#this has been going on for half a year or so...

[reasonsforhope]

I’m sorry to come to you like this since you probably wanted someone to come in for a reason for hope but I’m freaking out and have no one to talk to about this rn. A music artist I follow put this stuff in their story on instagram..how are things getting better??? I’m so confused and scared. I’m terrified to be alive. I should’ve died in election night. Idk if I can do this anymore. I don’t want the world to end nor live in an apocalypse/dystopia. I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough. I’m going to die before I even reach the age of 25 or 30 instead of dying of old age😥😥😥😥😥

First, breathe.

Second:

Go read these links. Keep going down the list until you feel better:

Read:

this article* on why the doomers are wrong

everything in Fix the News's awesome year-end roundup* of good news

everything in my masterpost on why we're going to beat climate change

everything from my masterpost on net negative carbon emissions

everything in Fix the News's archives, until you feel better

*it's a fantastic article in many ways but warning for (brief but serious) fatphobia and some annoying Western-centrism. Warning for fatphobia also applies to (one point on the) Fix the News roundup.

You should not have died on election night. Absolutely not. Yes, there are great injustices in the world. But this too shall pass. Literally everything does.

Some notes:

This isn't the end of the world. It's not about to be an apocalypse. And, if the world wasn't a dystopia when half of all people died before the age of 15 (aka all of history until the past 250 years), it's definitely not a dystopia now, imho. (x, x)

Literally every single week on Fix the News, I see the news that some country has ended some disease! Usually I see multiple stories about that each week! We're making real progress that has saved billions of lives!

In 1900, 120 years ago, there were 5 full liberal democracies in the entire world. Now, about 97 countries (out of approximately 195, depending on how you count) are democracies. That's almost half the countries in the world! This is actually, writ large, a time of massive expansion of human rights, hard as it is to believe from looking at the news. (x, x)

Also Imho the most likely explanation to the Fermi Paradox is that we're only 0.13% of the way through expected lifespan of the universe (x, x). Very little time for life to evolve, comparatively.

Finally:

Unfollow this person. Unfollow everyone who posts something that makes you feel suicidal - literally and ongoingly, every time you see a post that makes you spiral, immediately unfollow that person.

It's not about sticking your head in the sand. If you want, you can calendar time to check ACTUAL news sources (NOT social media) a couple times a week to make sure you're staying up on things.

But you know what? The number one priority is keeping yourself alive.

How are things actually getting better? To quote the first article I linked:

"I could tell you that a little more than 200 years ago, nearly half of all children born died before they reached their 15th birthday, and that today it’s less than 5 percent globally. I could tell you that in pre-industrial times, starvation was a constant specter and life expectancy was in the 30s at best. I could tell you that at the dawn of the 19th century, barely more than one person in 10 was literate, while today that ratio has been nearly reversed. I could tell you that today is, on average, the best time to be alive in human history."

Stay alive. And do what you need to do to keep yourself that way.

[nichuuu]

Paper Houses

Cho Miyeon x M reader

(1st instalment of The View Between Villages)

Word Count: 18k+ Special thanks to @defmaybe for helping to draw out the best version of this fic.

(All the details? Really? Oh wow. Okay…)

(I’m gonna dissociate myself from this so… “you” is gonna appear a lot. Don’t sweat it cupcake—you’re not actually the one in this mess. 

It’s just a bad habit of mine, that’s all.)

--

(You’re lucky. You get the sweet start to it all. For what it’s worth: sweetness is a fucking deceiving concept when you have rose-tinted lenses.)

“You know: out of all the men I’ve dated, you cook the best.”

You raise an eyebrow as you flip the grilled cheese in your skillet. Frankly, there’s nothing to be impressed about over grilled cheese and tomato soup. Cheese sandwiched between two evenly buttered slices of bread, grilled till golden brown and served with a side of hot tomato juice in a bowl. Literally everything has been prepared for you and packed neatly into some package in a grocery store. All you did was heat it up and add a few of your own ingredients.

“Is that a compliment or a flex?” you ask, turning your gaze away from your skillet momentarily to look at Miyeon as she replies. Her face isn’t gonna add value to her answer, but you just like looking at her. She is hot after all. 

She scoffs and takes a sip of her coffee. “Jeez… Can’t a woman compliment her boyfriend in peace?”

You’ve had this conversation before, but you like to entertain her.

“This woman can’t,” you tell her, making sure she can see the smirk on your face as you turn back to the sandwich. You wave your spatula in the air as you speak, almost like you’re referring to PowerPoint slides. “She’s too weird about everything. Never take her seriously.”

“Oh, so we’re just gonna call me weird and neglect the fact you keep your butter in that?” she exclaims, pointing at the butter bell on top of your fridge. It was a Christmas gift from your mom last year, and even though you did think it was weird at first, you have not gone back to keeping your butter in blocks. 

“You keep my fucking butter bell out of this,” you warn, and it’s half joking and half serious. 

(No one fucks with your butter bell.)

Miyeon chortles. You don’t need to look at her to know that she’s raising her hands in the air when she says, “jeez man. Didn’t know you guys were tight like that…”

And it’s stupid exchanges like this that make you appreciate her company by bounds. It’s lonely in the apartment when she’s out being famous; really nice to have her around for the holidays, albeit for a short time. It’s been a while since she’s been back. There’s much to catch up on over an 11 am brunch. You don’t know why she’s up so damn early today, cause normally you guys sleep till the late afternoon, then go figure out what to eat for dinner before lazing around in the apartment.

So with cheese falling from the corner of her lip, she gives you the latest developments in her life. Then it’s your turn, and you're glad to say that nothing’s really of interest in either of your updates. That’s usually for the better: sometimes the news you give each other can be a little heart-attack-inducing, so it’s better that your lives are pretty bland.

“You know,” she says as she wipes her mouth. “I might just keep dating you for your food,” she tosses her tissue onto the dining table and lets out a sigh. “Fucking delicious.”

You scoff and sip on your coffee. “Bet you told that to all the guys,” you reply wryly. “Probably gets them real excited, huh?”

She grins. It’s cheeky, mischievous, maybe even a little naughty. “Not telling.”

“You don’t tell me a lot of things,” you chuckle, and you’re low-key unsurprised to hear a little bit of unintended bitterness in your voice. “Not that it matters or anything… I just value communication.”

Oh, you’re petty. So fucking petty that it makes your skin crawl a little.

Miyeon’s unfazed. 

“Don’t get your tits in a tussle, pretty boy,” she muses. She folds her arms and leans into the table. “You’ll know more when I trust you more. For now: I’ll give you information as I please.”

And you kick yourself because you forget she can be a bit of a handful herself.

“Ugh, what will I ever do with this mysterious woman?” you smirk, resting your elbow against the table as you lean in as well. To be perfectly clear: you’re not mad at her. Her secrecy just bugs you out a little, and she knows it. “Such little knowledge on such a hardened beauty… must be tough to really crack her open and figure her out.”

You love her eyes, and you love to make them roll (in multiple contexts). They kinda gleam as she tilts her head. “Fine… I’ll give you something since you’re so damn desperate,” she drums her fingers against her cheek while her chin nestles itself into her palm. “What I’m about to give you is gonna change your life in so many ways. It’ll probably redefine your whole damn existence.”

You express your interest by leaning in a little more. Miyeon checks her six—like she isn’t in the comfort of her own home—before leaning in. She’s all clandestine. You have no idea what for. 

“You ready?” she checks. And you know she isn’t expecting an answer, but you nod nonetheless. She checks her left and right for good measure. You never know: maybe your lamp is listening.

“I’m aching for cock right now.”

And you guys don’t even make it to the couch.

It’s on the floor next to your table where she has your face in her hands, and she’s kissing you aggressively. She’s properly kissing you, and it makes you knock the back of your head against the floor a little, but it’s really not too big of a deal. 

She lifts her lips off yours and smirks. “For the record: it’s your fault that we aren’t fucking on the couch.”

“Yeah, and I actually paid rent early for once,” you shoot back sarcastically. “And would you mind helping me clean the yacht I most definitely own on my luxurious salary? Thanks a bunch, honey.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. She knows you’re full of shit, but she’s full of the same shit as you. Form a shit pile or something, maybe even a shit mountain if you feel like it. You could really go on for a while about how you two can talk for hours, but that’s not the main event.

The real deal comes when she has her hand beneath the waistband of your pants, slithering down to the very thing she aches for. She has that smile on her face, the one that kinda says “Oh I’m gonna love this” or “you’re gonna love this” or maybe even both. There are ways to distinguish the messages by looking at her eyes, but you’re a little too lazy to go figure it out right now. And before someone calls you a bum, you can’t help it: she has her hand on your cock and a piercing gaze trained on you. How about you try and focus on discerning implicit messages when there's a hot woman touching you in the right places?

“How are you hard already?” she asks, a hint of a giggle in her tone as she presses your shaft against your body. There’s barely any space down there, yet she makes it work so easily. “I didn’t even, like, do anything yet.”

“Well,” you hum, just as she starts to squeeze your member, appling that toe-curling pressure to your tip and smiling as you strain a little. “I can kinda see your tits through your shirt.”

Miyeon raises her eyebrows. She doesn’t even look at her shirt. “Oh?” and she starts to pump. “I didn’t notice that…”

“Totally,” you grunt. “Like how you don’t notice that your shorts are barely shorts?” you continue, but there’s something more bugging you. “And at least pull my pants down if you’re gonna jack me off, would you?”

Miyeon snorts, but compiles nonetheless. She gets your pants and boxers off with ease. It’s one swift motion (it’s practiced grace really), and she gets back to the task at hand before she was so rudely interrupted. 

“What does seeing my tits have anything to do with you?” Her motions are languid and fluid, steady and flowing like a stream. She doesn’t need to look. She doesn't need to guess. She knows you like the back of her hand. “Does it turn you on? Excite you?”

You have it in you to roll your eyes before they shut. “Stop asking these fucking ridiculous questions.”

“It's a basic inquiry.” She laughs in this aloof tone that you know is paired with the most devious of smiles. “So you won’t let me compliment you and you won’t let me ask questions? Tsk. Chivalry is dead.”

Miyeon goes a little faster, adds a twist of her wrist. This is just her hand, mind you, and it’s already ruining you in a way that only she is capable of. The tender touch of Cho Miyeon is something no woman you’ve met could ever replicate, and it takes you to places that you can only visit with her. Those fingers are magic, that mouth is magic—hell, everything about her is magic. 

“Please,” you manage to quip past the jolts of magic being sent through your system. “We both know that you have the answers to all the questions you just asked.”

She giggles—playfully, you might add. This is all a part of the game you play with her; this is the way Miyeon’s cookie crumbles. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Who cares?”

You care: not a lot, but enough to make this as humorous as you want it to be. You kinda only give two shits because it lets you be kinda petty with her, but not that you externalise it or anything. You just have it pent up in you for the fun of it.

“Anyway,” she muses, halting the strokes of her hand to your cock. “Have I told you about how much I wanted you to fill me while I was filming?”

You take a moment to breathe. “No… But do tell.”

And gets to that, but not before ridding herself of her shirt first. By technicality, it’s your shirt, but it shrunk in the dryer at some point, so it just became hers. She gets into the details, the nitty gritty; tells you exactly what she’s imagining during the filming of her Music Video all while you kind just sit there and ogle at her chest. She takes her time, covers the stuff that you don’t really need to know but it’s kinda hot to know — things like “ugh, I needed you to bend me over the hood of that car and just fuck me at that point…” — because you admittedly get off knowing that she ever thinks about you that way and… God, you’re rambling aren’t you? Still pretty fitting though: it’s the way Miyeon talks when she’s thinking nonsense.

“Ugh. Now I’m wet,” she mutters. She speaks as if it’s your fault that she went on rambling about her fantasies with you. “You know you make me like, really horny right?”

“Oh no… Whatever will I do?” you’re really just rolling with it. Not because you want to, but because you want to get this bit where you tease each other over and done with. It’s kinda like marinating meat in the way it makes the sex a little hotter. Truthfully: you’re aching for her. Really: you want nothing more than to just get her pinned beneath you and writhing on your wooden floor. 

And frankly? You could do all of that right now.

So it’s with a bit of grace (and some dexterity) that you flip the positions: now you’re kneeling over her while she is the one that lies on the floor, if that makes any sense. Miyeon isn’t shocked by your sudden movements, more so delighted by the fact that you finally gave in to your carnal urges and just went for it. She smiles, knowing full well that she’s done something that's gonna give her that fuel she needs for the week. You know: sex that’s the opposite of soft; some shit that fulfills some wild thoughts. 

“Gotta say, you’re quicker than usual,” she has that cocky smirk on her face. You wanna wipe it right off her face, and you know just how. “Normally you’re all talk, no– Oh…”

You like that it really only takes a finger pressed against her panties to shut her up. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make her shut her eyes and shut up for a moment. The spot you press on is damp, soaked in that sweet slick. Gently, you trace the outline of those swollen folds. “You were saying?”

She has it in her to laugh—a breathy chortle. “Fuck you.”

“I’m working on that,” you fire back. Your cock twitches a little when you see her jolt in response to your touch. Your finger pressed down on that one spot that makes her weak, and it really works wonders: an airy gasp slips past those thin, luscious lips. The number of times you’ve kissed those lips swollen is not a number countable with 10 fingers.

Miyeon sighs, and it’s a mix of pleasure and frustration in her breath that humors you. She relaxes into the floorboards, her hips rock, her cunt rubs against your fingers. She's searching for some friction — sweet release in lewd movements. You let her move for a bit, watch her shake like the bough of a willow tree as she pleases herself against your fingers. 

“Enjoying yourself?” you quip. 

“Yeah..” she hums. “Passing time while you’re still not taking these shorts off me.”

Of course… How could you be so forgetful?

You stop for a moment to help her wriggle out of her clothing. It isn’t one of her most graceful moments, but it quickly passes. The shorts join your pants on the floor. Her panties are pink — not that subtle shade of pink or even like a darker version of pink. It’s Barbie fucking Pink.

“So we’re feeling loud today, huh?” you ask, letting your finger trail the lacy parts of the fabric. Miyeon smiles.

“Sana gave them to me,” she explains, not the least bit sheepish that her damp spot is visibly darker than the rest of her underwear. “Hope this doesn’t affect you in your work or anything…”

You feel the corner of your lip turn up. “No, no… Of course not,” you assure her, all while you let your hand slip between the fabric and her skin. You can feel her shudder, then you feel the heat of her cunt at the tip of your fingers. “You caught me on the right day actually… Pink’s in my rotation of favourite colours this fine morning.”

“Right,” her voice has a lilt. It’s shuddering a little too. “I knew that… Definitely had that in mind.”

You laugh. Your index fingers slip between her folds. She moans. 

You lower yourself, capture a swollen, taut nipple in your mouth. The sweet suction you deliver makes her gasp. Her hand finds itself in your head.

It’s all quite rhythmical, almost like a routine for the two of you. The way your bodies react to each other feels so natural that you think it might just be second nature at this point. You know her body: you’ve memorised the dips and curves and tender spots; the hot spots, the warm parts and the best parts. She knows you—the way you think, the way you talk; the way you play with her and the things you want to do with her. It would be safe to say that you guys practically have PhDs in the subject of each other, but that’s not a fair statement because you’re both a little more complicated than you let on. That keeps the sex exciting; it makes you crave each other a little more than last time. 

“One or two?” you whisper, letting your finger dip in and out of her lips and getting it all wet in her slickness. She takes a moment to think, or maybe she’s taking a moment to really soak in the teasing. Either way: she takes some time to reply. 

“Two,” she shifts herself a little lower, her clit pressing into the base of your middle finger. It makes her sigh — a low, kinda sonorous escape of air through her lips. “I hope you trimmed your nails this time.”

“That last time was a minor mishap,” you admit. You kinda want to pull your hands out to double-check, but you’re too mired in the moment to assuage your worries. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it all under control.”

She beams like the damn sun. “Good. I like it when you’ve got the reins.”

And that makes you suck in some air through your teeth. 

(God, does she know how to try you on.)

Your digits push themselves inside of her. They’re wrapped in her tight warmth, snug as a bug in a rug or whatever. You love the way her abs kinda flex as your fingers introduce themselves to her insides. It makes the best parts of her pop. Her chest rises a little more than the last time, her breaths becoming a little longer and more drawn out as your fingers explore her like always. The way she jolts when you get to that one spot at the roof of her pussy tells you that she has been primed and ready for this moment, loaded up like a shotgun and the trigger is really just any part of you that makes her cum. It could be your fingers, your tongue, your dick, your thigh—any part of you that can get her to that sweet high. Of course: you’re more than happy to assist. And so your mouth latches itself back onto her breast, tongue licking and swishing and flicking the swollen nipple atop her small yet generously sized breast. You relish the way it feels in your hand as you cup it—not too firmly and not too gently—and give it a squeeze, enjoying how the flesh spills out a little between your fingers but still fits in the palm of your hand.

“How do you only get better at this?” she hisses through her teeth. “I mean, I just saw you last week but… Oh god…”

You remove her nipple from your mouth. “Art is honed. This is art.”

She laughs, then throws her head back to let out a moan. “Well I’ll be damned,” her eyes close as she speaks, resting themselves for a bit so that she can enjoy the feel of your fingers in the best part of her slick. “Paint me like one of your French girls then.”

And you kinda have to kiss her after that. It’s a good line… and she’s, like, smoking hot right now.

You can’t track the exact moments where she starts to blue screen on you, but you can guess it's somewhere between you pinching her nipple and when you slide a third finger into her. The pressure, the stretching—it’s, like, everything she wants as of right now. She lets out this choked-up cry that you like to hear, the supple curve of her back growing more defined as she arches just a little more. She doesn't hold back, she never does. When you’re making her feel good, you can bet some good money that she’ll let you know. She’ll find her own way to express herself, be it through sound or action or words—sometimes a combination of all three. 

The way she feels around your fingers—delicate squeezing and sweet pressure around your digits as they stretch her to new lengths—is nothing short of enthralling. You can feel her pulse around you, the dull throb of her heartbeat as it beats for the sole purpose of getting all that blood rushing into the right areas. Your hand is kinda messy, fingers coated down to your knuckles in the sweet substance from her heat. Miyeon starts to writhe, squirm. A whine leaves her mouth. It’s followed by another, and another, and another—keeps going till the whiny stream ends with a guttural moan. 

Her legs close around your wrist. Her throat bobs.

“Mmph… baby…” her hand flails a bit as she tries to search for you. She catches your shoulder and her nails dig in. “Your mouth… I want your mouth on me.”

You always loved how forthcoming she is. 

“Miyeon…” you drawl, and this next bit is really just for the fun of it. “What’s the magic word?”

She laughs softly through the pleasure, lets a smile grace your eyes. She doesn’t fight it; she wants it—wants you. She just wants you in any shape or form. Any version of you will do; she’ll take all the different sides of you in a heartbeat. All she needs is you. “Please.”

You’ve never found so much delight in hearing that word. Kinda makes you want to hear it again.

“I can’t hear you,” your thumb presses down onto her clit. Her thighs start to twitch. 

“Please!” she yells that magic word in the form of a shout this time. Your cheeks hurt from how widely you’re beaming.

You retract your fingers. They come up to your mouth so you can taste her off of them. She’s nothing short of delicious, and you can kinda tell that she knows it because she’s smirking as she watches you clean off yourself.

“How are we feeling about the samples?” she has that proud gleam in her eye. “Pineapple’s been in my diet as of late… Just wondering if anything’s different.”

You smack your lips. “Picking up on a little tang here… Can’t be sure though.”

Her hands slide down to her hips, thumbs hooking into the band of her panties and pulling them down her thighs. “No worries. There’s more where it came from.”

