature, almost overnight.

Simon shrugged his shoulders, “You should elope with her. That way, you get on base housing, she doesn't have to move far and she is in a secure area while you're gone, and she's entitled to all the support a spouse married to a serviceman gets.”

“Now Simon, why would you-” John begins.

“That's a solid idea. I'll phrase it just like that, and she'll have no choice but to go along with it.” Johnny is smiling. Sure, it won't be traditional. It may even come off as ‘odd’ but he would get to be married to his Chuilein. Both her and his baby would be safe, and should anything happen, he knows his widow will be okay.

John only sighs. He knows that's going to create a row in the young man's life. While he hasn't met the woman that has his sergeant's heart, he does hear about the off the wall way she acts. So he leaves Johnny to the very bad idea and the lesson he's about to learn about trying to talk a woman into marriage.

Johnny spends the rest of the day hanging out in Price's office until he leaves with Simon to go figure out lunch. Omari hasn't napped yet, and he's pleased because that means his Mini-me will sleep through most of the night. Conversation, as always between him and his lieutenant, flows naturally up until Simon says something that's somewhat out of character for him.

They ended up off base in some shitty little restaurant that actually serves decent food. Omari has taken a full liking to playing with the salt and pepper shakers, fighting tooth and nail when his dad tries to wrestle them away.

“Johnny?” Simon says after taking a long sip of his beer.

“Yeah?” He doesn't really take his eyes off his son for too long.

“Don't go saying this to anyone…but I actually enjoyed the date that Kyle roped me into.” Simon mumbles.

This takes him off guard, “wait, really? I thought ye hated it.”

“Yes I hated the fancy place Kyle picked out trying to impress his bird…hated the food, and almost hated the alcohol.” He takes a deep sigh and drinks the rest of his beer. Then hurriedly, his mask is pulled back down onto his face. “It was after Kyle and Rosette left…”

Johnny nodded his head following along, “So ye didn' like the date but liked what the idea of the date?” He was a bit confused.

Simon huffs, and Johnny can tell that he's uncomfortable with whatever emotion he is feeling. His friend is tapping the table with his index finger and is staring at him like he's supposed to just know what's ailing him. It takes a moment, but he thinks over the conversation, and he thinks about what he's heard about that double date from his girl. Then it hits him.

“Simon…mate…did you sleep with her on the first night?” He asks and leans in close. He covers Omari's ears to shield him from his words.

Simon only grunts, “I did…after she told me that I should either see a therapist or get a vice stronger than cigarettes and liquor, because I fuck like I have trauma issues…that's where the comment about the mask came from.” He looks away from Johnny and doesn't say much more.

“Jesus…she's a piece of work, want me to say somethin’” Johnny feels incredulous.

Simon still won't look back at him, “Hm…I want you to convince your bird to convince Aaliyah to go on a second date with me.”

Johnny only blinks, completely and utterly thrown from a loop…because what? He shakes his head and smiles, “I'll see what I can do.”

a.n: so yeah this was the Johnny Chapter! Next Chapter we will be doing something different. Also I know my other stories haven't been updated (sweats) but I'm in a writer's block and for some reason I'm only able to write comedy or romance right now. Angst just isn't happening the way I need it too and I'm sorry yall 😔.

Tag list: @evergreenlake @royalty-cashinout @leahnicole1219 @gxuxhdjdu @daft-queen @vmaxis @curiouslittleprincess @lucienofthelakes @flairenragebelmont @gazsluckyhat

[magnificentmiraclenacho]

The sister of the winner

Part 9 = the aftermath

Summary= When gi hun wants to take down the games he faces a lot of problems. But one problem he also has is his relationship with his sister minji ( reader ). Gi hun dosent want to tell her about the games do to her innocent. But what happends when the salesman lores her into the games, and the siblings finds them self fighting for their lifes.

-----

The group stood on the platform exhausted, as the robotic voice echoed through the arena, cold and final.

"This will be the last round."

A heavy silence fell over the remaining players before the platform jerked to life beneath them. The carousel spun, the sickly cheerful music playing once more, but Y/N didn’t hear it. She was too lost in her own mind, the weight of everything crushing down on her. The screams, the blood, the terror—it all blurred together into a suffocating haze.

She barely registered the way her team tensed, trying to guess the next number. She didn’t even flinch when Young-il muttered, “Please let it be an even number…”

The only thing she felt was Gi-hun’s steadying hand on her back. The warmth of it anchored her, keeping her from completely slipping away.

Then the music stopped.

The platform came to a dead halt, and the lights dimmed to an ominous shade.

"One."

The single word rang in Y/N’s ears like a death sentence.

For a moment, no one moved. Then chaos erupted.

People shoved, ran, scrambled and fought for doors—some desperately leaving their team mates and humanity behind to safe them self.

Y/n's team bolted forward. Gi-hun’s grip on her arm tightened as he ran with her, pushing past frantic players.

Before she could even comprehend what was happening, she felt herself being shoved through an open door.

Gi-hun’s hands gripped her shoulders firmly. “It’s okay,” he said, breathless but steady. “I’ll be right next to you.”

Y/N’s eyes widened in horror as she realized what he meant. “No, no, Gi-hun—”

But before she could grab him, he stepped back. The door slammed shut on her face.

And she was shocked, scared and alone.

Y/N was left in the dimly lit, cold purple room, the walls seeming to press in on her. Her own rapid breathing echoed in the silence, amplifying the fear curling in her chest. She hugged herself, trying to steady the shaking in her hands, trying to drown out the pounding of her heart and the sounds outside.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, silent and uncontrollable. "Just breathe. Just wait. It's okey..." The timer would end soon. Gi-hun was right next to her. It would be over soon.

Then—

The door creaked open.

Her breath hitched as a shadow loomed over the threshold.

Player 100 An old ugly man. ***Legit a filthy man THE ACTOR LIKE SA A CHILd!! enyways let's continue....*

He stood there, panting, his eyes wide and frantic, desperation twisting his face into something monstrous.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Both frozen in the horror of realizing that one of them is going to have to leave.

Then his face darkened.

“Get. Out.” he spat, his voice raw and animalistic.

Y/N’s body locked up. She pressed herself against the wall, shaking her head violently. “No—no, please—please—”

The man lunged.

Y/N flinched, her mind blank with terror.