The gall of this girl is insane, you’re thinking, smirking as you assist the journey of her underwear down her slim, milky legs. Like all your other clothing, it’s tossed aside. 

Miyeon spreads thighs, bends her knees so that her feet are flat on the floor.  You get in position, let your palms slide down her body with careful consideration: run your hands over the sensitive parts of the stomach, skim that one portion of her inner thigh that makes her shiver. She watches—waiting and anticipating while failing to keep her excitement off her face. 

She is glistening, swollen and plump to your eyes, kinda far ahead considering that you just used your fingers. She’s eager, unashamed and more proud than embarrassed about her arousal. Her legs shift a bit. She looks at you, a fingernail between her teeth as she exhales sharply when your thumb traces the outline of her pussy, careful in its endeavor as you feel the muscles around her slick tense up in response. Oh she’s so damn impatient right now, but she lets you get away with all of this because it gets her off a little harder; the teasing is just part of the show and the climax will probably follow pretty soon, fast and hard

“You’ve been looking forward to this, huh?” you remark, watching as her eyelids flutter when you put a little pressure with the pad of your thumb. 

“Mhm…” she replies. It’s a low hum, one that resonates in her throat rather pleasantly. “You have no idea…”

You laugh. Your eyes roll towards the ceiling then set themselves back on her. “Please… We both know I have some idea,” you stop your thumb on her clit, and you begin to draw small circles around it. “You did tell me” —and you have to pause for a bit to use your other hand to press down on her pelvic area, stopping her from jolting her hips up to get that sweet sensation of your thumb rubbing her swollen nub. She whines a little, a soft plea following suit— “about all the things you wanted to do with me.”

She desperately tries to shift herself, press herself a little more against you. The smooth wooden floor hinders her, the lack of friction failing to aid her. Her brows furrow. She’s frustrated. “Yeah, well, if you know what I want so much, why aren’t you fucking getting to it?”

You wink. “Relax. I’m just letting the meat tenderise.”

“Oh shut it you fucking—  Mmmph!”

And the way you part her with your tongue, it’s like she’s butter and you’re a hot knife slicing her open. You're slow with it, and you don’t stop when Miyeon’s thigh stiffens against your palm, or when she squirms a little and almost got your tongue derailed from its track. You know what makes her tick, what makes her hit the octave and gets her nice and messy for you. If anything gets Miyeon going more than actually fucking—it’s definitely gotta be when you get your tongue on her folds. 

“You’re never gonna let me finish my sentences, are you?” she laughs breathily. You watch her abdomen as it rises and falls together with the quick breaths she takes.

“Dunno…” you nuzzle your face in her folds for a little, giving her time to say whatever she wants for a bit. “You did say that chivalry is dead.”

From your bottom up view of her, you can tell that she just rolled her eyes. “No comment. You won’t let my finish it any— oh my fucking god.”

Now it’s the flat of your tongue against her clit that stops her dead in her tracks. Her juices have begun to lather your tongue in their addictive taste, drawing you into her just a little more with each lap of your tongue. You suck on one of her folds, then your tongue is inside her, and she moans, her hand finding a spot on the back of your head that she can grip on to. She calls you crazy, calls you baby, runs her fingers through your hair. Your tongue dips in, circles, laps; your nose brushes against all the right spots of her skin and it draws out these almost sob-like, quiet sounds from her chest and she’s… Fuck, she’s amazing.

“I might take a while,” she whispers to you. You call malarkey, but play along nonetheless.

“Fuck yes,” your tongue swipes the entirety of her in a long, broad stroke. “Please, by all means princess. Take your time,” you don’t think you could ever sound as enthusiastic as you did right now. She pushes you down a little harder onto her slit, and you delight in how she squirms when you push your tongue a little deeper between her folds.

Her nails start to dig into your scalp a bit, and she starts pushing you down onto her cunt a little more.

“You know,” she speaks with this half-whisper-half-gasp, the type of tone that tells you that she’s fighting to stay in control of her own body. “I— mmph… Sometimes I lock myself in the changing room and just get off to the thought of you eating me.”

You suck on the other fold that you neglected earlier. “Oh yeah?” and you get a finger inside of her. She cries out, abdomen flexing deliciously as she turns pliant under the pressure of your finger getting a hold of that sweet spot. You can feel the heat—it feels like your skin is gonna melt. “Bet you get off real hard to it, maybe even harder than you will in like, two minutes.”

“Two?” she tries to sound a little defiant, but her voice is cracking and it’s really not working out in her favour. Your finger is barely pushing up by the way, yet it seems like she’s got thousands of pascals of pleasure weighing down on every part of her being. “Don’t put yourself on a fucking pedestal… I am nowhere close.”

You hum in reply, saving your energy to suck on her clit. And it’s almost like she’s spring-loaded in the way her thighs clamp around your ears immediately after. Her fingers eat into your scalp, a light, searing pain growing across your head as you kiss her right fold, then her left. You can tell that there’s liquid burning heat running through her body, spilling all over her. Miyeon tries to hold on, tries to prolong this for a little more by getting her nails deep in your scalp. But she’s falling apart, coming undone with each second.

“Baby.”

“One minute left,” you put your lips back around her clit. Her head thumps against the floorboards.

“I—can’t.”

“Ugh. Hate it when you lie.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Just fucking cum.”

And she ruins herself. She loses sense of the world for a bit—convulsing and twitching on the floor while you continue to lick her. No cry leaves her mouth; a strained, choked up phonic gets caught in her throat and refuses to dislodge. Her back arches, her thighs flex. Her world fades for a bit. 

Give or take: she takes a minute or so. When she gasps for air, you know she’s come back down to earth. You welcome her with a kiss to her abdomen as you rise up. Her cheeks are rubicund—flushed and making her glow as she smiles at you. She softly captures your cheeks in her hands.

“Okay,” she huffs, taking deep breaths as she strokes your face with her thumb. “Out of all the men I’ve dated: you can cook and eat the best.”

“Twenty dollars says that you’ve said that to at least four guys,” you muse. “Maybe five if I’m generous.”

She closes her eyes for a moment. Inhales. Exhales.

“Hand on my heart,” she uses one hand to push some hair out of her face. “I’ve only said this to you.”

Ignorance is bliss. Believing her is a sort of ignorance.

You willfully let yourself be blissful because you can.

--

(Then fast forward a little. Maybe like, three hours? Or however long it takes for you to have a nap and a shower to get ready to go out.)

“Are you seriously going out in that?”

And you have to stop at the door. You know that tone all too well.

“What is it this time?” you grumble, turning around to face the bed so that she can get a full biopsy of your outfit. It isn’t a bad outfit in your honest opinion, and you’re no stranger to horrible (unintentional) attempts at making fashion statements. Colour-blindness is a hereditary curse; it’s not your fault that you can’t tell that this shade of blue doesn’t work with that shade of grey and whatnot. “I swear I wore this a week ago and you said nothing.”

Miyeon slips out from under the covers. In your T-shirt, she saunters with purpose and urgency as she makes her way over. She stops in front of you and takes your tie into her hands. “It’s either you lose this tie or do something else to this already god-forsaken outfit.”

You consider the options for a hot minute. You’re kinda proud of this outfit—it took a lot of time and vetting through Miyeon to get it planned out and everything. The tie was kind of a staple piece—as important as the shirt or trousers. To hear that (in essence) you looked like shit admittedly dealt a blow to your ego, but why be petty when you can be cavalier?

“Whatever,” you reply, making no effort to stop her from trailing a nail up your shirt. “I couldn’t really care less about how this woman perceives me tonight. Not even into her anyway.”

Miyeon chuckles. The finger on your chest wraps itself around the top of your tie. “That’s an option as well,” she adjusts the knot, though it doesn’t look like she’s doing it to make you look better. “But can I give you one more alternative?”

“By all means, princess.”

She tugs on your tie, pulls you close. Your lips are just centimetres away from hers. You get a whiff of her scent. She’s using the shampoo you bought her. 

“Stay home,” she makes sure that her voice is kinda breathy, tickles your face as she lets the phonics dissipate into warm air. “Skip the date. You have a smoking hot girlfriend to fuck anyway.”

Oh and it takes you just about everything to stop you from grabbing her by the face and just kissing her. It's so easy: reach forward, get her face (or waist) in your hands and just smash her lips against yours. You know she’s thinking the same thing; but she’s waiting on you, anticipating what you’re going to do next. It’s a sick little game the two of you play, but it’s fun as hell and really doesn’t get boring in the near future.

“You know what my mom would say…” you begin, and you know she’s gonna stop you.

“Say you're sick”—bingo motherfuckers. She owes you five bucks—“tell her that you got the cold and so you can’t show up.”

“Expended on that one… And the work emergency one too,” you regretfully inform her. “And no: I will not be telling them that we’re actually a thing—“

“Cause you want to protect me and blah blah…” she interjects yet again, her fingers moving up and down, closing against her thumb in mimicry of a mouth moving. It’s petty, kinda frustrating—but it’s Miyeon. She’s a handful to deal with at times, but at least she’s your handful to deal with. “Been running the same jig for a little too long, tiger. I know your game.”

“I know,” you admit. “I’m a one-trick Pony and my carrot is you. What’s new?”

She chortles at that, and you take that moment to really get a good look at her because by god is she beautiful. Head-turner, eye-widener, heart-racer — not to be a bore, but again: it’s Miyeon. There’s a lot more about her that you could synthesize into words, but you won’t (not because you don’t want to or anything; but it’s more about the fact that you probably don’t have enough time to get someone to understand her.)

Cause here’s the thing (about her, you and both of you): she’s just as human as anyone, and that means she’s just about as complicated as anyone. You’ve got a story, she’s got her’s, and the two cross somewhere to form a midpoint before they start running parallel to each other before meeting again and running together and… You get it, don’t you?

No? Fuck. 

Okay. She may or may not be able to hold down a relationship; and you may or may not have been able to secure a relationship. You kinda get drunk with her over this revelation one night and you may or may not have joked over the fact that maybe you should get together. And then you may or may not have had the hottest sex you’ve had in years before you may or may not have realised that she’s the best thing to happen to you. It’s all kinda hypothetical to you cause you’re still processing the fact that this is all real. Still wondering if it’s a fling cause it’s only been about 3 months since this started.

(Calm down cupcake, no one likes a party pooper who prods on details in the midst of a story. It’s just… Ugh. The story behind how the two of you know each other is so boring and complicated—full of unnecessary exposition like this whole bit really. It hurts to retell it, so here’s a summary: she used to date your roommate, roommate moved out after they broke up, she stayed and hanged around you, here you are now. Fuck the details, there’s no room for it really. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.)

“Save the charisma,” she tells you, really putting on some breath behind her words. “I prefer it when you use it in bed.”

And you kinda have to kiss her after that. It’s a good line… and she’s, like, smoking hot right now.

The kiss kinda blurs the line between passionate and sweet (if there even was a line to begin with). It’s quite aggressive, a little tender but also a wee bit emotional. It makes you a little bitter, but don’t get it twisted: you love this girl with all your heart and you’d do anything to stay with her. It’s just that you’d love—more than anything—to lose the shirt and pants you’re wearing to make out with her, and then let things flow as they do. Unfortunately, your parents really want you to meet this girl, and you have to get going or you’ll probably get cut from the will or something.

She tries again. “Stay…”

“Miyeon—”

“I fucking need you… Please.”

It’s just so fucking tempting…. But there are only so many lines you can cross before you find yourself in trouble with border patrol. And if there's anything you hate more than lectures, it’s lectures from your mother.  

Her lips graze yours, hovering just millimeters away. She wants to kiss you—bite your lower lip and pull you into an undoubtedly sloppy lip lock. That will end with your hand somewhere on her body that gets the ball rolling (and we all know where that ball goes). She has it in her to do it; she has the right, the means and the fucking autonomy (and audacity). She’s just waiting on you, seeing what happens when she plants the seed of an idea in your head and waters it a little. 

Unfortunately for her, you’re too damn terrified of your parents to let that seed grow.

“I‘ll see you later,” you whisper, albeit a little reluctantly. “Call me if anything comes up.”

She understands that she’s lost. Doesn’t stop her from giving you that kiss though. “Don’t keep me waiting tonight… I love you.”

Ugh. She’s one hell of a woman, isn’t she?

--

So get this: this woman that your mother found for you is possibly the most boring person you’ll ever meet. She’s beautiful and all, but she has the personality that has just about the same amount of flavour as food in the west before spices.

She spends the meal talking about her job, and you kinda just fix her with a hundred yard stare and tune out. You couldn’t give a shit about computer security really—never was and never will be into that shit. It doesn’t help that your phone is kinda blowing up at the moment. It’s buzzing all over your thigh in your pocket. Pretty trippy, kinda makes you wonder if Miyeon had just slipped one of her vibrators into your pocket.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom at some point. You’re not sure how long she’s been yapping your ear off for, but it kinda doesn’t matter. All you’ve gotten from this meal is really just a handful of nonsense and a migraine. 

Anyway: it’s in the confines of the bathroom store that you check on the ruckus in your pocket. The screen lights up and you find that the spasming of your phone was caused by a combination of posts from a news outlet and from Miyeon. She takes precedence over the news.

Miyeon//8:01 pm: I swear to you I have no idea what’s going on 

Miyeon//8:01 pm: I’m getting this at the same time as you

Miyeon//8:02 pm: I don’t know what’s happening. Please come home.

And the way you open your news app almost instantly makes you feel like you’re all too familiar with this. It’s not a headline, but it might as well be from the way it makes your eyes widen and your breath stop for a second. 

You blink. You blink again. 

The words don’t change. 

Suddenly, you have a valid reason to get out of this dinner.

(How you get home is a little fuzzy, but that’s not really the important part. 

What? The headline? Oh you know it, don’t you cupcake? It was literally the only thing on people’s minds for some reason, as if an idol dating an actor is something unheard of.)

“What the fuck?” you ask when you step through your apartment door.

She sighs as you remove your coat and hang it behind your door. “Look… I’m just as confused as you are—”

“An actor?” you interject. You’ll admit that it’s a little rude, but you’re really just trying to make sense of this as fast as possible. “How long have you known this guy?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t,” she huffs. “I swear to you, hand on my heart and the other on the bible, I am not in love with that man.” She says. “I barely even know the fucker, never talked to him in my life.”

It’s a little hard to look at her right now. You have lots of things to say; lots of feelings and lots of thoughts. If you’re really gonna be honest with yourself: you’re scared, hurt and a little confused. Miyeon’s good at lying—a little too good for your liking. Pair that knowledge with your insecurities, and congrats: you’ve just given birth to multiple insecurities. They’re like little demons running amok in your chest. It’s suddenly hard to breathe.

You can’t do this with her now. Not when all this is all so fresh and new. 

But she catches your arm as you try to walk past her. Her grip is firm, pleading. 

“Please,” she utters, letting her hand slide down your arm to let her fingers wrap around your hand. “Trust me on this.”

You want to. You really want to. And so it hurts you to ask, “Am I just another fling?”

You can see it in her eyes when she realises the motivation behind the question. She doesn’t take long to come to the epiphany—just a little less than a second before her eyes soften and her lips part a little. Her expression scares you. You want to run from this all together and leave it to another day, but God knows that you won’t be getting any sleep with this weight in your head. It’s comical, almost hilarious if it weren’t for the fact that it’s your relationship with her on the line.

You like to think that she can’t express her answer into words, so she kisses you instead. You’ll never know why she chose to kiss you, but it's sweet and so powerful that you can kinda live with that gap in your knowledge. You may or may not have teared a little, and you may or may not have melted into her lips a little too quickly. What you can say for certain: when you find yourself back in those eyes, panting with your face between her hands—the words ‘I love you’ escape your mouth faster than you can think. You don’t say it for the sake of it; you say it cause you mean it. You want her to know that you’ll fight for this relationship, that you’ll fight for her.

And it makes her smile. 

“I’m like, in love with your goofy ass,” she mutters, thumb tracing a path along your cheek. “So don’t you ever think that I’d drop you for some slick-back fuck face.”

That’s more than enough for you. Her smile is contagious as you hold her waist. “Crude. I love you, Miyeon.”

“Yeah. I heard you the first tim—”

Of course: you don’t wait for a finished reply to kiss her. It’s a practice, almost a common tongue at this point.

Miyeon lets her hands fall, gets her arms around your neck while you reacquaint your lips with hers. She’s lovely, fucking divine and maybe even a little addictive—straight up dangerous if you’re to sum it up. You wonder, for a second, if you’re being manipulated, and it’s really only for a second because she’s got her teeth in your bottom lip and she’s dragging them towards her. She wants more—more of you and less of this need to prove her love. She touches your chest, palm flat against your flesh as she deepens the kiss. Ignorance is bliss. Believing her is a sort of ignorance. Kissing her deepens that ignorance, makes you all the more blissful.

“I need you,” you breathe, unashamed by your blatant desire to have her right now. Really: you can’t get enough of her smell right now. “Please Miyeon… Let me be the only one.”

She smiles softly. She runs her fingers through your hair. “Baby, you already are.”

You press your forehead against hers. “I know. But can we just…”

You can’t really verbalise what you want out of this. You want Miyeon, but you don’t just want the idea and concept of her. You long for that connection with her, that union and that closure, not just some fleeting, superficial feelings. This woman is quite literally one of your dreams. It’s selfish to say this, but you want that security—something tangible to know that you’re really hers and she’s really yours, a piece of her that you can hold on to that helps rid your heart of those little demons. You hope she can understand this through your closed eyes.

And something about the way she fixes your hair tells you that she does.

“It’s okay,” she assures you, her other hand finding that one spot on your chest. It feels like it’s touching your heart directly, calming it. “I get it,” her fingers wrap around the knot of your tie, loosening it till it unravels completely. “You’re hurt and scared. Frankly, so am I.”

Miyeon wraps the tie up neatly in her fist. Her hands cross over each other as she reaches down to grab the hems of her shirt. It slips off her, a layer peeled away. Then the tie rolls down from her hand. 

“I want you to know”—she drapes the tie around her shoulders, the thin portion ever so slightly shorter than the broader portion as they hang on either side of those perky mounds—“I will do everything I can to protect you and us.”

She tosses the smaller end across her body, cloth flying over her left shoulder and dangling behind her arm. The broader end is wrapped around her neck—once, twice. 

Miyeon steps closer and takes your hand. The broad end of the tie gets slotted into your palm. 

“And even though I might have to be seen with him,” she coos, and she’s a little clumsy as she reaches for the thin end behind her, but she gets it on her second or third try. “Even though I might have to hold his hand in public,” she slips it between her skin and the loop she’s made, ties it off. “You should know: I am yours.”

She shocks you into silence as always. You know what she’s insinuating. You know that she knows what she’s insinuating. Your eyes search her for consent, and you find that it’s the only thing you can make out behind the veneer of a tender gaze. She checks the makeshift leash she’s made. It’s not coming off anytime soon.

You wrap some of the tie around your hand. Your fingers close around the silky fabric. 

(Just so we’re clear: the tie may look horrible on you, but she looks amazing in it.)

You pull.

And it’s just that. 

Clothes come off, lips meet, sighs fly through the room. Her hands explore you, grab you, pump you; your kisses find the best parts of her, the parts you love the most and the parts she loves attention at. The tie never leaves your hand, and you give it a tug or two when you get your digits in her on the couch. You’ll never forget the way she looks when her head is forced up just after it whips back, the glassy look in her eye as she begs for you, keens for you. Never in your life has anything this debauched been so intimate. You’ve never heard sighs out of you and her so luscious. 

“Princess,” you quite literally growl as you address her. It’s not necessary, but the squelching of your fingers in her slick brings out something in you—a part of you that’s wild and somewhat untamed. “I fucking love the way you moan.”

Miyeon bites down on her lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. “Yeah? She husks, her eyes going half-lidded in pleasure when you get your fingers in the same, soft, tender spot on the roof of her pussy. “It’s all for you. Ngh— A-All yours…”

And you don’t know how you can not believe her at this point.

You pull at the tie. She almost straightens completely. You kiss her. Her moans send pleasant vibrations down your windpipe.

It’s all so perfect. And it somehow gets even more perfect when she cums—waves of heat burning through her system; eyes shut and mouth agape; hands around your neck and your name spilling from her lips in a mix of curses (that mostly contain the word ‘fuck’); body convulsing and twitching in ways that make a low grunt emerge from the depths of your chest as you watch her. She’s beautiful—your beautiful princess.

When it’s over, you let the tie go slack. She crashes against the couch, forcing air back into her lungs with deep breaths. There’s sweat on her face, her body. Your hand finds its place on her tummy as you place small kisses on the corner of her lip, her jaw. Her skin is moist and sticky.

“Have me,” and it’s more so of a demand than a request. “Take me. However you want, wherever you want,” she runs her hands through your hair, “You’re the only one I want.”

You let out a low hum. It lightly vibrates at the base of your throat as you catch her earlobe between your lips. 

“Has anyone told you how fucking beautiful you are?” you can’t help but ask. She searches your face or a minute, then she chortles.

“About half the world,” she replies. “But it means the most coming from you.”

(Oh… That line really means the fucking world to you.)

You kiss her, hard. It’s messy, sloppy, and at some point you guys are scrambling to get on top of each other. She wins at one point, and so she rides you—dropping and rising hard and fast on your cock like a lewd merry-go-round carriage. She’s relentless, letting your cock fill her while she blanks out and just lets herself cry and moan like you don’t have thin walls in your apartment. You let her please herself, throw herself down onto your cock again and again till you decide that it’s your turn to have some fun. The tie is your friend, and you use it to pull her real close to not too kindly hiss your instructions into her ear. 

You’d kill to see the look in her eyes again.

And so you have her against the nearest wall in less than a minute, her back flushed against it and one of her legs bent in the crook of your arm. She reaches between your bodies, grabs your throbbing shaft and rubs your tip against her slit. You feel the heat of her pussy—the desire and depravity that burn in her core. You can’t believe she’s yours.

“I’m gonna put this in me,” she narrates her course of action, all breathy and silky. “It’s gonna fill me, fuck me… Maybe even cum in me.”

“I wouldn’t get ahead of ourselves here,” you whisper, your hand wrapping itself back in the fabric of the tie. “That last part? I dunno… Seems a little optimistic, don’t you think?”

She pushes your head in between her folds—not all the way, but enough to part them. “And why is that?”

You pop your hips, push yourself in a little more. She inhales sharply. 

“I only cum inside good girls.”

The smile that creeps its way onto her face is wicked.

“Trust me,” her hand finds purchase on your shoulder, pads of her fingers digging into the muscle. “I’ll be the best you ever get.”

She puts her weight onto the leg in your arm. You slide into her.

And you both take a moment to enjoy the unity—the feeling of the two of you being joined as one; your out of sync heartbeats that feel like pattering raindrops around your shaft. You want to say something witty, a quip that will get a nice chuckle out of her.

All you can really manage is, “Fuck.”

And in response: “Talk less. Fuck more.”

You draw back, push in. There’s the sopping sound of your shaft going in and out of her, wet pushing into warm flesh. You groan. She sighs. 

Tight, hot, wet, divine.

And it goes without saying: when you pick up the pace, she lets you know that she loves the feeling—the stretching, the filling, the push and pull. It comes to you in the form of pure filth: words that have very little consideration for propriety and no room for decency, something along the lines of “I can’t believe you feel this good. I can’t believe this cock is mine” or “That’s it. Keep filling me. Keep fucking— Oh” or maybe even a mix of both. You can’t be certain, because between you and her, you both know that the undulating of your cock into her tight, creamy heat and the almost torturous pressure around your dick is taking you under by the second. It’s not hard to lose yourself in her when she’s basically a little piece of you. 

Like always, she let her pleasure be known through desperate noises and choked up words. “Keep going, please, fuck—don't stop,” and it sounds like it hurts but you know it’s the other way around. Her pleasure coated tongue makes the lust in her words undeniable, her half-lidded eyes ruining the argument that she’s in any pain whatsoever. You yank on her tie, her body curves closer. You need a better look at that face.

(Trust me, it’s a face you don’t want to forget. 

For lack of a better word: it’s porny as fuck.)

It's a blissful dance – the rhythmic, almost metronomical give of her thighs as you slide yourself home again and again steadily and firmly. The smacking of sweaty and sticky skins colliding is almost evenly paced, sighs and grunts filling the spaces between slaps. She follows your lead, rocks her hips accordingly, angles herself and adjusts so that she can feel you in the deepest parts of her cunt. You lift her leg a little higher, spear yourself a little deeper. You listen to your body, she listens to hers. You give in to your desires.

You don’t mean to blurt it. You don’t mean to make the sex more complicated than it already is. But it happens—it fucking happens and you can’t stop it. 

“I love you,” your voice is nothing more than a rasp. She feels so fucking good around you — squeezing, pulsing and doing every little thing that makes your jaw tighten and you legs tense. “I fucking love you, Miyeon.”

She holds your gaze, then smiles, then nods. She nods vigorously, enthusiastically. “I know… It’s all I’ve ever known.”

Your hand on the tie releases it from your grasp. You catch a bouncing breast in your hand, squeeze the tight and taut nipple with your fingers. The tie shakes violently like a snake writhing, bouncing and swaying with each firm impact against Miyeon’s skin. She mewls, pulls you in, kisses you. She lets herself come undone with her chest flushed against you and your hearts aligned as she lets the cries transfer from your mouth to hers. You pump yourself faster, harder, faster, harder. Your finger digs into the flash near her knee. Your blood is boiling, molten metal spilling over and washing over you—gold rush, acid flux, saturating you in this bliss that numbs you out. You can’t tell where your thrusts start and end. They’re blurred by the heat washing over your eyes. You can’t get enough. The way you fuck her—it feels relentless, merciless, a fire that only burns brighter and can’t be put out, fuelled by the heat of Cho Miyeon flushed against you and the sublime squeeze of her slick heat. Everything about this is hot; everything about her is hot. 

“Don’t you ever let me go,” she hisses. “Fuck— don’t ever leave. This cock is mine. You are mine.”

“Princess, I’d never,” you nuzzle yourself into the crook of her neck, pepper her nicely with kisses. “You. Only you.”

“Yeah,” and her breath is hot on the nape of your neck. “Cause I can’t ever fucking imagine anyone else filling me this fucking good. No one has ever filled me this good.”

And her fricatives feel like acid: Aqua Regia—melting straight through solid gold just to get to you. It makes you burn a little hotter, fuck her a little harder. Your heart burns at the thought of her; your brain melts at the sight of her—glassy-eyed and mouth agape while cock pumps her full of pleasure and want. She finds a spot on your shoulder, whispers her proclamation of love— “I love you I love you I love you— Fuck—”—before she buries her face into your shoulder blade. Her love is an animal call, cutting through the darkness and bouncing off the walls, reaching a soft spot in your heart that you hold for her. Nothing in this world is gonna stop you from turning her into a messy little fucktoy. 

It’s hard to think. It’s hard to breathe. She’s become your world, the only thing you ever want to think about. Anything that isn’t her tight little pussy is irrelevant; what isn’t her thin lips pressed against your shoulder is invalid; no pair of eyes will ever match the glassy, lust-fogged ones that Cho Miyeon possesses. Your pulse is rushing, your head is reeling, your face is flushing. You want her—all of her. You suck hard on the milky skin you’ve caught between your lips, marking her, claiming her. She has no qualms nor worries; she tilts her neck to give you better access to that lovely patch of skin that becomes your canvas. She mewls, presses her forehead harder into your body, grounding herself in the sensation of her skin on yours. 

“I’m gonna fucking fill you, Miyeon,” you drawl. “I’m gonna cum inside this pretty little pussy and make a mess out of you,”

“Yeah, yes,” she’s barely holding it together at this point. “Please. Oh god please.”

Your hips move on their own now, taking liberties without signals from your fried brain as you pump yourself into Miyeon with the sole goal of piping her full of your hot seed. For long, wordless minutes, you're thrusting into her in a mindless, fervent fashion, giving in to your desires and your depravity and fucking her like she’s a doll. You relish the feel of her skin in your palms; the feel of her hands pressed against your chest; the sheer, strained phonetic atrocities that rise from the depths of her throat. Your shaft glistens in the light of the room, slick with her sweet juices as it slips in and out of her hot cunt, spearing into her with depth, making her legs weaker by the second. Miyeon cups your cheek, moans your name. You bury your nose deep in those silky locks of jet black hair. You need every last part of her to be close to you.

She's whimpering, eyes squeezed shut, toes clenching; she’s a coiled up spring, a bundle of nerves waiting to be released. Her bottom lip is between her teeth, her throat bobs. She's coming undone, breaking a little more with each thrust of your cock. You know that she’s cumming before she announces it, and when you fuck her over the point of no return, it’s bliss.

Miyeon melts, head whips back and thumps against the wall, positively combusts on the spot and ceases to hold on to the last bits of herself. She lets herself fall through the pleasure, orgasm almost ripping through her system as she shakes in your grasp. She’s such a precious thing, yet she can look like lust itself when she’s busy cumming all over your cock and whining like her life depends on it. She’s tighter, wetter, even better to fuck. 

She really is the best you’ll ever have.

“Miyeon–”

“Just fucking cum.”

Your line; same effect. You fill her, make a creamy mess of her cunt because you can. You fuck her through it, push your load deeper with each thrust. Your cock pulses, spasms, shoots load after load after load into her pussy till you can’t take it anymore and jitter to a halt, and there’s nothing left but a filthy mess flowing out at the base of your cock where her lips are splayed the widest. It’s a sight for sure. 

(And there really isn’t a word for the moment that the two of you share in that wrinkle in time, that moment where it’s just all warm and fuzzy and you have your forehead pressed against hers.)

You cradle her in your arms, kiss her chest, her jaw, her lips. It’s tender, it’s gentle.

“We’ll figure this out,” she pants through closed eyes. “I promise you: you and me, we’re gonna figure this all out.”

Somehow, you don’t doubt it.

--

(Still here? Great. We’re getting to the good part. Get your special sock out or something.)

So the newest rage of the K-pop scene is the photo of Miyeon kissing him in a car.

It's a publicity stunt—the whole damn relationship. They are supposed to appear in love according to Miyeon, and it was his idea to kiss her. She never consented and he just did it. It’s a pretty lewd photo: up close and personal and all. You can see his lips on hers, his hand on her breast and they’re like, clearly getting it on in three. Pretty steamy if you do say so yourself,

(...)

Oh fucking hell. Who are you kidding describing this photo like you’re just viewing an artwork. It makes your blood boil, and speaking to her after seeing this photo feels like dancing to alarm bells when you feign ignorance and just talk with her like it’s a normal Wednesday. You’re gonna hurt yourself at this rate, but she really means too much.  

She told you that he forced his lips on hers, you believe her to the best of your ability. You kiss her, tell her it’s okay, that she’s doing what she has to do to protect the two of you. She says she’s sorry, that she feels like she’s failed you. You kiss her again—albeit a little half-hearted—and assure her once more that it’s okay. You want to nurse her pain, but you also have your own problems to deal with.

And as if this fucking actor hasn’t interfered enough with your relationship, he has the audacity to call during the make up sex.

Her phone starts to ring when she’s on her hands and knees on your bed, and you’re fucking her into the mattress like she’s some pliant plaything. There's a rage inside you that hasn’t been quenched, and you don’t realise that it’s bringing out that dark side of you till you spank her ass a little harder than you intended to. It doesn’t help that you kinda twitch when you hear her yelp, and it really doesn’t help when she tightens after the second spank. The phone only continues to vibrate next to her head.

“Baby,” she rasps. “My phone…”

“Pick it up,” you hiss. “Pick it up and let whoever the fuck it is hear how you’re being fucked like a slut.”

Degradation has never really been a kink of yours, but you know she’s kinda into it. Even so, you’re not calling her a slut because you consciously want to. You feel like an asshole for being angry, kinda hate yourself a little for not being able to accept that she’s doing what she needs to do. And then you kinda hate her for making you hate yourself and— Ugh. It just gets more complicated the more you try and rationalise it. You can’t stop the hot blood from coursing through your system, fuelling your firm strokes into her tight heat like you’re trying to inject all the hate in your body into her. 

Her hand that was once clawing at the sheets now reaches for her phone. You keep thrusting as she flips it over, keep thrusting as she shows you the caller ID, keep thrusting as she looks back at you with a gaze that says “are you sure?”. You hope she isn’t met by that dark look you often see when you look at yourself in the mirror after a new headline about them hits your screen. It’s funny how one person can flip the idea of make-up sex on its head—turn it from something so tender and beautiful to a spite-fuelled fuck fest that’s gonna make things more complicated. She hasn’t even picked up the fucking phone, but you can hear his sick voice in your head as you drive yourself deeper into her cunt, fuck her harder and faster than you knew you could. She’s in no state to answer the phone, yet her finger taps on the ‘accept call’ button. 

(She would’ve rejected it if she could, but she got into some deep shit the last time that happened. Must’ve been threatened or something for her to pick up the phone while she’s getting fucked.)

“Hello?” she does her best to steady her voice, and she’s doing pretty well considering how loud the smacking of skin against skin is. She presses the phone a little tighter against her left ear. You don’t intend on stopping. Let him hear her being owned by you for all you care. “T-This is a bad… a bad time.”

Damn straight it is. 

Your hand caresses the curve of her ass. You spank her again, making sure that it’s loud and it leaves a red patch on her smooth, creamy skin. She contacts around you, gasps a little as you bend down and pin her down with your weight on her back.

“W-What?”—and it feels like she’s talking to both of you. You hiss into her other ear. “I’m going to fuck you like this,” your voice is actually a snarl, a dark one. Your body is energized by the promise of taking and ravaging the helpless, prone woman beneath you, your words dripping with loathing and your thrusts brimming with spite. “I’m going to fuck you hard and rough, and you’re gonna keep him on the fucking line so he can hear it.”—“No I’m… Jogging.”

She’s terrible at lying. You let her know through each thrust—hard and deep, uncaring for her pleasure or her comfort or anything other than your need to bury yourself again and again inside her body. There’s the need to dominate her, the need to make her yours. You hope this guy can act like he doesn’t care that his supposed girlfriend is being prone-boned by another guy, act like he isn’t totally aware of the fact that Cho Miyeon’s body is never gonna belong to him at any point as long as you’re alive. 

(Keep this between us: but with the way you're going down on her, it feels like the message is being transferred to her and not him.)

You hear indistinct chatter. Miyeon bites down on her lower lip, undoubtedly holding back the stream of cries and sighs and lyrical monstrosities that threaten to burst forth. With her eyes she begs, challenges you to do more. You could be reading her wrong by like, a hundred percent. Doesn't matter, not when you can take every liberty with her body because you couldn’t give more of a shit. There’s more indistinct chatter on the other end of the phone; Miyeon says something along the lines of “no. Don’t buy the choker for me”. You give her a choker—raise yourself up and reach around her to wrap your fingers around her throat. Her whole body tenses when you apply pressure around her windpipe. In no universe does this guy not know what’s going on right now.

Cause she’s there—right there, all choked up and struggling to breathe while the fucker keeps yap-yap-yapping away like he’s some fucking guard dog. It irritates the hell out of you. At some point, he kinda has to hear a squelch or smack or two, maybe even a moan or a cry as well. But he stays on the phone, and not once does Miyeon ever have to address the question of whether she’s being fucked on the other end of the call or not. You thought you were ignorant, but this guy is a whole new fucking level of blissfully ignorant. It feels like his sole purpose is to drive a wedge between the two of you, to make you hate her because you hate him. Again: it’s kinda complicated to say exactly what it feels like to be in this situation. 

And you can imagine the moans she wants to let out. They’ll tumble out of her lips like water down a waterfall, and they’ll mix with the sound of your lips smacking against her skin as you lean back down to kiss her neck, stopping at one spot that you know will be good to mark her and sucking hard. It feels like getting back at her—doing all the things you want to do while she can't speak her mind freely (and you know how tortuous it is for her when she can’t moan while she’s being railed like this). You’re not sure why you would ever need to get back at her when she’s done nothing wrong, but I guess it helps to synthesise and dumb down the emotions you’re feeling at the moment.

“Tonight?” she asks. Then she buries her head into the sheets because she can’t hold back this moan that almost explodes from her chest. You’re not squeezing really hard around her throat, mind you—only enough to make her a little uncomfortable, like a tie has been wrapped around her neck. She's getting off on it though: her walls squeeze you a little tighter; her breaths become more ragged and short. Honestly, she's taking your cock so well, and you communicate this to her with a growl. It makes her shudder a hell lot. 

Her other hand clutches the sheets, spasms. She’s pliant, she always is, but it feels like you can wrack her tiny body with so much more pleasure as you keep a hand around her throat and keep your dick pumping in and out of her. You wish you had a mirror to see that pretty face warping under the heat of her lust. You kinda forget that she’s still calling him when she speaks again, cause she follows up with, “I can’t— I can’t believe…”

And if that damn phone call wasn’t happening, she’d be saying something along the lines of “I can’t believe that you’re fucking me this good”.

“Sorry. I got cut off,” she pants. “Yeah… It’s harder to hear me when I’m running.”

Now she's talking to you. The reply is to him, but she’s addressing you. You take her up on it, and the slapping and squelching start to ricochet off the walls and ceiling. What you’re doing should be considered as a whole sin in itself. Technically, it’s adultery, but you’re not too sure if you can even classify this as something that simple. This is jealousy, hate and love mashed into one—a mix of things that kinda shouldn’t go together when you have a woman who’s quite literally like putty beneath you. It doesn’t help that she's this hot, this tight, this wet. She’s straining her moans, and it’s so cute that you want to choke her a little harder. You don’t do it (just clarifying some doubts here), but you almost do. 

“R-Really?”—you’re almost certain that what comes next is gonna be addressed to you. You can imagine her signing your name off on it—”wow… That must be so fucking good.”

Bingo. Gotta say: she’s kinda smooth with it.

“I’m fine. Out… Out of breath” you don’t know how she manages to keep her voice steady. “Y-yeah… I’m gonna come… Don’t worry.”

You hope that she can hold on.

You don’t know how long more you fuck her for while she’s on the phone. It’s a blur; you kinda only see red and you’re still choking her out even after she hangs up. It’s only when she goes, “Oh, fuck, daddy—!” with this breathless, perverse, pleading tone and a voice that’s so loud; her body unable to do anything other than gasp and moan and urge you to really give it to her, and when she says “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!” like you’re not doing just that (and only that) at the moment that she’s hung up on him. Now she has every facility available to focus on the rock hard meat she’s receiving. You feel filthy, like you’re doing something wrong.

But hey: the sex is hot and Miyeon’s kinda into it, so you keep going. You keep fucking her into the bed—the same way you would if you were fucking her against the wall or in the shower or against any flat surface, really. It’s twisted, it’s dark, it’s hot; the angle her body is at lets you drive yourself deeper and faster and harder into her wet, tight and hot pussy like you never have before. You’re experiencing a novelty, a new chapter.

(Caveat: is it kinda messed up that you call her a cocksleeve? Not really? Huh.)

“God Miyeon…” you feel like the voice that comes from your throat is not your own. “You’re such a good fucking cocksleeve for me,” and you may or may not be tightening the grip around her throat as you speak. “So tight and wet for me. You’re such a good fuck.”