But before he could grab her, a blur of movement crashed into him.

Young-il.

He yanked Player 100 back, throwing him hard onto the floor. The man grunted, trying to scramble up, but Young-il was faster. His fist connected with the man’s face with a sickening crack.

Y/N could only stare in shock fliching on every punch.

Blood splattered across the floor. Player 100 groaned, twisting to fight back, but Young-il didn’t hesitate—didn’t even flinch. His expression was terrifyingly blank, his strikes mechanical, unyielding, as if this meant nothing to him.

Like this was normal

“Close the door!” Young-il barked between punches, his voice sharp and commanding. “Hold onto it!” " STAY DOWN" now yelling at the man whose crys and pleades could be heard everywhere.

Y/N jolted out of her frozen state. With shaking hands, she grabbed the door and slammed it shut.

She pressed all her weight against it, fingers trembling as she clutched the handle for dear life.

On the other side, she could hear the struggle—grunts, fists hitting flesh, the shuffling of bodies fighting for dominance.

Tears streamed down her face, but she held on trying to be strong.

Everything moved too fast. Her head spun, her body numb.

Then—

The timer hit zero.

The door locked.

And the gunfire began.

Y/N flinched at the sharp crack of gunfire, her breath catching in her throat. Her hands trembled as she realised herself from the cold door, fear gripping her chest like a vice.

Her heart pounded as she darted toward the small window, expecting the worst.

But Young-il wasn’t there.

Instead, Player 100 laid lifeless, blood seeping across the floor in a growing pool. He looked like something out of a movie something she had never seen before. Her stomach twisted violently at the sight.

She swallowed hard, her eyes flicking desperately around the dimly lit space, searching for comfort. Where was Young-il? Had he made it?

A shaky breath left her lips as she leaned back against the door, her body drained of all strength. Maybe—just maybe—he got to a room in time she tried to tell herself.

She clenched her fists, trying to steady her breathing. "It's over now."

The last round.

But the relief she expected never came.

Instead, she felt numb and anxious.

The weight of the entire game had finally crashed down on her, leaving her exhausted, empty, and cold. Sitting in a small room without enyone. Without knowledge of the survival of her team mates.

She just wanted to go back.

Back to Gi-hun, back to where she could feel safe—even if only for a moment.

Her mind drifted to him, her older brother, the one person who had always been there. Even during the difficult times. She just wanted to see him. Wanted to feel his presence, to hear him say that it was okay—that they were okay.

She just wanted to go home. Or back in time to when she was still sain and pure from all of this.

To their tiny apartment where the floor creaked under their footsteps.

To their late-night conversations, where Gi-hun would complain about work and life, and she’d roll her eyes but still listen to every word.

To the comforting warmth of knowing they had each other—no matter how bad things got.

She even wanted to go back to the nights and days when she and gi hun fighted about the stupidest things for god knows how long. Because no matter how bad the fight got gi hun would always come to her room and apolozise hugging her and telling her how much he loves her.

But now those memories feel like a dream a good dream. Because in this nightmare there is no guarentee that you would ever see eachother again.

She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to hold on just a little longer. Souvering those memories and feelings.

The soft *click* of the door unlocking snapped Y/N out of her thoughts.

She sat frozen for a moment, her mind still caught between reality and the overwhelming exhaustion that had settled deep in her bones.

Slowly, hesitantly, she pushed herself up, her legs shaky beneath her. She didn’t know what she would see when she stepped out.

Would her team be there?

Did everyone make it?

Taking a deep breath, she reached for the handle, her fingers trembling as she pulled the door open.

The metallic stench of blood hit her instantly.

Her stomach twisted as she took a cautious step forward, her eyes scanning the aftermath of the last round. Blood muuses that were once people crumpled across the floor, some slumped against doors, others where they had stood. The sight made her throat tighten.

And then—she didn’t see them.

Her heart pounded violently in her chest. Where were they?

She stood frozen in place, panic creeping up her spine. Had she made it only to lose them?

But before the fear could fully take over, heavy footsteps pounded against the floor.

"Y/N!"

Her head snapped up just in time to see Gi-hun running towards her.

Relief crashed over her like a wave, and before she could think, she ran to meet him, throwing herself into his arms.

A broken sob tore from her throat as she clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder.

Gi-hun held her tightly, his grip firm, grounding. "It’s over now," he whispered. "We’re okay."

She felt his chest rise and fall against her, his words not just meant for her—but for himself, too.

One by one, the others approached.

Jun-hee.

Jung-beo.

Deo-ho.

She hugged them all, relief flooding her system with every familiar face she saw. They were here. They were alive.

Then, her eyes landed on Young-il.

She hesitated for a second.

The image of him beating Player 100 mercilessly, barely blinking at the violence, still burned in her mind. It unsettled her—but at the same time, she couldn’t ignore the truth.

He had saved her.

Taking a small step forward, she wrapped her arms around him.

"I’m glad you’re okay… and thank you for what you did."

Young-il didn’t respond immediately, his body stiff for a moment before he gave her a small nod smiling.

Gi-hun watched the exchange with a confused look, but he was too shaken himself to ask questions.

For now, all that mattered was that they had survived.

Thw group took of to the dormetories lucky that they have each other. And hoping that maybe the next voting would be on their favor...

----

Ps: if you want to be tagged say it in the comments❤️❤️ and sorry that this was kinda short! The nexts one is coming out in a few days.

Masterlist=

Tag list=

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[rippleclan]

RippleClan: Moon 90, Part 3

[Image ID: Lightningrunner yowls at Estherfern, "You took her from me! I barely got to know her! Why do you get to be a mother when she didn’t get to be mine?" Shrewflame and Whitepaw run toward the pair.]

ONE MOON PRIOR…

It seemed like a waste of a skilled cleric's time to accompany an apprentice to his training, but Estherfern supposed she would want someone close by if one of her kits were to injure themselves carelessly. She strolled beside Lightningrunner as Shrewflame and Whitepaw pranced ahead of them, making their way to Battle Beach. It seemed like far too gray and bright a day to spar, but the youth of RippleClan didn't care much for her opinion.

"Mr. Billowhaze said to be careful by the water," Whitepaw chirped, gazing up at his older brother like a Clan oogles a new leader. "Do you think Mom's stories about fish-cats are real?"