“Oh daddy, fuck you’re so big and deep in me,” she gasps. She has lots to say, even though air is like a fucking luxury for her. She rarely calls you Daddy, yet she’s using her precious air to do so now. “Fuck, fuck me as hard as you can, daddy! Do whatever you want with me! Own me! Take me!”

You barely recognise the woman she’s become: depraved, sordid and one hell of a hot mess. You love it. It’s fantastic. Fucking fantastic.

And she falls apart under you not long after, writhing and moaning and twitching as this beautiful mess of a woman you’ve made out of her. You want to cum in her, really own her; but your thoughts are fueled too much by the hate in your heart that they're wilder than anything she can ever imagine. 

You pull out of Miyeon, your shaft glistening in the dim light. You get off the bed, pull her away with you. Her mouth opens to say something. You kiss her—shut her up. She moans into your mouth, and you swallow it, bite her lower lip, and it's not rough, but enough to get her attention.

“You’ve gotten enough loads inside your pussy,” you husk. “Get on your knees. I want your mouth.”

She nods, and you relish the disappointment in her eyes. You push down firmly on her shoulders. She goes with the motion, and you're not sure if you can ever get over the image of Miyeon on her knees with her pretty little princess face staring at you with anticipation. You think about fucking her face, letting your cock thrust into the back of her throat over and over and over till you paint her face in a messy spray of cum. 

And you know what? You’ll do just that.

Of course, Miyeon perfectly understands what has to be done. You step up to her. She parts her lips and takes your cock right into her mouth, grasping the base of your cock and pumping it with one hand while she gently cups and squeezes your balls with the other. The pace she launches into is hard and fast; blurring her chocolate hair and your vision—taking the top half of your cock in and out of her wet mouth with rapid urgency while her fingers work your shaft in a corkscrew motion. The suction of her mouth is almost lethal, the seal sublime; and the audacity she has to look up at you while she takes your cock in and out of her mouth is so exhilarating that it makes you weak in the knees. She’s gorgeous, even more so when she’s got cock in her mouth.

Your hand finds a clump of her black, sweaty hair, and you close your fingers around it, holding them in your fist. You push her head down onto your cock, pop your hips and start thrusting with firm, slow strokes. She exceeds every expectation you ever had, adapting to you, changing to please you. Your eyes shut involuntarily. Your brain blocks out all sensations that aren’t the wet, hot cavern of Miyeon’s mouth sealed tightly around your shaft. With the first entry into her mouth her wet tongue is pressed tightly against the underside of your shaft, lathering it with her spit. The backstroke is somehow even better, that pretty little mouth endeavoring to suck you right back in when you draw yourself back out. It feels like time stands still, but Miyeon’s still in motion, and she’s the one making you feel like all the natural laws in the world are being defied.

A small part of you knows that you have to see it happening in order to truly believe it’s all real, so you force your eyes open to watch the spectacle unfolding between your legs. Smoky eyes glazed with pure lust staring right up at you, watering, projecting perverse pleasure with a gaze; hollow cheeks and a seemingly unhinged jaw to accommodate your length; spit leaking from the corners of her mouth, dribbling down her chin.

“Fuck I—” is all you manage to say (or maybe ‘grunt’ is a better word) before your orgasm takes the reins to your body. It overwhelms your senses, but you force your eyes open to watch as you pull Miyeon off your dick just in time. Thick, glistening cum erupts from your tip to land on Miyeon’s face, on her cheeks and nose, painting her smoky features with pearlescent, warm ropes. You paint her face with your hot white seed, and it’s far from an elegant piece of art. She doesn’t look anything like one of the French girls she wanted to be painted like, but the look of utter lust on her needy features is still breathtaking—mouth open, tongue out, eyes closed in delight and bliss.

Ugh, she's one hell of a woman, isn’t she?

And when it’s all over, she takes your cock in her hand and licks off the drops that she’d been deprived of. 

“If you ever do that again.” you love the raspy touch to her voice. The lilt in it is doing wonders too. “I’m gonna make sure that you’ll be calling your mom the next time I blow you.”

You roll your eyes and sigh. “Whatever you say, princess…”

The hate seems to fade. Your heartbeat slows.

Maybe this relationship is salvageable. Maybe you guys can last.

You talk to her about it afterwards and apologise sincerely. She says that she didn’t think much of it when it was happening. Then you guys are at peace again.

(What do you think? How long does the honeymoon last? A month more? 

Two?

Generous.

Try one. Fucking. Week.)

--

“Okay. Hands down: this is the best Jjamppong I’ve eaten.”

The growing pile of clam shells beside her bowl tells you that you did something right. It’s the first time you've made this dish, and there’s always that lingering worry that you fucked up somewhere along the way when you eat it for the first time. The soup seasoning is a little off in some places (you don’t know where exactly), but it’s nothing a dash of fish sauce and some chilli flakes can’t fix.

“I mean,” Miyeon continues, speaking between small yet generous mouthfuls of noodles. “You only get better and better at cooking. I don't know how you do it.”

You give a half-hearted smile. Your noodles have kinda gone cold by now: you’ve been stirring them around with your chopsticks for the past five minutes or so. Appetite has become a luxury for you these days, and it’s one of those days where a new article about him and her comes out, one of those days where you both agreed to put a pin on it and just enjoy life. “Well… It’s a lot of love and care, I guess.”

“You can say that again,” she smiles. “Thank you for making dinner. No one cooks like you.”

“Thank you for cutting scallions,” you say. “No one cuts them like you do.”

She laughs and waves it off, then takes another slurp of her noodles. “I honestly don’t know if I like your tomato soup over this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. My tomato soups have always been the peak of my cooking prowess.”

“I really don’t know!” she tells you, grabbing another clam from the centre of the table. “This stuff is all smoky and tasty… It just feels like home and I—”

You drop your chopsticks into your bowl. Soup splashes onto the table.

“How do I keep living like this, Miyeon?” you ask. There are only so many pins in your possession and you feel like you’ve used all of them. “I’d love to sit here and talk to you about how I made this meal like everything’s okay, and this is just Thursday and maybe we’ll get ice cream later… But it’s not like that right now.”

Miyeon takes your hand in hers. 

“I can’t pretend like things are the same when everything’s… different,” you close your eyes, take a breath. “I love you, Miyeon. You’re like, the best thing that’s ever happened to me and… I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

You can hear her take a breath to start speaking. You really want to let her, but there’s too much on your chest. 

“I know you’re doing what you have to, for me, for us,” you want—oh so badly––to just bury your face in your hands right now. But once you do that, the tears will inevitably come and your ability to speak your mind will disappear faster than you can regain yourself. “But it hurts. It hurts to see you holding his hand, walking around and… and kissing him.”

Your heart stings when you see the tears welling in her eyes when you find it in you to look at her. The last thing you want is to see her in pain. This next bit hurts you even more to say, but you know that it’s better to tell her how you feel.

“I feel like I’m an open wound… and you're just pouring salt on me,” and you start to choke up a little. “I’m sorry to put it that way but—”

“No,” she interjects. “No. I get it… I-I understand.”

And for a moment, it feels like everything's okay for a bit.

Then she comes around the table to kiss you, and hell’s bells start ringing all over again. It hurts to kiss her, but it feels so right.

Miyeon leans into you. She kisses you. She pulls you close. She lets you run your hands across her body, down her back. You stand. Your tongue pokes into her mouth. One of you says I need you and you don’t know who it is.

And like when things were okay: you guys don’t make it to the couch.

You get naked. She gets naked. The sex isn’t about pleasure or thrill. It’s the aching within the both of you that drives your shaft into her cunt, rocks her hips as you fuck her. You quite literally make love with her, your strokes passionate and fervent; her cries are earnest and wanton, full of longing. For long moments when her chest is against yours, your hearts are aligned. You wish that you could fuse them together, take away the pain by making the two of you one singular person there on the floor. It feels possible when your dick is throbbing inside of her, pumping her slick with rock hard meat again and again and again.

But the thing that sucks the most is that you can’t do that. You’re two separate people with two separate problems that kinda overlap at the same point.

You have her bent over the counter, propped up on the kitchen sink—anywhere you could reach was a surface for you and her. And normally you’d be a bit of a party pooper about fucking on these surfaces, but today you really can’t give more of a shit. You want to feel like everything’s okay again, like you’re not fighting for your life to hold on to this relationship that’s being torn apart day by day, night by night.

And you may have pieces of each other deep within your souls, but they don’t seem to fit anymore.

When it’s all over and you’re panting against the dishwasher, reality hasn’t changed and you’re still torn. You have a wound that only you can heal through acceptance, yet you can’t find it in you to accept that this is the life you have to lead. You want to love her. You want it so bad. But you can’t find the will in you to love her when there’s another man in the picture, albeit that her love for him isn’t even minimally a concept. You can’t nurse her injuries either, and it hurts to know that as her delicate hands cradle your cheeks. Her touch is perfect, her breaths are soft on your skin. The two of you have tried so hard to make it work, yet you’ve only come so far. The solution to this problem is like thousands of hot fire pokers stabbing you simultaneously, and it only hurts because it’s the only way forward for the both of you. 

“Miyeon,” you can’t quite believe what you’re about to say. The tears streaming down your  cheeks aren’t making anything easier. “Let’s break up.”

(And this isn’t for pity: but you cry yourself to sleep after she leaves that night. Ain’t it fun being heartbroken? You would know how it feels, right cupcake?)

--

Three months, two weeks and one day (about 105 days if you really want to be fully accurate. Go write that down somewhere) pass uneventfully—and by that you mean, you never picked up any of the 138 calls that came from Miyeon. It would have been 140 calls if you hadn’t picked up two of them when you were drunk. But hey, she was drunk too. So it kinda cancels out… at least you like to think that it does. It does, doesn't it? Two negatives make a positive? 

(No?)

Ah well. Anyway,

(Okay, caveat, again: you’re thankful that she hadn’t showed up to the apartment once throughout this period. You’ve been stuck between your anger and a blame that you can’t face because you don’t know if you blame yourself or her or him. Drinking doesn’t help to lighten the ache in your chest, so you tried exercising: running, swimming, even pilates; you tried to pick up music—bought a guitar and everything. Your fingers still hurt when you play chords, and you’re considering giving up at some point; you tried to learn how to make those pain in the ass French desserts, and now you have a fire extinguisher permanently installed in your kitchen because you somehow managed to set fire to macarons; and you tried to write. That didn’t go well. 5 Wattpad users politely asked you to kill yourself. Not fun.

One way or another, your thoughts would end up drifting back to Miyeon, and you’d have to sit in place and kinda stare into the distance for a little. And yes, you did question your choice to end things with her many times if anyone is asking. You kinda hate yourself a little for not trying to make things work, and you also kinda hate her for not insisting on staying to make things work. 

It took two of the three months for you to realise that you were both kinda in the wrong. But it’s already too late by then.

You couldn’t get a grip of yourself and fight off your internal demons; she couldn’t stop doing what she thought was right to protect the two of you. Net-net: it’s a loss for the both of you in the business of love. Now you have to look for a way forward through this grey-area mess that you’ve made, learn to live with the fact that maybe you guys just weren't meant to be in the grand scheme of things.

The updates on Miyeon’s relationship with that damned actor kept coming, but it stopped as of late. But for a while, they were all the rage for gossip blogs. Every now and then, a shitty title like “Cho Miyeon stuns with her visuals on her date” would pop up, and you have to swipe away quickly before you accidentally tap on the notification and see her holding hands with him. You’ll admit that you opened some of the articles just to get a look at her face, then smile to yourself for a bit before you fight the urge to punch the spot next to her where Squid Game wannabe is smiling. You’ve succeeded so far.

You kept away from Jjampong and tomato soup with grilled cheese too. It’s hard to take your butter bell down from the fridge without tearing a little, and the fish sauce and chilli flake panacea for food doesn't apply to a broken heart by the way (it’s just really salty and spicy. You don’t know what you were thinking. Probably drunk. 0/10, please, please, please do not try). The two dishes are too homely; their tastes remind you of her.

Okay. Let’s ‘anyway’ for real this time.)

Yeah, so uh, remember how you said that sometimes the news you give each other can be a little heart-attack-inducing, so it’s better that your loves are pretty bland? Yep… Sad to say that the same confirmed hypothesis still stands, even when you guys are on day 106 of your break up.

This time the news comes in another headline—and you mean like front page, breaking news headline—on Tuesday night. Wonderwall isn’t treating you too well. You’re pretty sure that your finger tips might be turning purple. Your phone buzzes next to you like crazy, just like it did that night, and it’s like having an iPhone seizure. You don’t think too much when you put down the guitar and pick up your device. 

And you only read the first six words to give yourself a valid reason to reset your miscall streak with Miyeon.

Idol Cho Miyeon Slapped In Public…

(The title was a lot longer than that. You should know it since you’re here in the first place.)

It’s in moments like this when you kinda wish that speed dial was still a thing. (I mean there's siri and all, but do you really have time for that right now?) In a blur of great clumsiness, you open your contacts and experience no difficulty in locating her number again. She’s on the top of your miscall list, so it really takes no wizard to figure this out.

You hate that she’s letting it ring for so long. Every brr brr makes you tremble a little more in your seat. If your mum could see you now, you’d probably get an earful for your bad habit of biting your nails.

She finally picks up the phone. It’s good to hear her voice. “Hey…”

Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. Now you realise that in your hurry to check on her, you’ve yet to rehearse what to say to her. The debate between your head and gut almost tears you in two. 

“You okay?” you finally manage to blurt after some struggle. “I saw the news… Just wanted to check if, you know, you’re still up and kicking…”

You hear that familiar scoff from the other side of the phone. “Please. You know that it takes more than that to take me down.”

If your ears don't deceive you, you can hear a bit of a strain in her voice. She hates it when you jump to conclusions though, so you leave it as it is for now. “That’s… That’s great.”

And it’s silent again. If you were in the business of losing her interest, you’d be making crazy profits right now. Okay, better end this fast.

“Well uh,” you begin, stopping for a second to swallow some saliva to soothe your semi parched throat. “I guess—”

“Can I come over?” 

Like she always does, she shocks you into silence. Your throat dries up. Your mouth is the Sahara. 

“I… I miss you… if my miss-calls weren't clear enough about that,” she chuckles. You swear you hear a sniffle. “I’d like to see you again,” and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears, “for closure of course… and maybe tomato soup?”

Your heart joins the debate between your head and gut. It wins.

Minutes later, your butter bell is open, a knife scraping out the last bits of creamy butter out of it so that it can be used to evenly butter the other side of your bread. You’re moving on instinct, with glee and excitement. You’re not sure why you’re happy. You’re just happy—happy that you’re gonna see her; happy that you can prepare this dish again without the knowledge that you’re not gonna see her when you turn. It isn’t till the doorbell rings that the joy fades, and in its place comes that familiar tension of a two tonne weight wrapped around your chest. 

You aren’t sure why she rings the door when you haven’t changed the passcode to the lock. If she’s trying to be polite? You appreciate it. If she just forgot the pin? Well… you wouldn’t put that past her either, really. Your gut, head and heart agree you that it’s most likely the latter, and you kinda have to remind yourself as you open the door that she's just as forgetful as anyone else.

“Hi,” you catch yourself staring at her. You don’t mean to look at her dress first, but it’s the first thing your eyes are drawn to; it's been a while since you’ve seen her in anything other than a t-shirt and shorts. The white dress she’s wearing is bedazzled out, the light that’s reflected off of it catching you and making you a deer in headlights for a bit. Then you snap out of it. Your gaze travels up to her face and… “You look… Fucking terrible.”

You love her eyes and you love to watch them roll. “Thanks. You look not bad yourself. Gained some weight?”

You try not to stare. You fail—horribly you might add. 

But in your defence, it’s hard not to look at the purple spot on her milky skin. 

Miyeon covers her cheek. She looks down at your feet like there's something really interesting about them. “Are you, you know, letting me in? Or are we just gonna keep standing here?”

You blink. “R-Right.”

And soon she’s settled into her usual seat, nibbling on some grilled cheese while you ladle out her tomato soup into a bowl. It feels like nothing has changed, but you know that’s not true. Both of you know that everything’s different, that you can’t just give her tomato soup and peck her on the cheek.

“So you play guitar now?” she catches you off guard as the bowl makes a small thunk against the table. It’s in the same spot she always places it, and you know because a woodring has formed in that area. You follow her gaze and see that she’s spotted your Fender on the couch. 

“Sort of?” you reply, a little uncertain in how to rate your abilities. “Just basic stuff, you know?”

She smirks and picks up her spoon, starts chipping away at her soup “So you’re finally digging up the singer-songwriter in you… Good on you, man.”

Again, you find yourself staring at the bruise. It’s a deep shade of purple, splotchy and a sight for sore eyes. From the looks of it, he hit her hard. There’s a burning in your chest—a mix of grief, pity and anger as you watch her eat her food. You wish that you could’ve been there to stop it. You wished that you could’ve just dated her under different circumstances so that maybe, just maybe, you could’ve gotten that ending you wanted. You don’t know how she’s ever gonna cover that up when—

“If you’re gonna get something for this thing, go do it,” she mutters. “Chivalry hasn’t died completely, right?”

You nod and scuttle off. It’s easy to lose track of how long you’ve been staring when you’re lost in your thoughts. Is it scary how this feels like just another conversation between you two? 

The ice pack from when she bought that ice cream cake was still in the freezer, and it’s chilly in your hands as you grab it and return to the table. She has finished her soup—not a single scrap left inside the bowl. She must be starving.

Her grilled cheese is half eaten in her hand; she stares into the distance as she chews. 

(And she’s as beautiful as she can ever be, by the way. A lot of people haven’t seen her the way you see her, and you’re kinda glad that you get to witness that tender part of her that she rarely shows to cameras. It’s… It’s hard to describe what it means to know that someone like her finds it this easy to be herself around you, but you know it’s an honour and a blessing.

But when you're looking at her with your rose-tinted lenses stripped away from you, the notions you hold towards vulnerability become contradictory, because on one hand you know that she’ll never hurt you the way she did, but on the other you know that she’s not the same person when she’s not around you. So at the end of the day, you’re just kinda left figuring out which side of her is the real her. Do you believe what the Cho Miyeon you know tells you? Or do you believe what the Cho Miyeon the world knows? It gets confusing, makes you wonder why she ever has to put up two fronts in the first place. 

Then again, it’s not exactly her fault: she does what she has to so she can stay afloat. No industry is free from dirt. Some are just filthier than others.

I guess what I’m getting at is that… she’s this contradiction in my mind. I want to believe her, but I can’t, yet I still love her like she’s just a regular human and our lives are just a little messy. I know there's this whole argument about the fact that idols are humans too and all, but I guess it’s kinda… undermined? Yeah—undermined by the fact that they can’t exactly lead ‘normal’ lives once they’re famous. Look at me, using these big words.

So I guess… I guess dating her was like the worst of all blessings and the best of all curses. Does that make sense?

…

Ugh. I’m blabbering. 

Sorry cupcake, I’ll get back to it.)

And maybe you forget that she isn’t your girlfriend anymore, or maybe you just kinda blank out in the moment, or maybe you just wanted to do it. For whatever reason: you call her name, and when she turns, the ice pack in your hand is gently applied against her face. You don’t think much of it for like, three or four seconds. But when her wide eyes finally register in your head, there’s a moment where your breath is caught in your throat. 

This is important, so you should know: the silence is fucking deafening. 

She swallows the bit of sandwich in her mouth. “I refused to sleep with him, and he hit me like a girl. Fucking embarrassing on his part,” and there’s that smile on her face as she speaks, the same one that she loves to flash your way when she told you that she loved you. “Barely felt it. Light work.”

You can’t resist—your other hand cradles her unblemished cheek. “Miyeon…”

She closes her eyes. She knows that tone you’re using, the one that’s like ‘don’t lie to me’ or ‘it’s okay, you can tell me’. “Look: when the man that loved you the way no one else loved you breaks up with you, nothing can be more painful than that,” she whispers. Her throat bobs a little. She furrows her brows as her eyes squeezed themselves shut themselves a little tighter. “And that man is you by the way…” her voice cracks, her eyes open, “don’t know if I was clear enough.”

And you kinda have to kiss her after that. It’s a good line… and she’s, like, smoking hot right now. She always is.

The familiarity of her lips against yours almost makes you melt. The ice pack drops from your hand, your palm taking its place on her face. You kiss her like you used to. You kiss her like you want nothing else but her. You kiss her like you want nothing else but her because you want nothing else but her. She’s home – Jjamppong and Grilled Cheese with Tomato soup — and you don’t ever want her to leave again.

“I’m sorry,” she croaks, and you wipe the tear trailing down her cheek. “I should have never… We should have never—”

You shush her with your lips. She lets herself melt into you, her hands running through your hair the way she would sometimes when she called you crazy or baby. You don’t realise how much you’ve missed her touch till now.

“We were both wrong,” you tell her once you break away (rather reluctantly). “So how about we just call it a truce?”

She nods, and she does it enthusiastically. “If it’s cool with you…”

You scoff. “Why would it not be?” and your thumb gently caresses her bruise gently. You want to kill him, but you’ll save that for another time. “I’m the one who suggested it… Guess Chivalry is not all dead, huh?”

And it’s good to hear her laugh again.

“Come here you big idiot,” she giggles, and she kisses you again. 

Then you dive down to her collarbone when you can’t take it anymore. And the rest is history repeating itself.

You know: it feels like you’ve been picked up from the ground. Miyeon has come to get you… she's come to get you.

Maybe everything’s okay after all.

--

(And uh… The media covers the rest. What was it? Like, two weeks later? 

Ah whatever. You know what happens, don’t you? It’s pretty crazy, made headlines and all.

CUBE has some really good lawyers… And liars. Almost the same thing.)

--

“So that’s the story?” 

Nursing your third bottle of cider, you chuckle. You’d thought by fleshing out whole smuts in verbal form would have chased her away by now, yet here she is. Then again: she is an old friend of yours, so you guessed that she’d be rather adjusted to your bullshit. “Are you sure you’re an investigative journalist?” you question her, “I thought you’d ask something more along the lines of ‘what happens after?’.”

From across the booth seat, Chou Tzuyu shoots you a smirk. 

“The news covered it. Why should I pour salt into old wounds?” she admits. Her glass of wine swirls, manipulated expertly by her delicate fingers. “Anyway, I think I got… The main gist of it. Unless you have more information regarding the restraining order filed against you by CUBE, I have no further questions.”

You roll your eyes. No, you do not have any new information about why CUBE decided that you were a danger to Cho Miyeon, and you’ll never know if Miyeon knows either. She was out of town when it happened, and all she knows is what the news reported: you’re allegedly a stalker and hence a threat. You only know that she called and texted you frantically after, but…

You know what? Maybe you’ll think about this another time.

“You do know that, like, you're kinda bad at this right?” and you set your cider bottle aside, letting it join the almost empty whiskey bottle you bought yourself. You fold your hands and lean into the table. The world spins a little. “I don’t know why you’re prying, but I’m guessing that you heard something from the grapevine that you were itching to hear more about. Either that or you’re just… Could it be that you’re desperate to get something fresh, Miss Chou?”

She sips on her wine, leaves the question hanging in the air for a little as she swallows. 

“Keep this between us: I can’t trust Shuhua sometimes,” she muses. “If I’m gonna write about this, I’m gonna have to make sure that all the information I’ve gotten from her can be corroborated,” she pushes a wisp of hair behind her ear. “And for the record: I am not bad. I do my research as thoroughly as anyone else would—enough to know that you are someone who tells the truth.”

“So you’re saying that you trust me as a source?” you can’t help but scoff. “Me, the very guy that got fucked over by CUBE? I could be bigoted and biased for all you know. Or even worse: I’m lying.”

She smiles knowingly. “Respectfully, you have too much… personal voice in this recount that I might as well write an autobiography on your behalf.”

And she stuns you into silence. It occurs to you that you're a little drunk, and you’re pretty sure that you called this woman ‘cupcake’ multiple times. You’re not too sure; you don’t even have half a mind to know what you’re doing or saying.

Tzuyu gulps down the rest of her wine before she rises from her seat. 

“I best be going,” she opens her purse and fishes something out of it. She hands you a card, an address and a phone number handwritten onto it in what looks like a felt pen. “If you want your story to be heard, give me a call… Or a text. Whatever strikes your fancy. I’ll need a version of this that doesn’t include all the fucking and your drunk blabbering,” she shoulders her purse and smiles. “Can’t promise that I’ll buy you a drink to make you talk again, but I can treat you to some really good Chinese dumplings. Maybe we can catch up a little too. It’s been a while.”

You stare at the card, tracing the hooks and curves that form numbers and letters. Your eyes fix back on her. “Why are you doing this?”

She shrugs, and it’s not a “I dunno” type of shrug, but more like a “the proof’s in the pudding, open your fucking eyes” type of shrug. 

“I want to report the truth, and I know you well enough to know that you want that too.”

That's right. Another series. I know I'm doing everything but finishing up Beats Me, and you can go cry a river in my asks if you want. Just kidding, I love all of you, but I want to write what I want to write. Let me have my fun, would you? Also, for the record: I did not finish this 5 days after Beats Me 7. Beats Me 7 was finished before I vanished from tumblr for a bit. This has been brewing since December. You can thank long drives and Noah Kahnan for this.

Anyway, another big thank you to @defmaybe for being such a great sport and reading through the 39 page document that showed up in their discord DMs one fine day. This fic would have been full of typos and horrible grammatical errors if it weren't for them.

Stay safe, Nichu

[cressidagrey]

Such A Mystery - Part 10

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Colette Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen fell in love at the ripe old age of 12 and never looked back.

Colette Leclerc really regrets posting that particular Taylor Swift Lyric to her private Instagram account, because it made George Russell go insane.  

The rest of the world has absolutely no idea that the Dutch Lion and Charles Leclerc’s twin sister have been a couple for 15 years and are expecting a baby. 

Warnings: 

Pregnancy, Mention of multiple miscarriages, Pregnancy complications, George Russell Bashing (he's probably really nice in real life but in this, he's the bad guy, sorry), Jos Verstappen, We have apparently now reached the time where I also bash Ferrari. I am sure they are super nice in real life too. They are not in this. Labour.

Author Notes: Huge thanks to @llirawolf for holding my hand through this. Chapter 10 of 12!

“Breathe,” Victoria kept insisting.

“You are doing so well, Choupinette,” her mother cooed.

Colette was quite certain that she was going to die. 

At least it felt like it.

The pain was overwhelming. It didn’t feel like her body could take any more of it. The contractions were so strong and the pain was blinding in its intensity. She wasn’t certain if she could do this anymore.

“I can’t do this,” Colette choked out.

“Yes, you can,” Victoria insisted. Her voice was firm and steady. “You absolutely can do this. You’re already so far along, you just have to push. You can do this.”

"Just breathe," her mother said soothingly, stroking back her hair. "You are doing so well."

But she wasn’t doing well. 

She wanted Max. No, she needed Max.

She needed him so badly. She didn’t want to do this by herself. 

Colette cried out in pain as another very strong contraction hit her, clenching her teeth through it. "Max," she sobbed. "I need Max."

"I know," Victoria said, stroking her hand. "I know you do. But you can do this. Just a little bit longer, okay? It won’t be long now."

She didn’t want to do this without him. But what other choice did she have?

A strangled sob escaped her throat as she clutched her mother’s hand desperately as another contraction hit.

“We’re going to need you to push now,” the doctor said firmly. “You need to start pushing with the contractions.”

Colette cried out in pain as she tried her very best to push like they were telling her to. The pain was blinding in its intensity. But it hurt. Gods, it hurt more than anything that she had ever experienced. It was like her body was about to rip itself in half.

"You’re doing so well," her mother cooed.

"Keep Pushing."

Another strangled scream escaped her. "Max," she sobbed. "I need Max. I need him. I can’t do this.”

Victoria stroked her hair. "It’s almost over, Colette. It’s almost over. Just a little bit more," Vic promised her. 

Colette wanted to give up, she wanted to give in. She wanted the pain to end. But more than anything else, she just wanted Max.

Another scream was torn from her, a ragged cry of pain as a particularly severe contraction tore through her. She was certain that she wasn’t going to survive this. The pain was too severe.

"Keep Pushing."

"Keep Pushing."

"Push, Push, Push"

She didn’t understand how they expected her to keep going. She could feel herself flagging, she was so exhausted.

The room was a blur around her, dark spots dancing at the corner of her vision. The sound of her own screams echoed in her ears, the pain almost overwhelming. She thought she was going to pass out.

She heard the door open.

A small part of the pain-hazed part of her mind registered the sound. She thought she was hallucinating. Surely that wasn’t the sound of the door opening. Surely she was just losing her mind under the excruciating strain.

“That took you too fucking long,” Victoria snapped. Colette would have smiled, if she hadn’t been currently in the middle of pushing. Max's familiar voice echoed in her ears, and for one sweet second, the pain all but vanished.

And then he was there.  Her heart jumped and a small sob escaped her. Max. It was really Max. He was there. He was right beside her.

Dry lips pressed against her sweat slick forehead. “Liefje.“

He was there. He was really there. 

"Max," she sobbed out. "You’re here. You’re really here."

"Of course I am," he said shakily. He pushed back her sweaty hair from her forehead. "You didn’t think I was going to let you do this without me, do you?"

She wanted to tell him that, in all honesty, she had thought exactly that. If he hadn’t shown up, she would have had to do this without him. But she was too exhausted, and in too much pain to form the words. All she could do was clutch at his hand, desperately clinging onto him like a lifeline.

Max immediately threaded his fingers through hers, holding her hand tightly. "I’m right here," he soothed. "I’m not going anywhere.” He was giving her something solid to hang onto. 

“Another push,” the doctor encouraged.

With Max holding her hand, Colette gave one last, desperate push.

She was certain that she was going to pass out. She didn’t understand how she was still conscious. The pain was mind-numbing in its intensity. "Once more,” the doctor said firmly. “I can see the head. Just one more push.”

Colette whimpered, her breath coming in short sharp sobs. "I can’t,” she cried in exhaustion. "I can’t."

"You can,” Max said fiercely. “You are the strongest goddamn person I know, and if anyone can do this, it’s you. Just one more push, come on, liefje."

His grip on her hand was so tight, it was almost painful, but that brief moment of pain was worth it. Feeling Max's presence beside her, holding onto her so desperately with his fingers threaded firmly through hers, it was the only thing that gave her the last little bit of strength that she needed.

With a long, ragged scream, she gave one last push, pouring everything she had into it.

She could hear Max beside her, talking to her soothingly, but the words were all blending together. Her senses were slowly fading. "Push, you can do it, you’re almost done." The words were coming at her from all sides now, swirling and echoing amongst the darkness of her hazy vision, and it was all she could do to grip Max’s hand, and listen to the sound of his voice.

And then it was over.

The searing pain suddenly stopped. 

For just a moment, everything was quiet. 

A cry cut through the sudden silence

The sound echoed around them, small and shrill and so very loud in the stillness of the room. A choked gasp of relief escaped Colette as she slumped back against the pillows, utterly exhausted.

"There you go," Max murmured, gently wiping back the hair from her forehead. "It’s over, it’s over now. You did so well, liefje. You’ve done it."

She wanted to speak, to say something to him in return, but her tongue was so heavy in her mouth it would hardly form words. Her mind was still a blur of exhaustion, relief and adrenaline. All she could muster was a small whimper as she felt his hand gently stroking her hair.

The sound of the infant’s cries rang out again, more strongly this time. “Here,” the doctor said, sounding a little amused. “Let’s get that little girl on maman’s chest.”

Through the haze, Colette felt an immense amount of exhausted relief, as the doctor carefully placed a small, wiggling bundle on her chest.

The baby was beautiful. Small and new and perfect, and Colette felt like the very breath had been knocked out of her. All the exhaustion and the pain was suddenly entirely worth it as she cradled the tiny baby in her arms.

"Hello, bébé," she breathed softly, the words coming out as a whisper. “I thought you were going to be a boy,” she choked 

A broad smile covered her face as she gently stroked the downy soft tufts of dark hair covering the baby’s head. The small, tiny, perfect little fingers wrapped around her own, and Colette’s heart felt so full it felt like it was going to burst.

"I was right," Max said, the words somewhat choked. His voice sounded almost strangled, and she didn’t need to look to know that there were tears running down his face.

Colette looked up at him then, taking in with a mixture of affection and amusement how utterly awestruck he looked. He was crying openly, tears running unashamedly down his cheeks.

“We did it,” she told Max.

“We did,” He said, his voice still choked with emotion. “She’s so beautiful.” Max sounded utterly wrecked.

Colette couldn’t help but share his feelings as she looked back down at the baby in her arms. The small infant had opened her eyes for a brief moment, revealing the most vividly blue eyes that Colette had ever seen. “She got your eyes.”

“And your hair,” Max said, reaching out a hesitant hand to touch the soft dark locks on the baby’s head.

The baby gave a little gurgle, waving her tiny hand as if to reach out for his fingers. “Hello, mooi meisje,” he said softly, his voice still sounding a little choked, as the baby tried to wrap her fingers around his own.

"She's absolutely perfect," Colette whispered, unable to tear her eyes away from the tiny, perfect bundle of joy in her arms.

"Just like her mother," Max said, his voice hoarse. He stroked his finger down the baby's soft cheek, the most gentle of touches.

***

In the end…he made it with minutes to spare.

He couldn’t describe the relief that he felt when he finally burst through the door, to find Colette in the midst of giving birth. He had been so terrified that he wouldn’t make it in time.

And now here he was, sitting beside her on the bed, their daughter in her arms, safe and sound and utterly, utterly perfect.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of them both. Colette was beautiful, despite looking utterly exhausted. Her face was pale and slick with sweat, but she had never look more lovely.

And their daughter… Their daughter was perfect. Tiny, and new, the sweetest thing that Max had ever seen. He gently ran his finger down her soft, plump cheek, marveling at the sheer fragility of her.

And he couldn't stop crying. This was his family. His.

They had hoped so desperately for so long, and now there was their little girl. And she had been worth it. Worth all the heartbreak.

His eyes stung and his throat was constricting, but he couldn't help it. He knew he must look a mess, tears running unashamedly down his face and throat choked up, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered. They were here, and safe, and together.

He looked down at the baby’s tiny, perfect face, her closed eyes, her nose. She had Colette’s hair, and his eyes, and Max thought that if it was possible to die of love, he was dangerously close to that moment right there.

He reached out a shaking hand to touch his daughter’s tiny fist, his own hand dwarfing hers. She opened her eyes again for a brief second, and he could have sworn that she smiled at him for just an instant.

The tears ran more freely down his face now at that thought. His daughter, his little girl, his precious perfect baby, smiled at him. It might have just been a trick of his own overjoyed emotional state, but right then, Max was convinced that it had been a real smile.

"She's perfect, liefje," he whispered, his words coming out a little choked. "She's so damn perfect.”

"Dad, you want to cut the cord?" the doctor asked him.

The question seemed to take a moment to register in his hazy emotional state, but when it did, Max’s breath caught in his chest for a moment. And then just as quickly, he nodded mutely.

In a daze, he reached for the small pair of scissors that the midwife handed over to him, cutting the umbilical cord under her careful supervision.

He was in a daze, even when they took his daughter from Colette to check her over and bath her. "Stay with her," Colette told him softly. "Go on."

Max nodded, unable to find the words to answer to her. He stood up on slightly shaky legs, watching as the midwife took his daughter over to the small bassinet and started to check her over.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of his baby, tiny and perfect and theirs. All the years of trying, all the hope and the heartbreaks, and now there was their little girl, safe and sound.

He got to watch her be bathed and then swaddled right into a soft pink swaddle that he knew he himself had bought because Colette kept insisting that it was a boy...and then he finally got to hold her in his arms and cry some more, because she was perfect.

He cradled her small, tiny form in his arms, his fingers trembling a little as he gently touched the soft downy skin of her cheek. Her weight was barely anything at all in his arms, and for a moment, terror gripped his heart. Was he holding her too hard? What if he hurt her?

"You aren't going to hurt her," Victoria said suddenly and he stared at his sister that sat down next to her. "You aren't. I promise you. Babies aren't as breakable as they look," she teased him softly. "Congrats, Maxie."

Max nodded, a little startled. He had honestly forgotten that his sister was even there, the arrival of his baby girl had taken up most of his attention.

"Thanks, Vic," he managed, his voice still choked. 

He looked down at the baby in his arms again. They had wrapped her tightly in the pink swaddle that he himself had insisted on months ago. He had been so sure that the baby was a girl. And he had been right.

He wouldn't have cared either way, but...he had been right.

"She's perfect," he whispered, his eyes burning.

Victoria smiled, watching him with a softness in her eyes that Max wasn't sure he had seen before. “You’re a father,” she said simply. “How does it feel?”

“Like my heart’s going to explode with pure happiness,” Max admitted, looking back down at his daughter in his arms. “Like I can’t breathe. Like I’m dreaming. I don’t…I don’t know how to describe it.”

"Welcome to the sleep deprivation community that is parenthood," Vic joked softly. "You are going to be the best father," she told him.

It made him choke up. That absolute certainty with which his little sister said that, a hand on his shoulder. "You are going to be the best father to her," Victoria promised him fiercely.

Fresh tears welled up in his eyes as he looked up at his sister. “I’ll do my best,” he managed to say, his voice a little choked. “I’ll do absolutely anything for her, for both of them. Anything in the world.”

They didn't often talk about their childhood...about all the things that had gone down...the long drawn out screaming matches they could remember before their parents had divorced and the separation that came afterwards...

They didn’t like to talk about it. It was one of those things that they usually just skirted around, because when they brought it up, old feelings and emotions came up with it. And the fights weren’t pleasant to remember...

But in that moment, Max felt a profound sense of relief. For the first time, he was glad those fights had happened, because if they hadn’t…he and Vic wouldn’t have the relationship they had now, and he wouldn’t have learned, from all of the pain and heartbreak of those fights, what not to do. He never wanted his daughter to grow up like that. He never wanted her to feel the pain of a broken family like they had.

And he knew that he would do absolutely everything in his power to prevent that from happening. He and Colette would keep their family tightly together and protect and love their little girl with everything that they had.

No matter what.

A fresh wave of tears welled up in his eyes at the thought of that. "I don't ever want her to grow up like we did, Vic," he managed to say, the words still a little choked. "I don't ever want her to feel like we did."

"She won't," Vic assured him, her voice still soft. "Because you're going to be a great father. She'll grow up feeling loved and wanted and safe. I know that, Maxie."

His throat felt as if it was slowly closing up. "Thanks, bink," he managed to say, his voice cracking. "It means a lot. I..." His eyes stung, and he swallowed hard. "I couldn't ever thank you enough for being here. For being with us."

For coming even when he handn’t asked…for somehow knowing without being told what they needed.

His sister just smiled at him, her blue eyes, so similar to his own, sparkling. "She’s my niece," she reminded him. "You're not getting rid of me. I'm going to spoil her rotten, you know that?"

"You are going to have fierce competition, Victoria" Pascale said softly.