"Mom's an artisan, not a historian," Shrewflame laughed. "Her stories are all fake. Don't worry, the only creatures you should worry about in the ocean are poisonous fish."

"I don't think that makes me feel better," Whitepaw chuckled awkwardly. The two brothers left dainty pawprints in the sand.

"If you want to know more about the ocean," Lightningrunner said, "ask me anything."

"I will, Ms. Lightningrunner," Whitepaw promised, turning an ear back to her. Estherfern hummed softly at the young apprentice's strange phrasing. There was something humble about the titles, even though Estherfern had no idea what they meant.

"Battle Beach!" Shrewflame chirped as the patrol crossed into that special portion of the shoreline. To Estherfern, there was nothing particularly special about this portion of the beach as opposed to any other stretch of snow-dusted land. She wouldn't have known of their arrival had Shrewflame not pointed it out. Still, her Clanmates raved about fond memories sparring along the sand, so it was yet another thing she learned to keep her mouth shut about.

"Is sparring at all like that big fight Mr. Tallowheart and Ms. Cobaltchaser had?" Whitepaw asked, kneading the sand.

"That was just a fight, Whitepaw," Shrewflame laughed, running his tail over Whitepaw's head as he walked past. "When we spar with our Clanmates, we're practicing our skills and challenging ourselves. We aren't hurting one another, though. That's why you don't unseathe your claws. You aren't supposed to draw blood when you're training."

"I won't," Whitepaw promised. He ran to catch up with Shrewflame. He glanced back at Estherfern and Lightningrunner and called, "Ms. Lightningrunner, are you going to spar too?"

"I'll let you start with your brother!" Lightningrunner called. Estherfern found a partially dry spot closer to the trees. She sat her bandage down and tucked her paws under herself. Lightningrunner sat beside her, tail stirring the dusting of snow behind her. Shrewflame steadied himself, paws dug into the sand. Whitepaw copied him as best he could. His legs stretched out a bit too far to look comfortable.

"I'll start simple," Shrewflame said. "A lot of the basics of fighting involve the sort of moves cats instinctually use when they're in danger. Paw swipes, grabbing onto your enemy, things like that. Let's start with swipes. Swipe at my face, as best you—" Whitepaw's fluffy paw whipped out from his awkward stance. He smacked Shrewflame across the face. Shrewflame stumbled to the side, blinking wildly.

"Ah!" Whitepaw yelped. "Sorry, sorry! Are you okay?" Whitepaw hovered around Shrewflame, now scared to get too close. But Shrewflame just laughed. He shook out his pelt, letting his laughter ripple through his ginger fur.

"Now that was a swipe!" Shrewflame roared, rubbing his face on his leg. "StarClan, Whitepaw! Who knew you were so strong?" Whitepaw chuckled awkwardly, but his ears perked high and his tail unwound itself from his side.

Shrewflame went on about angling your paw and steadying yourself after a strike, but Estherfern's attention drifted. The forest had grown grayer by the day, and the snow meant approaching death and hibernation to the plants her fellow clerics so valued. She never imagined caring so much about medical stocks, but she never imagined any of this when she first set off west under the orders of her God.

"These two will be fine," Estherfern huffed to Lightningrunner, stretching as she stood. "I'm going to forage. Will you help?"

"Alright," Lightningrunner said, getting to her paws. Estherfern left her bandage behind and led Lightningrunner into the trees as Shrewflame and Whitepaw laughed and batted at each other.

RippleClan would soon turn to bark-based medicine as winter rolled in and vibrant herbs vanished, but it wasn't winter yet. It was the sort of weather where everything looked a bit like Estherfern; brown and tan and earthy. She could see how the world fought to ignore the approaching chill, even though the first frost had settled over the land. Green grass mixed with yellow, insisting on life. The earliest of winter blooms still dared not to show themselves. The land was waiting, preparing, hoping for a peaceful winter, just like all the Clans.

Estherfern brushed aside snow to get a better look at every plant. Not too far from Battle Beach, she uncovered chicory, its leaves almost identical to a dandelion. Artisans and caretakers could roast the root for their meals and strengthen everyone's stomaches. Estherfern carefully dug around the leaves and plucked the root from the frosty dirt.

"Is this something we should collect?" Lightningrunner called. Her paw danced around a large fallen branch, sprinkled with golden-brown mushrooms. Estherfern joined Lightningrunner and looped around the branch. She studied the mushrooms and their round caps, with a name quickly coming to mind.

"Deadly skullcaps," Estherfern warned, shaking her head. "I knew these mushrooms in my kithood. They are some of the most toxic mushrooms any cat has ever seen. They're as deadly as deathberries. Don't touch them."

Estherfern trotted back to her chicory root and picked it up. She glanced back at Lightningrunner, ready for the young historian to follow her to better, safer herbs. Yet Lightningrunner just stood there. She stared at the deadly skullcaps. Her dark blue eyes were slit and sharp. Her unnerving, unblinking glare drifted onto Estherfern.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" Estherfern huffed, dropping the chicory root. Lightningrunner looked back to the deadly skullcaps.

"You should eat them," Lightningrunner said. Estherfern's claws instinctually slipped out. Her ears perked high, turning sideways, alert and ready.

"Say that again," Estherfern said. Lightningrunner's whiskers pushed back against her face. Her ears slowly turned backward, fighting not to go back. She looked at Estherfern once more. Her jaw quivered, searching for the path forward.

"You…" Lightningrunner gulped. She steadied herself, just as Shrewflame readied for Whitepaw's initial strike. "You should eat them. You, you should eat them, and you should die."

"By God, Lightningrunner, you're talking nonsense," Estherfern snapped. "What's gotten into you?"

"I," Lightningrunner stammered, "You… Ugh! What sort of justice is it when a killer goes free?" Lightningrunner curled her lips.

"Again, Lightningrunner," Estherfern growled, "you're talking nonsense. Justice? What justice?"

"You know what justice!" Lightningrunner cried. Her voice rose so fast and violent that Estherfern jumped. Estherfern never jumped. "You know what you did! You summoned the spirits. You got my mom killed!" Ah. That justice.

"I was wondering if you would ask me about that someday," Estherfern sighed, smoothing her pelt. "I don't have good answers for you, Lightningrunner. I meddled with forces I thought I could control, and RippleClan suffered for it. I've done what I can to atone."