He looked up to where Colette's mother was tucking her own daughter back into the bed, fussing over her. Colette looked better than she had before, freshly showered, still exhausted, but no longer...no longer looking like she was going to faint any minute.

Colette was already sitting up, even though she would be in pain for a while, a testament to her usual stubbornness.

"Maxie." Colette didn't need to say more than that, as he stood and crossed the room, safely putting their daughter back on her mother's chest.

He sat on the edge of her bed, careful not to jostle her too much. "Hey," he said softly, wrapping an arm gently around her shoulders. "How are you feeling, liefje?"

"I'm okay," she said softly, resting her head weakly against him. "Sore. Tired. Happy. Went through 6 hours of labour, only to give birth to your and Charles' clone," she said drily, making her mother laugh.

Max smiled faintly, resting his head against hers. “Charles?” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"She does look awfully similiar," Pascale agreed.

Max gave a small laugh, glancing back down at the baby. He supposed there was a resemblance, if one knew what to look for. “She’s not a clone,” he countered, a note of mock offense in his voice. “She’s a perfect mix of us.”

"With what I am pretty certain is Charles' nose," Colette said drily.

Max laughed faintly, reaching out to gently touch the baby’s tiny nose with his finger. It narrowed just so at the tip… “Maybe,” he conceded thoughtfully. 

His daughter stirred faintly at the contact, a small noise coming from her mouth that sounded a bit like a grumble. Max smiled at the sound. 

“And I’m pretty sure she’s just as stubborn as her mother,” he teased Colette.

She reached up to lightly smack his hand, but her smile was fond. “Like you aren’t just as stubborn,” she retorted.

Their daughter took that moment to complain loudly for once and Colette shifted her slightly, unbuttoning her pyjama top.  At least one thing went down with absolutely no fuss whatsoever. A few minutes later, their daughter had greedily nursed, burped and was back to slumbering quietly. 

"Are the three musketeers still outside?" Colette asked.

“They are,” Max confirmed, brushing a strand of hair back from Colette’s face. He had all but forgotten about Colette’s brothers.

"Get them," Colette said softly.

Max smiled. "All of them?" he teased. He knew that was exactly what she had meant."All of them," she nodded.

[luvyeni]

jeongin finally giving in after all your oblivious teasing

𝓲𝓲 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒𓈒 ( 아이엔 x fem!reader )   ─── ❛ genre ⸝⸝ smut. content warning. oral ( f ). unprotected sex. word count. 0.8k 「 req? ⦂ yes/no 」 library  !

𝕼 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒 yeni’s note .ᐟ my smau will definitely be a ayen one i miss him.

if it wasn’t for the fact that this has happened almost every day for the last year you two have been living together jeongin could’ve sworn you were doing this on purpose — riling him up just to leave him high and dry each and every time.

but you didn’t know it , you didn’t know that when you’d squeeze his thigh when you’re randomly talking about something that excited you, he had to think about anything else to keep him from getting hard. or when you’d walk around the house in an oversized shirt and shorts so short they might as well be panties while you cleaned or lounged around.

he constantly had a hard on when you were around ; and you didn’t even notice , and it was eating him up inside. “innie?”

he was brought back hearing your voice. “are you listening?” no he wasn’t , his eyes were current bulged out of his head because you were standing there in a towel. “i said the water is cold , you need to cool it on the 2 hour showers.” you pouted , the water dripping down your face. “i could only shower for 15 minutes that’s not even enough time fo…” it was like your voice was fading away , he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. “you aren’t even listening.”

before his brain could send him a warning ; his feet were moving , and moving near towards you. “jeongin.” his hand coming to your face , you gasped out. “please shut up.” before you could even scold him his lips were on yours , you took a step back , but he didn’t let you pull away , he only pulled away when he began to get light headed due to lack of oxygen. “fuck i need to do that again.”

he could barely keep it together as he basically dragged you back to your room. “je-jeongin slow down , what’s gotten into you?” it’s not like you didn’t like it , you were just confused. “you , you’ve gotten into me , you don’t even know.” he pushed you down on the bed. “you don’t even know what you do to me.”

he was bent down on his knees in front of you , his mouth kissing in between your thighs. “innie.” you sighed , moaning as you felt his breathing on your cunt. “fuck you smell so good.” he kissed your mound , licking your folds. “oh fuck innie.” your hands tangling up in his hair as he ate your cunt like a starving man , finally getting a taste of you.

“so good.” your legs hanging off his back ; your taste was addicting , it was even better than he envisioned , he groaned , his cock becoming unbearably hard. “fuck innie , im gonna cum.” you tugged at his roots to try and pull him away from your cunt , but he held your thighs tightly , he did not want to let you go. “fu-fuck! im cumming !” you shouted as you came , your juices dripping on your tongue. “i-innie.”

he finally pulled away, the towel now laying on the bed leaving you bare. “fuck if i didn’t need to feel you on my cock , i could spent the rest of the day in between your legs.” he slowly made his way up to you , undoing the string to his sweats. “you taste so good.” your face was flushed watching him pull his cock out , it was big , and veiny with a precum dripping from his red tip. “so-so big.” he cursed , pressing his cock against your hole. “but you can take it right?”

he didn’t even wait for you to answer , pushing his cock inside , watching your mouth drop open. “oh fuck you’re so tight.” he pulled out , pushing back inside. “so fucking warm.” folding your body in half , legs pressed against your chest as he began to pound into you. “fuck just like i dreamt of.” he grunted. “re-really?” you stuttered.

“fu-fuck baby yes , but you have been so inside the pretty little head -shit- you haven’t even noticed how bad i wanted to fuck you.” he hit that spot inside you , your fingers raking down his back , he hissed. “jeongin im gonna cum.” you cried out , the knot in your stomach tightening. “fu-fuck me too.” he groaned. “where do you want it?”

“inside.” he had to stop for a second to keep from cumming that second. “sh-shit i almost came.” he moaned. “you want me to cum inside you?” you nodded. “ye-yes please.” he sped up his movements. “fu-fuck im gonna cum , want you to cum on my cock.” both of you moaning out. “fuck cum , cum on my cock.”

you let out a breathy moan , mouth dropping over as you came. “of fuck , im fuck-fucking cumming, nmph!” he cursed as he came inside you , you whimpered as he rode out your orgasms. “fuck im still hard.” he said breathlessly. “i need more of you.” he started to move again , slowly dragging his cock in and out of you. “fuck i need to make you cum more.”

“i need to fuck you until you only remember my cock.”

©️LUVYENI

[anyroads]

I can't convey the insanity of how fast this fire happened. If you grew up in Southern California, you know to be prepared for wildfire evacuations and earthquakes. A lot of people have go bags, and a plan for what to pack when you have to do so quickly. But the timeline for that has always been a few hours at least, if not a day, maybe even two. This fire spread so insanely fast that people went from clear skies and no warnings to having ten minutes, or even no minutes, to grab what they could and run. People lost pets, especially cats, because there's no way to get a panicking animal into a carrier when the flames are at your door.

Most of the headlines about the Palisades fire are about what celebrities lost homes already. So I need you to understand that while yeah, the Palisades has become an upscale area and the hills have expensive houses, it was a middle class neighborhood until about 20 years ago so a lot of its residents have been there for 50 or 60 years, when homes were affordable to middle class working families. A lot of residents inherited their home from grandparents or parents who bought them when it was an affordable area. There are (were. past tense now. were.) neighborhoods full of 2-3 bedroom houses that you could have afforded if you'd been born 30 years earlier and lived in West LA. Most of the people there aren't celebrities or multi-millionaires - those people lived in houses that were built more recently and in undeveloped areas. I also need you to understand that there are several fires around LA, most of which are affecting middle and working class people. I say this because the headlines care more about celebrities and places people know from movies but it's not reflective of the extent of the damage. I say this because I know how tumblr is and this is not the time for tankie bullshit and inhumanity.

In my 9th grade science class we learned about climate change. We learned about the projected changes and disasters that we could expect in the first half of the 21st century. Yesterday I watched on a live broadcast as the classroom I learned this in went up in flames, while right wing conspiracy theorists and Trump blamed everyone and everything except climate change. This fire happened because it hasn't rained in LA for 8 months, and the Santa Ana winds were absurdly intense this week, getting up to 75mph. The LA Fire Dept had funding cut to fund the police like OP said, and hydrants ran out of water.

Embers can stay live while carried in the wind for miles, and every area with dry brush and palm trees just needs a spark right now. I know this because I learned it growing up. I'm literally watching the horror scenes that kept me up at night in high school as part of an imagined future play out in real time. This is climate change. And thank goodness it happened while Biden is still president and could declare it a federal emergency which means FEMA resources and help are available now, which will matter to all the people who are already being told to fuck off by the insurance companies they've paid fire insurance to for years. Because I have no doubt that if this happened two weeks later, all that support would be withheld as punishment for California's election results.

Southern California is on fire

In 2024, L.A. Mayor Karen Bass defunded the LA Fire Department by $17.3 million.

The LA Police Department, however, got a $138 million budget increase.

Among the firefighters, 30% of them are inmate firefighters who are risking their lives for $2 an hour. Only for them to not be able to get a job as a firefighter once they're released.

There are now 4 fires burning across Socal. The one getting the most attention is the Palisades fire which has grown to over 11,000 acres. Alongside it is the Altadena fire (over 10,000 acres), Hurst fire (700 acres), and Lidia fire (50 acres).

Due to the unprecedented Santa Ana winds, which have blown to over 100 mph, firefighters have not been able to make a dent on these fires.

A thousand homes have been destroyed. Two people lost their lives from the Altadena fires.

Instead of showing sympathy for the thousands of victims, right wing conspiracy theorists on twitter are blaming the fires on LA Fire Chief, who is a lesbian, while Trump is blaming CA Governor Gavin Newsom for not removing water from a delta that would have endangered a native species.

Not climate change. Not the Resnicks, a billionaire couple who took control of California's water supply and now use over 150 billion gallons every year for their companies.

If you're in Southern California, please download the Watch Duty app. It brings up to date information on the fires along with evacuation zones. If officials tell you to evacuate, you do it. Make sure you look up shelters and mutual aid organizations where you'll evacuate to. If you have to abandon your car, please move it to the side or leave your keys in the car so firefighters can move it out of the way.

The consequences of this disaster will be catastrophic. It's become increasingly clear that our government officials will not protect us as they would rather fill their own pockets. Stick together. Protect your community as best as you can.

Please keep Southern California in your thoughts. We're going to need them.

[corroded-hellfire]

I just need pre-relationship AYW!Eddie all pent up and feral for Reader. I need him whimpering when he touches himself after Reader leaves for the evening. I need him trying to picture anyone else besides his kids’ babysitter but he keeps picturing Reader.

Your wish is my command! 😘

Warnings: male masturbation, smut, p in v, unprotected (wrap it up), older!eddie, babysitter!reader, the longing is real

Words: 2.4k

[As You Wish masterlist]

“Go to sleep now,” you grumble playfully, ruffling Luke’s curls as he smiles up at you from his bed.

“One more story?” Luke asks, though his voice betrays how sleepy he already is.

“Come on, buddy,” Eddie says from the doorway. “She’s been nice enough to stay for dinner and read you two bedtime stories already.”

A smile that steals Eddie’s breath grows on your lips as you turn to look at your boss.

“You make it sound like such a hardship,” you quip.

“I don’t think your union allows for overtime,” Eddie replies.

You let out a soft giggle and Eddie feels his insides begin to melt. It’s catastrophically unfair, the effect you have on him. Not in his whole life has Eddie met someone who so effortlessly turns him on and makes his heart race. As impossible as it is to ignore the feelings, Eddie tries not to linger on them for a few reasons. One, you’re a complete pipe dream. There is no way you, beautiful, intelligent, compassionate, and hilarious you would ever see a man over a decade older than you in the same light that he sees you. Two, and which he admits is arguably the bigger reason, is that he’s married. Sure, it hasn’t been a real marriage in…God knows how long. But it’s still a legally binding marriage that he hasn’t even attempted to separate from. Not for lack of want, though. It’s hard to see a point when it would cause the breakup of his boys’ family, and for what? So Eddie could be all alone in some smaller unfamiliar home that he struggles to afford on his own while caring for his sons, only getting to see them half the time he does now? No. He basically is doing it all alone right now, with the lack of input from Brittany, but at least Luke and Ryan are in the home they know and the two combined household incomes can give them a pretty good life.

Unfortunately, all the logic in the world can’t cure Eddie’s addiction to you.

“Close your eyes, sleepyhead.” You stand up from the edge of the four-year-old’s bed and lean over to press a kiss to his forehead.

The way you bend down towards the boy gives Eddie a spectacular view of your ass. He’s forced to dig his nails into the palms of his hands to suppress the groan that so desperately wants to escape. As much as he internally chides himself, Eddie can’t tear his eyes away either. He gets so few chances to just look at you, that he can’t bring himself to cut this precious time short.

“Night night,” Luke says through a yawn.

“Night, pal,” Eddie says.

You boop your index finger against the little boy’s nose before standing up straight and heading in Eddie’s direction. The two of you exit into the hallway and Eddie closes the door almost all the way–leaving it open just a crack to allow some of the hallway light in.

The two of you are silent as you walk to the living room, both silently dreading that it’s time to part for the evening. You swipe your bag up from the couch and slip it onto your shoulder.

“I guess I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow,” you say, reluctantly taking steps toward the front door.

“Thanks for staying longer than you had to,” Eddie says, walking you to the door like always. He feels like he should add the words “for the boys” to the end of his sentence, but he can’t bring himself to. As much as the boys adore you, Eddie knows he is without a doubt the happiest one that you stayed for dinner and until bedtime.

“It was fun,” you tell him. “I always have fun here.”

“Always?” Eddie teases, raising his eyebrows. “Can I remind you that you said that the next time Luke has a meltdown?”

“Sure,” you reply with a chuckle.

The electricity in the air threatens to spark at any moment as Eddie reaches around you to open the front door.

“Drive careful, sweetheart,” he says.

“No,” you tease with a playful smirk. “I’m going to drive recklessly. Run all the red lights.”

“Don’t give me reason to worry,” Eddie mumbles, knocking his shoulder against yours.

“Aww,” you coo. “You worry about me?”

Heat rises to Eddie’s cheeks and he desperately wills it to move back down his body.

“Alright, smart ass.” Eddie wrinkles his nose up and pretends to shove you out the door.

With a laugh, you playfully stumble down the walkway a few steps, acting as if his push was that strong.

“Oh, fine!” you lament over-dramatically. “I’ll be a good girl! Bye, Eddie.”

A good girl. Suddenly, Eddie wishes that heat and blood would stay in his face instead of rushing to his groin like it currently is.

“Bye, sweetheart.”

The moment you’re safely in your car and Eddie hears the engine start, he closes the front door and groans in time with the locking mechanism clicking into place.

“This just feels cruel,” he mumbles to himself as he rests his forehead against the cool wood of the door. He lets himself stand there until he hears your car rumble down the road and off into the night.

It takes a Herculean effort to push himself up and head deeper into the house. Out of habit, Eddie glances at the clock on the wall to see if Brittany will be home soon or not. It’s useless though—there’s never a set time she comes home. Who knows where she is or what she’s doing? Or who she’s doing. The pseudo-schedule the household used to follow has fallen by the wayside, so Eddie mentally tells himself to ignore it altogether. Easier said than done, of course.

When Eddie steps into the hallway it’s silent. No sounds of Luke sneaking out of bed to play with his toys or Ryan fumbling for his flashlight to read beneath his covers. Heaving a sigh, Eddie decides he might as well take care of the situation in his pants.

Despite Brittany not being home, Eddie locks the bedroom door behind him. Luke has also started the bad habit of opening any and every door without knocking first. So, better to be safe than sorry.

“Okay, think of someone else,” Eddie says to himself as he rids himself of his clothes. “Anyone else. Not her.”

It shouldn’t be hard to think of another woman to get himself off. Hell, for the entirety of Eddie’s teenage years, he could’ve jacked it to almost any woman and it would be great. Now he can’t seem to get this one specific, unattainable woman out of his mind.

He shucks the last of his clothes off and lays down on his bed, wracking his brain for someone who can get the job done. Julia Roberts? Nah. Jennifer Aniston? No. Cindy Crawford? Nope. Nicole Kidman? Maybe….no. Aunt Viv from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air? The first, not the second one. Still no.

“Fuck,” Eddie groans, letting his eyes fall closed as he wraps his hand around his semi-hard shaft. He licks over his lips and tries to let himself relax. The only way Eddie is going to be able to take care of this problem is to think about you and he knows it. He also knows he needs to hurry up if he wants to finish before Brittany comes home.

The mere thought of the woman who sleeps next to him at night has him softening slightly in his hand. A snort of laughter comes out, Eddie finding that humorous. Objectively, Brittany is beautiful, but knowing the rot and decay that lays just beneath the surface ruins any attractiveness Eddie could ever find in her anymore. Even though he already knows what will happen, Eddie immediately switches his thoughts over to you to see the effect. It’s instant. His cock comes to life at the very thought of your name.

No shit, Eddie thinks to himself as he opens his legs a little wider. Because she’s literally a fucking goddess. God, those eyes. Eddie’s hand grips himself a little tighter and moves down towards the base.

“Say you’re a good girl again, baby,” Eddie mumbles under his breath. Fuck, he can’t believe he was lucky enough to hear those words come from your lips. Jesus, he can hardly imagine being lucky enough to come home to you at the end of the day. Walking in the door after work and seeing you is already what he looks forward to all day, he can’t fathom how he would feel if you greeted him with a kiss and stayed there with him and the boys all night. And once the boys go to bed it’s time for some fun.

“Please.”

The word tumbles from Eddie’s lips but he’s not entirely sure what he’s asking for. You to be there with him? You to be by his side always? You to be here, naked, with your hand around him instead of his own?

Okay, Eddie thinks, shifting to make himself more comfortable. There we go, think about coming home to her.

He begins to slowly stroke his cock up and down.

Eddie imagines walking through the front door and kicking his boots off. Your voice hums sweetly from the kitchen and it brings a smile to his face.

“What smells so good, huh?” he asks as he strolls into the room.

The sight he’s greeted by is almost enough to bring him to his knees. You stand at the counter, facing him, an apron on and a bowl full of cake batter held in your hands.

“Welcome home,” you say.

Dark brown eyes follow your every move as you slowly dip your forefinger into the batter and pop it into your mouth. Eddie finds himself holding his breath as you slide your finger out from between your plush pink lips at a torturous pace.

As if the first time wasn’t enough, you dip your finger back in, but instead of putting it in your mouth this time, you point your finger up and stick your tongue out to lick every speck of vanilla batter off of it.

“Oh, fuck me,” Eddie moans.

With a soft laugh, you set the bowl down and look up at Eddie through your thick eyelashes.

“Funny. I was going to say that to you.”

A rough growl reverberates from Eddie’s chest as he moves forward to grab you by the hips. It’s only once he has his hands on you that he realizes not only are you wearing the apron—you’re wearing only the apron.

“God damn, baby,” he mutters. Calloused hands slide back just slightly and come into contact with your bare ass. He drops his head forward to rest against yours with a helpless whine.

You giggle, tilting your head up to brush your nose against his.

“I like the sounds you make,” you tell him, voice thick with lust.

Before he responds, Eddie presses a few gentle kisses along your bare shoulder and up the side of your throat.

“I want to hear your noises, too.”

“Hmm,” you hum. “I don’t think that’ll be very hard to manage.” You reach up with your left hand and tug on the tied apron string resting on the nape of your neck. The front of the apron falls down, leaving your entire torso exposed to Eddie.

A guttural groan meets your ears as strong hands grab you by the waist and help you up onto the counter. Immediately, you spread your legs and Eddie stands between them, the two of you fighting with the apron to get it all the way off you.