"No you haven't," Lightningrunner whined. "You got away with it because Foampaw died, but what about Silverpaw? What about my mom? Do you think there's anything you can do to make up for that? I never saw her body, Estherfern! She was my mom! You took her from me! I barely got to know her! Why do you get to be a mother when she didn’t get to be mine?" Estherfern had no clever retort to that. She dipped her head, but her eyes caught a flash of red in the trees. Shrewflame and Whitepaw slowly approached the arguing pair, ears cocked in confusion.

"I'm sorry, Lightningrunner," Estherfern sighed, straightening, "but I'm not killing myself for you."

"Yes, yes you are," Lightningrunner growled, tail curling, voice cracking. "Eat the mushrooms, or… or I'll just kill you myself!" Shrewflame and Whitepaw ran. Lightningrunner's eyes bounced, blind to all but her own vengeance. "Eat them! Eat them, you foxheart!"

Lightningrunner ran at Estherfern. Whitepaw, small Whitepaw, too-strong-for-his-age Whitepaw, launched past his brother and landed on Lightningrunner's neck, a tail-length from Estherfern. Whitepaw's fangs dug into her scruff, but no, it wasn't her scruff, his jaw wasn't in the right spot, it was her neck, her spine, Whitepaw let go right now—

Light sparked in Lightningrunner's eyes as a violent spasm took over her body. Blood splashed in Whitepaw's mouth. Lightningrunner's strength ebbed away. Her claws, tense and ready to strike, relaxed. She grew limp as leather underneath Whitepaw. Lightningrunner didn't even have time to whine before her life left her.

Whitepaw let go. Shrewflame stumbled upon the scene, his body begging to retreat. Estherfern stood over Lightningrunner's body. She no longer looked like a killer. She looked like a kit.

Whitepaw whined, a wordless, painful cry. He fell off Lightningrunner's body. He ran to Shrewflame, burying his bloody face in his brother's red fur.

"How…" Shrewflame gulped. "What… I don't…"

"I was trying to pull her off!" Whitepaw wailed, voice muffled in Shrewflame's pelt. "I didn't want her to hurt Ms. Estherfern! I didn't want to hurt her!"

"White, White, I know," Shrewflame cooed. He slowly wrapped himself around his weeping brother, hiding all traces of blood-stained white fur from the world. Whitepaw shook so hard that Shrewflame struggled to stay upright. "I know, I know. It was an accident. I know, White. You didn't mean it."

But would the Clan see it that way? Another dead Clanmate, killed, murdered. It had nothing to do with Potterypool, but would anyone believe them? Estherfern barely believed her own senses. An apprentice, barely a quarter moon into training, somehow landing a killing bite on a well-trained historian? Not just any historian, the little sister to one of RippleClan's most unified and beloved families, the daughter of Weedfoot, the Celestial of RippleClan Deputies. The three cats who stood before Lightningrunner's body were outsiders, welcomed into the safety of the shipwreck. Would any of them be allowed to remain after this? Who would believe Lightningrunner, of all cats, would suddenly try to kill Estherfern? Who would see Whitepaw's actions as justified?

No. Whitepaw and Shrewflame were barely out of kithood. They wouldn't suffer for a mess Estherfern caused. This was justice.

"Both of you, listen to me," Estherfern snapped. Shrewflame and Whitepaw snapped out of their shock for just a moment, looking up. Whitepaw looked pink with the blood on his lips. "I'm going to fix this. Nothing will happen to you, Whitepaw. Shrewflame, here, now." Shrewflame slipped himself out from around Whitepaw and crept closer to Lightningrunner's body. Estherfern studied the deadly wound. Even though Whitepaw was close to full-grown, it was clear that no adult cat bit into Lightningrunner. "Shrewflame, I need you to bite into Lightningrunner. You have to cover up Whitepaw's teethmarks."

"But—" Shrewflame stammered, gagging on the thought.

"Shrewflame, we are doing this to protect your brother," Estherfern growled. "Bite her neck, now."

Shrewflame's lips curled, almost prancing in his indecision. But then he looked back at Whitepaw, with wide eyes and his awful, bloody face. Shrewflame hardened. He squeezed his eyes tight and snapped his fangs around the back of Lightningrunner's neck. Estherfern tuned out the squish of flesh and bone.

"Now, both of you, to the ocean," Estherfern ordered as Shrewflame let go and hurried back to Whitepaw. "You're going to wash the blood out of your fur. Don't get out until it's all gone. Then you're going to run to camp and tell the codekeepers that Lightningrunner is dead." Whitepaw pressed against Shrewflame. "This is what happened. While you were swimming, Lightningrunner went to investigate a sound in the forest. When she didn't come back, we went to find her. We found her body. We don't know who did this. We were on the beach. We heard nothing."

"I killed her," Whitepaw whined.

"No you didn't," Estherfern growled, trying to soften her voice. "Not anymore. No one will know. You're not in trouble. You're my hero, Whitepaw, you did nothing wrong. Now go." Whitepaw moved toward Estherfern, but Shrewflame nudged him back. He shook his head, wide eyes glancing at Lightningrunner. He shoved Whitepaw back toward the beach. The two young toms scrambled out of sight.

Estherfern paced around Lightningrunner's body. She brushed the snow with her tail, removing nearby pawprints. No one would be able to tell which way the attacker came from, even if they questioned the patrol's story. With her tail coated in frost and the scene firmly scuffled, Estherfern sat at Lightningrunner's side, like a cleric mourning her charge.

"You stupid child," Estherfern moaned, lowering her head into Lightningrunner's pelt.

No one would know.

(Estherfern: 123, female, cleric, adventurous, great mediator, prophecy seeker)

(Whitepaw: 6, male, historian apprentice, nervous, active imagination)

(Shrewflame: 13, male, teacher, loyal, fast as the wind)

(Lightningrunner: 19, female, historian, nervous, explorer, helpful insight)

[Image ID: Estherfern says to Lemmy, "I don't want to ruin her legacy over a moment of weakness. Do you want the Clan to look at Whitepaw like a killer?" Halibutdusk, Scaleripple, and Oilstripe approach from the distance.]

---

At the end of the story, Lemmy could only sit and think it through. Honeybuzz and Estherfern stared at her, silent, squirming. The quarantine den seemed even colder now.

"No one would know," Lemmy muttered, staring at Estherfern. "Yet you told Honeybuzz."

"I have…" Honeybuzz groaned, "let's say experience with issues like these. Do you understand why we can't let the Clan know now?"

"Call me a hypocrite for this," Lemmy huffed, "but if Lightningrunner tried to kill you, Estherfern, wouldn't you want the Clan to know?" Estherfern bristled.

"None of it would have happened if I had not communed with Spirits of Shadow," the old cleric sighed. "Lightningrunner had the right to be mad at me. I don't want to ruin her legacy over a moment of weakness. Do you want the Clan to look at Whitepaw like a killer?"

Pawsteps broke the snow outside. It had gotten brighter in the time Estherfern spent telling her story. Now morning light burned against the trees beyond. Scaleripple, Halibutdusk, and Oilstripe stood outside, stone still. Time for the trial. Lemmy sighed and stood, squaring herself in front of her Clanmates' painful gaze.

"We need a little more time, please," Honeybuzz stammered, getting up and close to Lemmy's escorts. "We want this to be easy on the Clan. We're not done talking with Lemmy."

"I want her out of this camp," Scaleripple growled. Oilstripe cleared her throat, diverting Scaleripple's boiling blue hate away from Lemmy for a moment.

"The spirits in here are agitated," Oilstripe whispered, ears tilting back, ruffling the thick maple leaves stuck to her fur. "We don't want a long trial. If they can make her tell the truth now, the whole Clan won't have to hurt for long."

"Everyone's waiting, Oilstripe," Halibutdusk huffed.

"I know," Oilstripe groaned, "but do you think they'd rather sit there all day or wait a bit longer and be done with all this before sunhigh?" Halibutdusk and Scaleripple both squirmed, but neither confronted their deputy. Oilstripe turned to Honeybuzz and said, "Lead her out into the clearing when you're finished here." Honeybuzz nodded as Oilstripe led Scaleripple and Halibutdusk back around the shipwreck.

"We don't have long, Lemmy," Estherfern sighed. "I know you don't see your actions as strictly right and wrong, so why see this differently? There's no crazed killer living in our Clan. Don't make them suffer more than they already are." Lemmy's neck itched under her collar. Her head ached. Was there any good decision here? Was this any different than Lemmy's own coverup? Did the truth deserve to come to light? Or would the truth hurt worse than the lie?

"If I say I killed both Potterypool and Lightningrunner," Lemmy said softly, "what then?"

"Unless something strange happens at the trial," Honeybuzz explained, "Downstar has promised to exile you. Just play along with Waspdawn's version of events." Exile… not much different from the life Lemmy knew before RippleClan, before the Witch Hunters. And it wasn't as though she would lack purpose. There were still threats to the cats she cared for, threats to her kits and mate. She would do more good alive than dead. Even if it meant never seeing her daughters again. Maybe they would understand, one day.

"Do one thing for me, in return," Lemmy said. "Take care of my family."

"You deserve that, at least," Honeybuzz sighed. "Thank you. Are you ready, then?" Lemmy slowly approached the edge of the quarantine den. She could smell the grief and rage wafting off her Clan, just around the corner. The sun burned the land in brilliant purple and red, yet no warmth pierced the snow that muffled all birdsong. The walls of the shipwreck burned with illusionary fire. A good final view of her home.

"Take me to my exile," Lemmy sighed.

(Lemmy: 66, female, exiled, cold, deep StarClan bond, good mediator)

(Honeybuzz: 38, male, cleric, daring, skilled toolsmith, good teacher)

(Estherfern: 124, female, cleric, adventurous, great mediator, prophecy seeker)

(Scaleripple: 43, male, warrior, lonesome, formidable fighter)

(Oilstripe: 94, female, deputy, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(Halibutdusk: 82, nonbinary (they/them), warrior, gloomy, masterful storyteller, clever)

[pascalislove]

THE CALL: Han Jeong-Won x Fem!Reader~5

Summary: Your arrival would change everything, even if Jeong-Won didn't know it yet.

Dinner at Jeong-Won's mansion passed in tense silence. Y/N moved her fork around the plate, breaking off pieces of the meat half-heartedly. Loki slept near the table, oblivious to the charged atmosphere that floated between them.

—Do you always eat in this funereal atmosphere? Y/N asked, breaking the silence with her characteristic sarcastic tone.

Jeong-Won didn't even look up. —I prefer silence. Y/N put the fork down on the plate with a thud.

—Look, we're going to live together for a year, at least we could try not to behave like two strangers in a waiting room.Jeong-Won finally looked up, his dark eyes shining with a mix of irritation and exhaustion.

—I'm not interested in playing happy family with you. —Did you know? —she said, crossing her arms—. You are the most insufferable and self-centered guy I have ever met. —And you think I enjoy this? Jeong-Won dropped the cutlery with a clatter.

—Of course not,— Y/N replied wryly.— You only hired me to spite your ex-wife—The tension broke when Jeong-Won shot to his feet, his voice rising into an angry shout.

—If you don't like it, you can leave! —Y/N looked at him, surprised by the intensity of his words, but refused to back down. —You know what, Mr. Han?, It's not even worth arguing with you.—Without waiting for a response, he left the room with firm steps, leaving behind the echo of his own words and the latent frustration.

That night, Y/N tried to sleep, but the memory of the argument continued to haunt her mind. I was upset, yes, but also curious. What the hell had broken this man to the point of making him so bitter?Hours passed, and just as she began to fall into a light sleep, a piercing scream made her sit bolt upright in bed.

—No! No! The sound came from Jeong-Won's room. Y/N stood up quickly, her heart racing. —Jeong-Won? —he called from the hallway, but got no response. She pushed open the door, finding him writhing on the bed, drenched in sweat, his face twisted in pain.

—Don't leave me! Don't go! —he screamed in the middle of his nightmare, his voice broken by terror. Without a second thought, Y/N walked over and gently shook his shoulder.

—Jeong-Won, wake up. It's just a nightmare.He snapped his eyes open, breathing hard, lost between dream and reality. “You're okay,” Y/N whispered, keeping her voice soft. It was just a bad dream. It took Jeong-Won a few seconds to catch his breath. He sat up in bed, running a trembling hand through his damp hair.