Eddie tosses it over his shoulder as you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling the two of your bodies as close as possible.

“Eddie,” you whine, reaching up to bury your fingers in his unruly curls.

“What baby?” His breath brushes against your lips, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.

“Need you.” Using your grip on his hair, you pull Eddie’s face down to crash against yours.

Mouths meet, lips dancing, tongues exploring, and teeth clashing. Strong yet gentle fingertips dig into your skin, yearning to hold you as tight as humanly possible. Nothing is close enough.

Eddie pulls back just enough to playfully nip at your bottom lip.

“Being such a good girl for me,” he rasps.

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you run your nose along the edge of Eddie’s jawline.

“Wanna be so good for you. Wanna feel you, Eddie. Pretty please?”

A smug smirk grows on Eddie’s face as he reaches between your two bodies to unzip his navy blue coveralls. You shove the material down his hips as Eddie whips his white undershirt off over his head.

“Ready for me, princess?”

Eddie lines himself up with your entrance, glancing up at your face as he waits for your approval.

“God, yes!” You nod emphatically, wiggling your hips in an attempt to get him inside of you faster.

Eddie grins at your eagerness, putting both of you out of your misery as he pushes inside.

“Fuck,” he groans.

“Oh!” You whimper, clinging to Eddie’s shoulders.

The sweet little noises spilling from your lips only encourage Eddie. He pulls almost all the way out before thrusting back into your tight wet heat. It feels as close to euphoria as Eddie’s ever felt. He wants to spend forever between your legs, but it feels far too good to last long.

“Feels so good,” you whine.

“Yeah, baby?” Eddie asks. “Like when I…oh, fuck.”

Eddie doesn’t have time to imagine what he’d say next before hot cum starts to pour over his fist.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mumbles as his orgasm works its way through his body. His hand keeps going, milking his cock for everything that it’s worth.

Once he’s well and truly spent, Eddie lets his boneless body sink into the mattress. His arm flings over the side of the bed and his fingertips brush against his t-shirt laying on the floor. Blindly, he picks it up and wipes his coated hand off before wiping the cum off his abdomen, legs, and anywhere else it went.

“Holy shit,” Eddie sighs. His head falls to the side and his eyes slip closed. A goofy smile comes to his face as his mind returns to you. “Fuck, I’m so gone for her.”

[silentheiss]

Shen Yuan is not a parent. He’s lazy, he’s a shut-in, he barely has a job. His parents pay for everything he owns. Plus, he’s not even thirty! Children can’t raise children!

All of this, though, doesn’t change the fact that there’s a mean little six year old sleeping in his apartment at least four nights a week.

“Yuan-ge, did you know young children sometimes die of hunger? Like, in poor countries. They don’t have food, so they die. Of hunger.” Shi Hai says, blinking up at him from where she’s sitting on the floor by the low table, dragging her chopsticks through the noodles in her take out container.

“Yes.” Shen Yuan answers distractedly. They’re watching the second episode of Love Game in Eastern Fantasy, and it’s kind of good. “Why?”

“I think I might chose that over this stink.”

“Ay, don’t be rude!” Shen Yuan gasps, turning to look at the girl fully. Her bangs are getting too long, falling past her eyebrows. They’ll have to get it cut soon. “I thought you liked that?”

“It’s better than beer.” Shi Hai shrugs. “But I’d maybe like a vegetable.”

Shen Yuan swears internally. He’s not equipped to do that. He should call Child Protection Services or something. They will contact the police, arrest Shi Wen, for some time at least, until her father gets her out of jail and back into the big, alcohol-filled apartment. And they will find a better home for Shi Hai. The one with actual adults, who can feed a child. Yes, he should do that.

He will.

“There’s a bell pepper in your noodles.” Shen Yuan mumbles. “Finish up, it’s time for a bath. You have school tomorrow.”

Shi Hai sighs.

“No.” Shen Yuan says, knowing well where this is going.

“Yuan-ge. School is ass.”

“Stop that. Kids don’t talk like that. Be cute.” Shen Yuan grumbles, turning back to the screen.

“This book is shit.” Shi Hai says in a low voice, clearly copying him. “What dumbass thought it’s worth my time. Idiot author.”

Shen Yuan throws a pillow at her.

“I don’t swear that much.” He says to himself.

“Uh-huh, Yuan-ge.” Shi Hai smiles. “Will you curl my hair before I go to bed? With the sock?”

“If you actually wash your hair, and not just stick your head under the water.” Shen Yuan says.

“Ugh.” Shi Hai groans. She puts her container back on the table and stomps away in the direction of the bathroom. Shen Yuan pauses his drama and gets up, too, to clean up. He’s been scolded by a child enough for one evening.

He throws away the trash, wipes the table and once he can hear the water running, he steps out of the apartment to knock on the next door to the right.

“Come on, Shi Wen.” He mumbles, when there’s no answer. “Don’t you care at all?”

Shen Yuan knocks again, louder. And again.

“I don’t think anyone’s home.”

Shen Yuan turns sharply and comes face to face with a man who, by all accounts, shouldn’t be real. He’s tall, exceedingly handsome, with long flowing hair and- he is holding a box filled with books as if it weighs nothing at all.

“She’s home.” Shen Yuan says dumbly.

The man smiles at him. Shen Yuan knocks on the door again, just for something to do.

“Neighborly visit?” The man asks, looking quite pointedly at his sweatpants and bare feet.

“Something like that.” Shen Yuan nods. “You’re moving in?”

“Yes. Luo Binghe.” The man says. “Got an apartment just down the hall.”

“Oh. Welcome, then. I’m Shen Yuan.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Shen Yuan.” Luo Binghe says. His smile is a little distracting. It looks soft, but actually isn’t.

“Nice to meet you.” Shen Yuan nods. “I-

“Yuan-ge!” Shi Hai yells. “I forgot my towel.”

“Gotta go!” Shen Yuan smiles and rushes back to his apartment.

He fetches Shi Hai’s towel, her pajamas and soft slippers. Next hour or so is spent combing her hair, oiling it and curling it onto a sock roll. If it turns out pretty, maybe she won’t make a fuss about going to school tomorrow.

Shen Yuan gets Shi Hai into his bed, reads one of his more kid-friendly novels outloud for half an hour to get her to actually fall asleep, and then goes to the guest bedroom to sleep. He tried to appoint the guest bedroom for Shi Hai, but she wouldn’t have it, and he is, apparently, a pushover when it comes to bratty kids.

Shen Yuan doesn’t think about Luo Binghe until the next morning when he drags protesting Shi Hai through the door.

“Come on, Hai Hai, the taxi is waiting.” He says.

“Schools is-”

“No! Stop that!”

“Shit, ass, poop!” Shi Hai yells.

“Fucking- Shi Hai!”

“Good morning, neighbors.” Comes a bemused voice comes from somewhere behind his back.

“Good my ass.” Shen Yuan grumbles, still tugging on Shi Hai’s hand. He turns his head briefly to see who’s day they’re ruining. “Oh, hi, Luo Binghe.”

“Yuan-ge.” Luo Binghe smiles slowly. He’s dressed in all black, leather pants and silk shirt. He looks like a model.

“He’s my Yuan-ge.” Shi Hai grunts, gripping Shen Yuan’s hand tighter. At least she’s not swearing anymore.

“You don’t seem to respect him very much, do you?” Luo Binghe asks.

“What do you know.” Shi Hai says. “Ugly.”

Luo Binghe opens his mouth, but doesn’t say anything. Shen Yuan feels like all of his blood has flown into his cheeks. Shi Hai’s looking down at the floor, clearly embarrassed but no, too little too late, little one.

“Shi Hai.” He says sternly. “I’m very disappointed right now.”

He then looks at Luo Binghe, still gaping at them.

“Luo Binghe, I’m sorry. You’re very pretty.” Shen Yuan knows his attempt at damage control is faulty, but he’s not a parent. He doesn’t know how to do that.

He sighs, locks his apartment door, and walks away with a very docile child. They’ll talk in the car, he decides.

[scoutofmymind]

fratboy!Luigi x i-dont-wanna-be-here!Reader just randomly had the thought of Lu being a rowdy frat boy and got kinda Tingly

Divine Timing Bullshit { Luigi x Reader }

Content: pretty much SFW (if you read about an alleged assassin at work), kissing, existential crisis, Fratboy Lu is actually a sweetie

W.c: 2,485

Notes; Yeah he’s an aggro-frat boy, but he’s also a stoned philosopher, and you appreciate that, because you’re kind of losing it.

Ohh, oh, oh. Yes, yes, yes. Frat boy with a brain and heart, reader is lowkey Going Through It.

Second-year frat parties had lost their theoretical allure. Gone was that first-year thrill of living the quintessential college experience, of checking off every box in the collegiate party manual.

This year, though. This year felt different.

"Who's going to be there?" You mumble through a mouthful of scone, eyes fixed on your screen. The pastry, a hasty purchase between classes, sits half-forgotten in your cheek.

"Since when do you care?" Your roommate swivels from her desk—a chaos of textbooks, scattered lip glosses, an open laptop, and uncapped mascaras. She brandishes her lip pencil like an accusatory finger, eyebrows arched. "You're turning into such a second-year hermit."

You flinch at the accusation, phone dropping to your chest as you stop mid-chew. "Fuck," you mutter, brushing pastry debris from your hoodie — the same one you've been living in for... three nights? Four?

She doesn't need to spell it out. You've become a ghost haunting the same tired circuit: dorm room, library, labs, class. Any moment of freedom dissolves into endless study sessions or mindless TikTok scrolling until you drift off to the white noise of ASMR or satisfying slime crafts.

"Don't make me go alone." Her voice cracks with a plea you can't dismiss. "We're supposed to be doing college together. We promised."

The pact.

The fucking pact.

You'd both sworn, hands clasped under string lights in your shared room during orientation week, that you wouldn't let each other miss out on anything. Not the midnight donut runs, not the questionable decisions, not the memories that were supposed to make these years matter.

And so, it was settled.

•

The house loomed before you, nothing like the usual frat dungeons. This was old money — a sprawling estate with an infinity pool that cut into the manicured lawn like a slice of sky, and a home theater visible through floor-to-ceiling windows.

Bodies pressed past, each collision a reminder that you'd rather be elsewhere.

"Whose fuckin' house is this?" The words barely leave your mouth before your roommate's giggle floats up, her shoulder bumping yours as she shrugs.

The question evaporates into the thrum of bass and chatter.

You knew the drill by now.

She'd disappear into the crowd, hunting for tonight's conquest, while you'd drift through rooms like a wandering spirit in limbo — observing the drama unfold, helping yourself to whatever expensive snacks rich kids kept in their pantries, and sometimes, when the night got boring enough, investigating medicine cabinets.

Eventually, your travels lead you toward clusters of laughing girls, some familiar faces from lecture halls, others newly christened friends after thirty seconds of slurred introductions.

The living room couch has become your sanctuary, a perfect vantage point for the night's theater.

"God, he's fucking hot." Liz's whisper cuts through the ambient chatter, her eyes fixed on the kitchen where the imported marble island has devolved into a battlefield of red cups and spilled beer.

A tall figure commands the space, radiating the particular brand of arrogance that comes with being undefeated at beer pong for the past hour.

"Who?" Your eyebrows knit together before shooting upward in realization. She can't possibly mean -

"His name's Luigi." Her voice takes on that dreamy quality, like a third-grader confessing her first crush behind the jungle gym. "He's studying Computer Science."

Your face contorts into an expression somewhere between horror and disbelief.

"I know," Liz breathes, mirroring your shock. Luigi wasn't unattractive — that was the problem. The universe had already dealt him the unfair hand of conventional beauty; the revelation of actual intelligence felt like cosmic overkill. "Wouldn't think he was aiming any higher than a business degree, huh?"

You watch him slam another cup, arms raised in victory, and try to reconcile this frat god with the same person who probably spent hours debugging code.

The image doesn't compute.

Every other CS major you knew was either passed out in the engineering building or mainlining caffeine in their dorm, not holding court over a beer pong empire.

"Just gives typical aggro frat vibes," you mutter, unable to tear your eyes away from the spectacle. He's exchanging those elaborate, ritualistic handshakes with his bros, throwing back shots like water. Your body instinctively recoils, but there's something magnetic about the train wreck unfolding before you — like watching a perfectly coded program crash in spectacular fashion.

He's performing, you realize — a master of his craft, painting broad strokes of the perfect college experience. Creating stories he'll tell at reunions and job interviews, memories that look better through the lens of a camera than they feel in real time.

You study Luigi's practiced grin, the way he looms over his temporary kingdom, and something shifts.

Does he have someone to call at 3 AM when the world caves in? Or are these connections as deep as the beer puddles on the marble counter — evaporating by morning?

The room tilts slightly, your earlier drinks and that passed joint finally catching up, making everything sharper and softer all at once.

Your gaze drifts over your own circle, these girls laughing and sharing secrets like best friends, some of which you'd only learned most of their names moments ago.

The thought hits you like cold water: who among them would you trust with your real stories? Who would pick up your call at 3 AM? Are you any different from Luigi — just playing your own part in this performance?

The night air slaps you awake before you even realize you've fled, your feet carrying you to a hidden corner of the garden where a stone fountain whispers secrets to itself. Here, the party exists only in echoes — distant laughter, scattered arguments, and drunken declarations of love or war floating across the manicured lawn.

You tilt your head skyward, searching for anchor points among the stars and the world narrows to just this: the cool stone beneath you, the rhythm of water, the infinite above -

"Hey."

Your body jolts to attention, the peaceful moment shattering like glass. Your eyes drop from the constellations to find a different kind of celestial body standing before you — broad shoulders blocking out stars, dark features caught in shadow, curls tumbling across his forehead.

Your mind scrambles for a name, like trying to catch smoke.

Luis? Lucas?

Luigi.

The beer pong champion himself, somehow materialized from your earlier observations like a summoned entity.

"Hey." Your body performs an awkward dance on the bench, caught between making room and trying to collapse into nothingness.

"What are you doing out here?"

The question, though innocent enough, triggers your defenses. Your response comes with teeth: "I could ask you the same thing." It's a warning label, bright and clear: Approach With Caution.

The garden's twinkle lights catch him in their amber web, transforming the beer pong champion into something softer — sweat-sheened skin, features gentled by shadow.

His posture reads like an open book written in a language you can't quite translate, neither defensive nor inviting.

Just curious.

"Well, you could." The words roll out with the same casual grace as the shoulder he shrugs, a yet-unlit joint dancing between his lips as his thumbs tap out a message on his phone's glow. "And I'd just say I live here."

The universe, it seems, has a sense of humor.

A groan slips past your defenses as mortification sets in. Of all the backyards in New York, you had to stake your claim in this one, then challenge its owner about his right to be there.

"To answer your question though-“ The words come filtered through the joint until flame meets paper. He exhales, and his next words ride out on a cloud of smoke: "I came out here to call my mom." His phone screen glows with evidence — his mother's contact photo, her name bookended by heart emojis and a simple Mama.

Something about Luigi — maybe the lingering beer pong bravado, maybe the way he wears this vulnerability so casually — still begs to be challenged. "Gotta make sure she doesn't suspect you have about one hundred NYU students in her home, hm?"

He shakes his head, the sound he makes sliding down the scale like lazy jazz. "Nah, she doesn't care about that shit." His thumb hovers over the keyboard, apparently deciding a text will suffice for tonight's check-in. "And there's definitely not a hundred people in there right now."

You study his posture — the way confidence and caution occupy the same space in his frame, like watercolors bleeding into each other. "Where's she?"

Luigi's eyes lift from his screen to find yours. "Seychelles." The message swooshes into the digital void before his phone disappears into his pocket. "Your turn."

The garden's ambient soundtrack fills the space between you, water music from the fountain where a bronze boy — who bears a suspicious resemblance to a younger Luigi — plays eternal lifeguard to the trickling streams.

Your eyes lock across the dim space, neither yielding.

"My turn to what?" The question is a stalling tactic, and you both know it.

"Your turn to tell me what you're doing out here."

Your gaze wanders the curated wilderness around you — the fairy-lit canopy, the fountain's eternal performance, the swimming pool framed by trees sculpted into shapes that belong in a vintage Playboy spread.

Everything here speaks of a life so different from yours, yet something about the engineering student standing before you, texting his mom from his own party, suggests a truth you hadn’t expected; the distance between your worlds might be shorter than it appears.

"Just needed some air." The lie falls flat, each word a domino tipping toward the truth you're trying to outrun—that existential spiral triggered by watching him earlier, wondering about the depth of his connections, only to find your own relationships reflecting back just as shallow.

Luigi claims his spot beside you, the bench suddenly alive with shared warmth. His knowing smirk and raised eyebrows speak volumes while his lips stay sealed, the silence between you stretching like taffy until -

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Getting some air." He mirrors your words back to you, a perfect echo with an undertone of challenge.

Your hands scrub across your face as if trying to erase something, and when you turn to face him, he's already there, matching your position like a choreographed dance. His eyes lock onto yours — steady, focused — as you stare back with the wild gaze of someone about to jump off a cliff.

"Do you ever think maybe you're just kinda... existing?"

There it is — your midnight confession spilling out into his garden, raw and unfiltered as the joint smoke curling between you.

Luigi catalogs you with the quiet satisfaction of someone who's just solved a puzzle — noting the timbre of your voice (hoarse from shouting over beer pong champions and top-40 hits), the way moonlight catches in your hair, how your eyes betray every thought. "I know that's what I'm doing," he nods, conviction steady as a heartbeat. "And that's enough."

"But what about the connections? What about true and real bonds?" The words tumble out as you watch him draw from the joint. He offers it your way — a bridge between strangers — but you wave it off, earning a laugh that somehow makes your existential crisis feel less like drowning.

"What about them?"

"Don't you miss having them?"

His shoulder grazes yours as he makes a face that suggests you're missing something obvious. "Existing doesn't mean I cease to create bonds or connections." His voice intensifies beside you, taking on the weight of someone that had something to convince you of. "They happen everyday."

The stare between you holds with magnetic force, compelling you to consider his truth: maybe you're the one who's been building walls instead of bridges, hiding in recycled hoodies and social media scrolls while real connections knock at your door.

"You think?" Your vision shifts, the aggressive frat facade dissolving to reveal something unexpectedly gentle around the edges.

"Well, what do you call this." His finger traces an invisible line between you, the gesture casual but weighted. "I think there's reason for everything, besides, like, cancer, or something." The statement perfectly gift-wraps his essence:

A walking contradiction — the frat boy who steps away from his own party to text his mom, a beer pong champion who philosophizes between 'likes,' an engineering major who can turn existential crisis into comfortable conversation.

"Well, it's interesting, to say the least." You're not sure if you mean this moment, this revelation, or Luigi himself. All you know is that Liz will either lecture you about garden rendezvous with her biggest crush, or demand a word-for-word replay.

Probably both.

"You think there's a reason we're both out here, then?" The question follows him as he leans forward, stubbing out his joint in a tray by the fountain. "Some sort of divine-timing bullshit?"

"I do." His conviction stands unwavering against your skepticism. "That's exactly what I think."

The sigh that escapes you carries the weight of self-awareness — maybe you're the one standing in your own way.

"Give me your phone." His shoulder nudges yours again, and you find yourself digging through your purse without hesitation, unlocking it before passing it over.

No questions asked — maybe you're already buying into this divine timing thing.

He returns your phone with a smile that seems to know something you don't. His own phone lights up with urgent news about a friend's overindulgence, likely greening out on the front lawn. "Gotta split."

You straighten your back, body still glued firmly to the bench beneath you, “Wait,” the request comes out steady, but hurried, afraid he might evaporate somewhere into the midnight air. “How - how do you do it, then?”