“Go away,” he murmured, although his voice lacked its usual harshness. “No,” Y/N replied firmly. I'm not going to leave you alone after that. He looked at her in disbelief, but said nothing. “I know you don't want me here, but maybe you need someone,” Y/N added, softening her tone. No one should deal with this alone, Jeong-Won. He looked away, but didn't look at her again. Y/N watched him silently, understanding that behind all his coldness and arrogance was a broken man, trapped by ghosts from the past. Y/N stood up, giving him one last look before leaving the room.

—Good night.

Although Jeong-Won didn't say it out loud, that night was the first time in a long time that someone stayed close, even when he tried to push her away.

This story does not follow the plot of the series, tell me if you like it and if you want me to tag you in the chapters🫶

Tag list:

@anamiad00msday, @czarinera

THE CALL MASTERLIST

[whoredyceps]

"OH LOVER BOY!" || 27 Days of Love: A Valentine's Challenge + Series

day six: "i can't stand you."

ᰔ pairing: joel miller x reader

ᰔ summary: joel made the mistake of telling you he was having trouble with his generator, and you offered to help.

ᰔ author's note: this was going to have a sweeter ending, but i think with joel, it's a more realistic ending. there's a lot left unsaid, and i've always been a fan of stories like that. a little angst as a treat ✨

ᰔ content warning: jackson!joel, grouchy joel being a bitch but he makes up for it- kind of, slight angst with a happy-ish ending, reader gets small cut/mention of blood, strong language (joel and reader are not afraid to drop an f bomb) reader has non-descriptive hair (enough for joel to put his hand in)

"For the love of god, can you hold the flashlight still?" Joel looked back with a scowl on his face. He damn near dropped the wrench on his foot as you shifted the flashlight again.

"I'm sorry! Jesus," you muttered the last bit under your breath. You held the light still, a bit more rigid than before.

Joel knew better than to tell you that he had to fix something in the house. He loved you more than anything— you had built a nice life together in Jackson. For the end of the world, you two had a welcoming home and a good relationship. It was the best anyone could ask for in this post-apocalyptic world.

You had brought him peace and solace in ways he hadn't expected. He liked to think he did the same for you, in his own ways. You two complimented each other, an odd balance others in Jackson chose not to question.

That being said, you were not helpful when it came to handy work. Joel preferred to work on his own, or ask Tommy for help if he really needed the extra hand. Not that he liked the idea of another hand in the pot, but he knew when he needed another set of hands.

When the generator shit out at the end of the last ice storm, Joel made the mistake of mentioning to you that he needed to talk to Tommy about fixing it before the next storm came through. When you got that look in your eyes, excited to jump on the chance to help, he knew it wasn't going to end well. Despite knowing that, he knew it would be worse to tell you no.

Now, you moved the flashlight all over and talked through the whole process of him running diagnostics. While it was endearing that you were eager to help, Joel couldn't focus on what was in front of him. He had changed for the better thanks to you, but old habits die hard— or Joel Miller's bark was still just as sharp as his bite.

"Just hold it still," Joel gruffed. "The sooner I can see what I'm doin', the sooner it'll be finished." He wanted the whole thing to be over and done with, to get back to anything but this.

"I'm doing my best, Joel. I'm trying to help," you huffed. What had crawled up his ass was beyond you, but you weren't going to sit and let him bitch at you.

"Well your tryin' ain't good enough. Hand me the damn flashlight." Joel held his hand out, an expectant look on his face. The two of your stared at each other, a silent battle for dominance. Eventually, you conceded and shoved it in his hand.

"God forbid I try to fucking help you. See how much help I am when you need it the most," you snapped. "I can't stand you sometimes."

"Better find a goddamn chair then." Joel dismissed you with a wave of the hand before he turned back to the generator. He ignored the sound of a stomp and the door that slammed behind you.

It was well over two hours before Joel finally climbed out of the basement. It only took him an hour to fix the generator, but he wasn't sure how to approach you. After these pissy little fights you two had, there were two situations that followed. One apologized and the other begrudgingly accepted. By the time dinner rolled around, it was water under the bridge and left in the past. The other? A battle of silence and cold shoulders for the next few days.

After the chair comment, Joel braced himself for the silent treatment and a few sleepless nights on the couch. He was quiet as he walked towards the kitchen. He heard the radio playing, along with the sounds of pots and pans clanging.

He lingered in the doorway as he watched you. Even from where he stood, he saw the way your mind raced without you saying a word. As he opened his mouth, he watched you stop peeling a potato and cuss under your breath.

"Fuck! Goddamnit!" You ran your hand under the sink water. It had taken everything in you to remain calm after Joel's whole... thing, whatever had possessed him in the basement. The chair comment had you seeing red, but you tried to let it go as you prepped for dinner. Working on the meal was cathartic, and your anger had come down some.

Slicing your finger, though, was the straw that broke the camel's back. Another thing you had fucked up— something else to add to the list of bullshit you couldn't do.

Once the blood had eased up for the moment, you finally let a few tears slip. Your chest felt heavy with anger and regret, along with every nasty feeling in between. Joel still hadn't returned, and you knew it was your fault. You knew well enough that you should have just let Tommy help him.

Lately, you felt as if you hadn't offered much to Joel. You did some things, sure. Kept everyone fed, worked hard to make sure all ailments were healed— you pulled your weight where you could. It just... it didn't feel like enough. Of course, you offered him your love and support, but it didn't feel like you did your part. You thought lending a hand with the generator was a step in the right direction, a way to prove that you were capable of more in Joel's eyes.

"Let me see it." You jumped at Joel's sudden presence, the way he brushed against you to take your hand in his. You stayed quiet but still let him look your hand over.

"You saw that?" You asked. Your voice was thick with tears, which had yet to stop. The cut wasn't bad— just a nick and a bit of blood. Nothing a bandage wasn't able to fix.

"I did." Joel held your hand as he grabbed for the first aid kit you kept in the junk drawer. It was small, only various sized bandages and a few crumbled alcohol wipes that you had scavenged. He grabbed for a bandaid and ripped the paper open with his teeth. You watched as he bandaged you right up.

There was a beat of silence that hung thick in the air. Neither of you knew what to say, how to concede after that little spat that left you both in a sour mood.

Finally, Joel broke the silence as he cleared his throat.

"I didn't mean what I said. I'm sorry for snapping," Joel sighed. "Didn't deserve that." He shook his head. His hand still held yours, careful of the fresh wound.

You looked down, unsure of what to say. Your cheeks were soaking wet, and it made it hard to string together the right thing to say. Finally, after another long beat, you met his gaze.

"I didn't, and I know you meant it when you said it." Before Joel cut in, you stopped him by continuing. "But I know I shouldn't have offered to help. I'm sorry for putting myself where I shouldn't have." You leaned against the counter as you spoke. One thing about you, something that Joel appreciated, was your frank nature.

"I just, I have a particular way of doing things. Havin' someone else there just makes me uneasy. Makes me too aware of every move I make," Joel admitted. It took time and effort on both of your parts to get to a point where you were transparent with each other.

"I know that," you assured him. "At least a little bit, anyways. I'm sorry for makin' it harder. I just thought I was helpin'." Joel tugged your hand and pulled you into a hug. He tangled a hand in your hair as he held you close.

"You were tryin', and that's what matters. I love you, darlin'." There was still a pit of unease in your stomach, but you knew it was best to drop it. Navigating what you two had took work, and sometimes that meant dropping the subject. Joel did the best he could for you, and you did the same for him.

"I love you too."

Maybe the fairytales you had dreamed of when you were younger had the perfect ending and the ride off into the sunset. Then again, they didn't exactly include zombies and the end of the world. As you grew older and harder around the edges, you realized loved looked different. Now, it was give and take— no sunsets to gallop towards. It may not have been perfect, but what you had with Joel was good.

He loved you, and you loved him. That's what mattered most, right?

[papasbaseball]

The Wizard x Reader (Wonderful Wonderful Girl) | Chapter 17

Pairing: Wizard x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Power Imbalance, Boss/Employee Relationship, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Sexual Content, Spanking

Summary: Being a maid in the Royal Palace of Oz is not half so bad. Despite the meager wages, everything else is provided for you for an honest day's work. It can be unnerving working for the most powerful man in Oz, but you are able to avoid him most of the time. This changes during Lurlinemas, your paths soon becoming inextricably intertwined.

Word Count: 2,337 of 44,960

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AO3 Link

"Orphanage," I say. "What orphanage?" The whole room is looking at me, and I realize that I recognize none of their eyes. In turn, I must look like a screeching animal that has just interrupted the war council, my eyes wide in fear as I pray for the man in the green military coat to tell me that I have misheard.

"Miss," he says with an annoyed expression on his face, "please we have other things-"

"No, you said there was a break-in at an orphanage," I say. The shake in my voice is audible, and it takes everything to not scream and throw things. Getting up from my chair, I continue, "Which orphanage? My sister is still there in the Emerald City. Which one?!"

The Wizard reaches across Tomathy to grab my hand. If he means to pull me back down into my seat, he will have to try harder.

The military man looks between the Wizard and me and then back to the paper. "It says it was the Unionist Children's Home."

I am the Lynx in the snow, struck by a bolt of magic that knocks the air from me. The blood is flowing from my face, down through my chest, my stomach, spilling out onto the floor. "Fileah," I gasp.

I rip my hand from the Wizard's and shove the chair from behind me. It was a mistake to waste time, one that I would not make again.

"Somebody," the Wizard calls casually, "somebody get her."

There is a man dressed in a green uniform sitting by the door. He stands up, moving to grab me, but I dodge left, running out the door. The room buzzes with chatter as I fly from it, darting out into the hallway. My boots pound and echo against the white marble stairs as I race back down them. I could find someone in the kitchen, someone willing to hide me while I get stuff together to go back to the Emerald City. I'd need clothes, food, and a way out of here. They're still getting fresh flour up here from Munchkinland somehow; the roads are still open to those who want to travel them. I'll find a way to get back down, and then I'll find some way to steal Fileah back from the Winkies.

As I dart back to the kitchen, I think about all the delightful little ways I'm going to make that bastard Fiyero squeal. Prince Charmless is going to need a new set of vocal cords when I get through with him and his stupid perfect hair and stupid perfect smile. He's not even that pretty, now that I think about it. The asshat doesn't even have looks going for him.

In the kitchen, I see Tomathy blocking the door, and I curse under my breath. Stopping, I try to find another way out. When I turn around, I run smack into the Wizard and knock myself onto the floor.

"Ow!" I yell. "What the fuck?!"

"I'm asking myself the same thing," the Wizard huffs as his hand tangles in my hair. I can feel my scalp pulling away from my skull like a piece of tape as he yanks me up by my hair until my toes are barely touching the ground. "You couldn't keep it together for one meeting?" he says, tossing me into one of the metal prep benches.

"Fucking keep it-" I wail a fist against his chest, but it doesn't even budge him. "My sister has been kidnapped, and you want me to keep it together?!"

"Yes!" he says, raising his voice. "You're supposed to keep it together."

I screech and try to run past him. His forearm slams into my chest, and soon I'm turned around and shoved into Tomathy's direction.

"Tom, find a place and get her calmed down or something. I can't have her acting like an animal in this meeting."

"Well, the only fucking animal I see is you! You jerk!" I lunge at him, but Tomathy grabs me by the shoulders.

"Sweetheart, come on," Tomathy says.

"I'm going to kill Fiyero first, and then I’m gonna come back and kill you," I shout at the Wizard as he's turning to leave.

The Wizard stops in his tracks, and I want to swallow my words back up. As he turns to look at me, I’m surprised to see that he's laughing. "You're going to kill Fiyero? Tell me... uh... how do you plan on doing that? You think you’re just going to waltz into their little camp and stab him?"

"I..." I don't really know how I'm going to do it. "I'll sneak in and seduce him," I try to say confidently.

"Sneak-" The Wizard is guffawing at the ridiculous suggestion. "You're going to sneak in and... and..." his amber eyes flick back and forth across my face and I can see the wheels turning in his head.

"What?" Tomathy mumbles. "You really think-"

The Wizard shrugs. "It's crazy enough- No, absolutely not. I'm not going to let you go into that barbarian's camp. He'll send me your head back in a box."

"I'm going to go whether you like it or not," I say, struggling against Tomathy's restraint. For being an old man, he’s still pretty wiry, and I'm unable to shake his grip.

"Yeah, and I'll lock you up in a padded room until this war is over," The Wizard replies, turning to leave again.

"Is this about you being jealous of him?" I call after him. "You're afraid that I'm going to fuck him, aren't you? What? You think he's better in bed or something?"

The Wizard’s shoulders tense and he turns back to me. I can see the white of his eyes and the flare of his nostrils. He has me by the back of my shirt in two quick steps and proceeds to march me out of the kitchen, going as fast as my feet can carry me. The pit of fear I had for him has returned to my stomach for the first time in weeks, as I wonder what he could possibly do to me now that he is back within the safety of his council and others. I can hear Tomathy's footsteps following us, but I know that he's as useful as a neutered dog.

"You have got to let this go," I tell the Wizard as we march down the hallway and past the foyer. Not going back upstairs, I see. “What do you want me to say? ‘I'm sorry?’"

He doesn't say anything to that. Instead, he continues marching us down the blanched hallways until he finds a door, one on the right, and throws me into it and slams the door in Tomathy's face. The room fate has picked for us is an all white office, save for the stocky black desk the stands like a plinth in the middle of the room, statueless.

"Hands on the table," he says.

"What?" I laugh. "No. Go fuck yourself."

"You're going to put your hands on that table, or I'll find a way to tie you to it." He's rolling up his sleeves, not paying attention to me. "Come on. Hurry up... I don't have all day."

"I'm not having sex with you now," I say. "I have to get back home. I've wasted enough-"

"I didn't say anything about that. Hands on the table. We can discuss you going back home... after."

I blink at him, surprised. The promise of home is enough for me to turn slowly to the desk and put my hands on top of it, near the edge.

"I have a job," he says, pulling the two visitor chairs away from the side of the desk where I'm bent over. Their legs echo in scrapes as they drag across the marble floor. "Do you know what it is?"

I scoff at how ridiculous this questioning is. "You're the Wizard," I say. This is something even a young child all the way in the savages of Winkie Country would know.

"Yeah, but what do I do?" he says. The annoyance is growing in his voice.

"You make sure the citizens of Oz have all of their needs met," I say, even though it has been so long since he’d first come to Oz that there was nothing left to be needed.

"No. I hold the power. I keep Oz in working order. Anyone can make people happy." He pauses, the frustration simmering on anger clear in his voice. "People need a ruler. The sun rises, the sun sets, and Oz needs a ruler."

I turn my head to see what point he is trying to make.

"No," he says, twirling a finger. "Uh-uh, face the wall."

I go back to facing the wall, looking at the portraits that are hung up on it. They must be of Lord and Lady Upland, dressed all in their fancy white clothes. A ridiculously oversized white hat complements Lady Upland's nearly-white platinum hair.

"I have a problem, see... You..." he laughs at this. "Well, you keep making a big mess. I am supposed to be at the top of the food chain here and you are acting like a wild animal... running out of meetings, being insubordinate in front of my council."

I press my fingertips into the desk, itching to look back or do anything. "I'm sorry if I'm not exactly calm about my sister being kidnapped," I grit, growing annoyed with this stupid exercise.

"I can name a dozen people up there who are in your same situation, missy," he says, the anger boiling louder, "and none of them behave like you."

I think about the trembling green man that had sat across from us, terrified of his own loved ones being kidnapped. Would it have been so hard to just sit back down and bring my concerns to the Wizard later? I can sense him behind me, and that's when I feel the ragged and worn fabric of my crinoline creep up my leg.

"What are you-" I start.

"I need discipline if you want to go back to the Emerald City. I need you to count, and I need you to not complain. Do you understand?" he asks, tossing a bunching of my skirts over the small of my back.

"You're being ridiculous," I protest. "If this is about that stuff about Fiyero-"

His hand seizes into my hair, wrenching it into a tight grip once more, and I can’t help but to moan as my pulse races. "I don't want to hear you say his name again unless you're told to." He lets go and I almost breathe a sigh of relief when his hand lands a hard smack against my backside.

I yelp and take my hands off the desk, turning to run, but it's no use. He's twice the size of me. The shock jolts through my bones as he throws me back onto the desk, wrenching my skirt up once again. Another smack and I cry out in pain.

"You..." I stutter, turning back to look at him. "Tomathy's outside."

"Tomathy has heard me do a lot worse; you haven't. I suggest, doll, that you start counting. From one."

Another smack. I yelp and clench my fists, expecting another sting, but nothing happens. I lock eyes with him, and in the bright white of the office they are light enough to be tea stains in the sunken saucers of his sockets. They are more than the eyes of Oscar Diggs; they are the eyes of a man pained, trying to keep a nation together. The guilt washes through me in the blinding room. He was right: everyone upstairs had their own troubles. Everyone looked to him, expected things of him, and yet it was like pulling teeth for him to get any kind of help in return. I bring my left hand up to where his rests below my hips to steady them, lacing my fingers into his. "One," I say.

His fingers dig into my hip and he lets out a shaky breath. "There's a good girl," he breathes.

The blows land, one after the other. Around five, I start to enjoy it. It feels nice to have the pain from the library externalized. It feels nice to be under his control. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz did solve everyone's needs; it just so happens that my needs were his attention and guidance.

By twenty, the tears begin to prick my eyes as the pain goes from fleeting stings to a soreness building and aching with each smack. I'm trying my best not to let my voice shake because I don't want this to end. I don't want to go back upstairs, I don't want to meet with any generals, I don't want him paying attention to other people.

By thirty, I can't help it, and my voice sobs each number. He mercifully stops at thirty-five. My skirt is lowered and I get up and bury myself into his chest. It's warm and safe and I can feel the way that his chest rises and falls with each breath, a privacy that only I know. He slowly wraps his arms around me, pressing me into himself as he kisses the crown of my head.

"I'm sorry I ruined your meeting,” I cry, but it’s muffled in the tweed and cotton of his waistcoat and shirt.

"Hey, hey, hey,” he shushes, “It doesn't have to be completely ruined.” His voice is a lull as he caresses my hair to calm me. "I'll spin it. You… you were just getting the jump on this info.” He kisses the top of my head again. “We can make you our new top asset, hmm? How does that sound?"

I look up at him, blinking through earned tears. "You mean like a spy?"

"Yeah, doll," he says, swiping away the wetness on my cheeks. "I'll even let you kill him."