He settles back down, closer this time, “Do what?”

“Make it easier — connections, parties, being..” You gesture vaguely at all of him. “Present.”

Luigi considers this, his smile softening. "Maybe because I don't overthink it. Like right now — you're probably wondering if this is the right moment to ask the right question, when really..." He leans in slightly, voice dropping. "Sometimes you just have to let things happen."

The air shifts between you, heavy with possibility.

You're acutely aware of how close he is, how his eyes keep dropping to your lips as he speaks.

"Is that what you're doing?" Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. "Letting things happen?"

"I'm letting myself do what I've wanted to since I saw you having an existential crisis by my fountain."

And then he's kissing you — or maybe you're kissing him — the distinction lost in the warm press of lips and the lingering taste of smoke. It's gentle at first, questioning, until you lean into it and his hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek.

When he pulls back, that knowing smile returns. "See? Divine timing bullshit."

His phone buzzes again, more insistent this time. "Duty calls," he sighs, standing. "But text me. We'll work on your overthinking problem."

Read pt 2 Here ☁️

[somestorythoughts]

The smirk of a very smug spirit.

#danny hates christmas so fucking much#Bruce didn't know this kid was a half ghost god-king of an entire infinite dimension of death he just saw a sad kid in a bad situation#it wouldn't have changed anything if he'd known Danny had adoption bait written all over him#but he at least would have been able to better prepare for the kind of supernatural shenanigans that would pop up#Duke took one look at 4 of his brothers standing around a burning christmas tree at 3 in the morning holding gas cans & lighters & thought:#not my circus not my monkeys#he was the day shift vigilante he didn't get paid to deal with his family's shit in the middle of the night#he didn't get paid *period* he wasn't going to do volunteer chaos gremlin wrangling#Dick just wanted *one* day of relative quiet#he should have known that wasn't going to happen#Santa has been PLANNING this redemption arc for years#the Doctors Fenton be getting SO MUCH COAL#Naughty list for them#they had ONE JOB#Santa gonna save this kid from his anger and give him a healthy outlet if its the last thing he does#dc×dp Christmas Special

Damian doesn't know who Santa Claus is and Danny tries to gaslight him into believing in Santa

Okay but, like, wouldn't even be gaslighting! Santa canonically does exist in the DC universe, I think I remember reading something about him fighting through an army in hell to give Darkseid a single piece of coal once?

So like, Danny doesn't have to gaslight Damian into believing Santa's real, he just has to pull out the proof (Danny has a binder of everything he knows about the Spirit of Christmas for the purpose of when he eventually goes to war with him, Danny hates Christmas so fucking much haha) and show him evidence that Santa is real.

Probably ranting the entire time about how much he hates the guy & Christmas and it's obvious that this is Danny's arch nemesis. His one true villain above all others. Pariah Dark? A nuisance. Dark Dan? Just a tuesday. Santa? That motherfucker is the bane of Danny's existence and he will pay for what he's done (spread Christmas cheer).

And Danny's the newest member to the family. Damian's been encouraged to get to know his new brother and try and bond with him a bit, make him feel like part of the family. So, obviously, the best way to do that is to help Danny in his quest for vengeance.

And of course Tim & Jason end of getting roped in on this. Damian's grown since he's first came to live with his father. He still is a little brat to his older brothers - he's the baby of the family it's his right - but he doesn't actively hate them anymore and can admit when their particular skills would be useful. Tim is the best at strategizing, and Jason is a combat master with access to all sorts of weapons. With all of them working together Santa has no chance, they will destroy him.

Which all just makes me think of something like this happening lol:

“What…uh, what are they doing?” Duke glanced between the chaos unfolding in the family room to where Dick was calmly seated in his favorite chair, sipping idly at a cup of coffee.

“Sibling bonding.” Dick said. There was that specific aura of calm around him that said that he’d already gone through several crisis and all the stages of grief at least twice. Considering the calamity and chaos the eldest batkid had seen over the years - and especially the last few months since Bruce officially adopted Danny and brought him into the fold - it was a bad sign that he’d reached this particular state of Done (TM) before noon. The earliest Dick even woke up was two in the afternoon.

Duke contemplated turning around right then and there - the particular combination of people all excitedly feeding off each other’s feral energy on the other side of the room was a catastrophe in the making he didn’t want to be anywhere near when it finally breached containment and spilled out into the wider world - but unfortunately he was cursed with the curiosity that afflicted all members of the bat clan.

“It looks like they’re plotting to try and kill Santa Claus.”

Dick turned to look at Duke fully for the first time since he’d entered the room. He had the eyes of one that was deeply haunted by the horrors they had witnessed. On the other side of the room Tim was ranting about anti-magic tech while Danny, Damian and Jason argued over what weapons would be most effective against a demi god. There were schematics of what looked worryingly like a rocket launcher looking device that - if the scribbles on the whiteboard someone had drug into the room where to be believed - was going to be rigged to shoot ecto-grenades.

“Danny hates Christmas.” Dick said, and Duke noticed for the first time that his hands around the coffee cup were faintly trembling. “He’s declared Santa is his arch nemesis.”

Duke blinked, glancing over to the others long enough to see Danny start frantically scribbling the words Christmas Nuke on the whiteboard. No one else was trying to erase it. Tim looked worriedly contemplative. Damian and Jason where both nodding in agreement.

He was going to regret this. “But Santa isn’t real?”

Dick’s eyes gained a faintly manic glean, and Duke could faintly hear the sound of porcelain creaking warningly beneath the desperate hold he had on his coffee cup. “That’s what I thought!” Dick said, with enough cheer to make Duke flinch back instinctively. “But apparently he is.” A distinct crack appeared in the cup, coffee dripping down into Dick’s lap. “And apparently they’re going to war with him!”

Well, Duke considered, at least that explained why he caught the four of them burning down the giant Christmas tree in the city center last night.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

The Warning With Steve Schmidt:

Four years ago today, after losing a presidential election, Donald Trump incited an insurrection against the US Constitution. His mob stormed the Capitol, pissed on the walls and shat on the floors. They did $1.5 million in damage, caused injuries to at least 174 of Capitol police officers, and caused the deaths of five people. Trump will soon pardon the January 6 criminals, lionize them, and hang medals around their necks. Have no doubt about this. Meanwhile, Elon Musk has denounced Nigel Farage, the leader of the UK Reform Party, saying that he is unfit to lead it. He has also stepped up his interference in the forthcoming German elections. He has also begun severely limiting criticism of himself and others on X with a social media scoring system that is straight out of China.

The Washington Post is in a state of collapse. The paper’s best political writers, journalists and commentators are like the first-class passengers on Titanic being lowered into half-filled life boats taking them to the Wall Street Journal and The Atlantic, but the truth is that there aren’t enough life boats for all. Everyone is going to want off a ship that is sinking into disgrace. Whatever private commitments were made between the Graham family and Bezos when he bought The Washington Post regarding its stewardship have been shattered. The most incredible part about the capitulations — which are not the least bit surprising — is how quickly they happened, and without so much as a soft whimper or scuffle.

By doing so, most editorial leaders of these institutions have demonstrated the only place they are truly fit to work is the Trump White House. There, they could combine the practice of moral appeasement, fecklessness, dishonesty, weakness and self-interest with being cheered, promoted and celebrated. Instead, these low men and women have to face the reality that the person staring back at them in the mirror is a different version of Lindsey Graham — only they call themselves journalists as opposed to senator. The farce is the same. The cowardice is the same. The record will show that when the starting gun sounded nobody came close to Joe Scarborough and Mika Brzezinski with their Usain Bolt-like dash to Mar-a-Lago. Bezos must look at them through his capitulant lens as visionaries. Perhaps they will have the opportunity to summer aboard Koru, his yacht, with the Lady Sanchez in the south of France. Given that Bezos has green-lit a Melania documentary that explains her reemergence from witness protection, maybe she could be there as well, softly purring about her deep love of Donald and America.

[...] Jeff Bezos, Sam Altman, Elon Musk, and all the rest of America’s oligarchs hold the American people in contempt. Because they do, they can’t see the character of the steelworker, trucker, nurse, teacher or cop. They only see one thing, and that in the end, is why this whole miserable MAGA project will crash and burn. They are locusts preparing to swarm to engorge themselves even though they feel no hunger and want for nothing. Donald Trump will keep pushing until someone, somewhere, some day, effectively pushes back again. I hope that day comes soon because until then they are going to be full speed ahead. By the time the inaugural address is over there will be perfect clarity around what must be fiercely opposed as indecent and un-American.

Steve Schmidt’s column is on the nose here. It’s insulting to see so many people and institutions obey in advance and capitulate to Trumpism, especially the Washington Post.

[meazalykov]

play for the crowd

lauren james x english!influencer!reader : social media + fic

summary: a fake relationship never ends well.. or does it?

warnings: angst, very long chapter

for @pinkyqily + @jackiesunshines

“welcome back to ‘call her daddy,’ babes,” alex starts with her signature grin, leaning closer to the mic. 

“today, we’ve got the it-girl of england sitting across from me. she’s hilarious, she’s fashionable, she’s friends with basically everyone worth knowing—please give it up for y/n!!”

you laugh softly, adjusting your seating in the red fancy chair.

“oh, stop it. you’re hyping me up too much.”

“listen, i only speak the truth on this podcast,” alex replies dramatically, hands gesturing like she’s addressing an audience of thousands. 

“so, let’s just jump right in. your fashion—people are obsessed. i mean, half the girls listening are probably taking notes on your outfit right now as we speak.”

you smile, settling into your seat. 

“i feel like my style is a bit all over the place, to be honest. one day i’ll be in baggy streetwear, the next i’m in a full-on luxury brand look, then i’m in some scandi-inspired minimalism, and before you know it, i’m frolicking in a meadow in a cottagecore dress. i just wear whatever’s cute.”

“so, you’re telling me your closet must look insane.” alex leans forward, clearly intrigued.

“oh, it’s a disaster,” you admit with a laugh. 

“you know when people say, ‘if you can’t see it, you won’t wear it’? yeah, my clothes are in piles. i try to organize, but then i get new stuff, and it’s chaos all over again.”

“and yet you always look put together. how does that even work?”

“magic,” you joke, adjusting your oversized blazer. 

“or maybe just panic dressing.”

alex grins. 

“fair enough. okay, now—this is a call her daddy episode where i am the nosey host, so we have to get into your social life. you’ve got so many famous friends. who’s in your circle? who’s in the inner circle?”

you raise an eyebrow.

“you’re really trying to get the tea, huh?”

“always,” alex says without hesitation. 

“give us something.”

you smirk. 

“well, i’ve got a mix of people, you know? like, models, footballers, actors... it’s a weird little melting pot. i vibe with people who are chill and don’t take life too seriously.”

“what about jude bellingham?” alex’s grin widens, mischief sparkling in her eyes. 

“you’ve been seen with him quite a bit. are we finally getting confirmation here?”

your laugh is immediate, and you shake your head as you roll your eyes playfully. 

“oh my god, no no no absolutely not. jude is not my type at all.”

alex gasps theatrically. 

“wait, hold on. you’re telling me jude bellingham, literal dreamboat that maybe has a million edits of himself, is not your type? do you know how many women would kill for that chance?”

“i’m sure they would,” you reply, still laughing. 

“but, yeah, jude and i are just friends. strictly platonic. in fact, he’s hilarious.”

alex’s eyes narrow in mock suspicion. 

“so, what is your type, then?”

you pause for a moment, knowing the question is loaded. you take a breath, then grin. 

“well, just know that i don’t swing jude’s way.”

alex’s face lights up. 

“ohhh, so you’re into women?” her excitement is palpable.

“yeah,” you say, nodding firmly. 

“i mean, people have speculated for years, so… there you go. confirmed. i like women.”

“iconic,” alex replies, clapping her hands. 

“this is huge!!!! so, do you have a partner? because i feel like everyone’s going to be dying to know now.”

a weight sinks in your chest, but you plaster on a smile. you hate lying, but this is part of the game. 

“i do,” you say carefully, keeping your voice light. 

“but i’m not spilling anything just yet.”

“oh, come on,” alex pleads. 

“not even a little hint?”

you shake your head, laughing softly. 

“nope. but trust me, everyone will know who she is eventually.”

alex groans in mock defeat, throwing her head back. 

“you’re killing me, y/n. absolutely killing me.”

“i gotta keep some mystery, alex,” you tease. 

“otherwise, what’s the fun?”

y/n.l/n

{tagged: yourbsf}

liked by lj10, samanthakerr20, and 101,927 others

y/n.l/n hello 2025

view comments

y/nl/nluvr5 SO CUTE

yourbsf ily

ashley_lawrence10 pretty! 🤩

wosofan2719 why are all of the chelsea girls in her likes?? 🫣

user6282 I thought I was the only one who peeped

random12938 after her podcast with alex on friday, I am convinced y/n's girlfriend is known to the public already. you might be onto something since she is already close with english footballers

madelineargy 😍

~view all 2,039 comments~

you’re sitting cross-legged on your plush beige couch, the soft hum of a charli xcx playlist filling the quiet of your london apartment. 

a steaming mug of tea sits on the coffee table, untouched, as you absently scroll through your phone. your eyes flick to the clock—just past noon. you’re waiting on lauren to send over the ticket details for tonight’s chelsea vs. arsenal match, the anticipated london derby.

your stomach twists slightly at the thought. not because of the game—you actually enjoy football. it’s the situation you’ve been thrown into that makes you uneasy. 

a fake relationship. a pr stunt. your team’s bright idea to boost both your profiles. it’s not like you haven’t heard the horror stories: influencer friends venting about staged dates, awkward photoshoots, and scripted chemistry with people they couldn’t stand and hated. 

you swore you’d never do something so fake, yet here you are.

your phone buzzes, snapping you out of your thoughts. it’s a message from lauren.

lauren: hey, just sent your name to the list—tickets will be at will call under 'guest of lj.' fancy title, right?

you smile faintly, typing back.

you: wow, i feel so important. 

you joke. a reply comes almost instantly.

lauren: absolutely. “fake girlfriend to chelsea star.” major clout.

you laugh under your breath, appreciating her humor despite the absurdity of the situation.

you: i can’t lie.. this is all so ridiculous. have you done this kind of thing before?

lauren: nope. first time for me too. i feel like i should apologize in advance if i make this awkward.

you: i was just about to say the same to you. we’ll both be awkward… it’ll balance out.

lauren’s next text takes a second longer to come through.

lauren: for what it’s worth, i know this isn’t ideal. but i promise i’m not a complete nightmare in person like the media can paint me out to be. 

you pause, rereading her message. there’s something about her tone—genuine, almost reassuring. however, you frown at the last part of her message. you have seen the tweets and post that have villainized her about certain situations that have happened between her and other players. you don’t play football, but you understand how intense things can be.

lauren’s genuine personality makes you think that this won’t be as terrible as you’ve been building it up to be.

you: well, if you’re not a nightmare, i guess i can survive one football match. or how ever many as i will need to go to for us. as long as i don’t get smacked with a football in front of your everyone or something.

lauren: if you do, we’ll just blame it on the opposing team.

you laugh again softly, shaking your head. her dry wit feels disarming, and you find yourself a little more curious about meeting her in person. maybe, just maybe, lauren will surprise you.

the cool london air nips at your cheeks as you step out of the car, pulling your brown puffer coat tighter around yourself. the excitement hums through the blue and red crowds gathered outside the chelsea stadium. 

you glance up at the familiar facade, the blue and white banners waving proudly in the breeze. you’ve been here before, more times than you can count, but tonight feels… different.

you make your way through the gates, clutching the ticket lauren organized for you. your name’s on the guest list, which feels oddly official, even though you know it’s all just for show. navigating the stadium is second nature by now—you’ve been here for england matches, screaming alongside the fans, but you’ve never been here for chelsea. 

the thought feels strange, almost disloyal, considering most of your friends are manchester (city and united) fans through and through.

their reactions flash through your mind, the way they nearly lost it when you casually mentioned you were going on a "date" with a chelsea player.

"you’re joking, right? chelsea? you can’t be serious," one had said, barely hiding their disbelief.

"wait, who is it?" another pressed, practically bouncing in their seat. 

"don’t tell me it’s lucy bronze—no, wait, she just transferred here so i don’t think it's her."

you’d shrugged them off, offering nothing but a sly smile. “you’ll find out soon enough,” you’d teased, leaving them to spiral into speculation. you didn’t have the heart—or the nerve—to explain the truth yet. 

not until you’d met lauren in person, not until you knew how this whole fake relationship would pan out.

as you approach the friends and family section, a subtle wave of nervousness rolls over you. this is it—the start of whatever chaotic media circus your teams have orchestrated. you take a deep breath, smoothing the invisible wrinkles on your coat, and step inside.

you wonder if people will question your presence in that section, why you were here by yourself with none of your friends to accompany you. however, you decide to take the next 90 minutes to collect your thoughts while lauren plays her match.

taking your seat, directly where you can see the middle of the pitch, the noise of the crowd fills your ears as you settle. your focus is razor-sharp. your eyes stay locked on lauren as she moves across the pitch with ease, weaving through arsenal's defense like it’s second nature. 

the game already started three minutes ago.. and she’s good…really good. you knew that already, of course, seeing her play live is something else entirely.

you shift in your seat, trying to keep your expression neutral. the plan is simple: be here, watch the match, and appear supportive. it’s harder than you thought to ignore the weight of the cameras that occasionally pan away from the game and land on you instead. 

you know what the headlines will say. you can already picture the tweets that are posting on twitter as your eye move along lauren’s body.

the speculation is what you’re here for. you tap your fingers against the armrest of your seat, trying to drown out the chatter in your head. this is all part of the plan, you remind yourself. 

still, the questions buzzing online are ones you’re not ready to answer. not yet. this isn’t even real after all.

your eyes dart back to lauren. she’s on the ball again, making a sharp run from a sharp pass from lucy that sets up a near-perfect chance. the crowd erupts, and you find yourself caught between genuine admiration for her skill and the uncomfortable reality of why you’re here. with the cameras on you, though, you know better than to let anything too much slip. 

you lean forward slightly, keeping your attention locked on lauren, as though she’s the only thing that matters in the moment.

the game ends with a 2-1 win for chelsea. you stand awkwardly by the fruit stand in the lounge room area, pretending to be invested in the arrangement of grapes and orange slices. the truth is, you feel out of place. 

this isn’t your scene, and it shows. the other friends and family members seem at ease, chatting and laughing like they belong here. you, however, can’t shake the anxiety in your chest. of course, people recognize you—this is england, after all. your face is plastered on magazine covers and social media feeds. here, in this context, you feel more exposed than ever.

you shift your weight from foot to foot, glancing at the clock on the wall. lauren’s team has just wrapped up their post-match debrief, and any minute now, she’ll walk in. the thought doesn’t help your nerves; if anything, it makes them worse. 

you haven’t even met her in person before, yet the entire world will soon think that she’s your girlfriend. the absurdity of it all threatens to make you laugh, but the knot in your stomach keeps you grounded.

you’re about to reach for a piece of pineapple when you feel a light touch on your shoulder. the sensation startles you, and you turn around quickly, almost dropping the toothpick you’re holding.

“i didn’t know you could be so shy, y/n,” lauren says, her tone teasing but warm. she’s standing there, freshly showered, her hair damp and swept back. the post-match attitude has faded, leaving her looking relaxed, but there’s a spark of curiosity in her eyes as she takes you in.

you smile nervously, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your blazer. 

“well, i’m usually not,” you reply, your voice quieter than you intended. 

“but this is… a little out of my comfort zone.”

lauren’s brows raise slightly, and she steps closer, her presence somehow steadying. 

“really? you, out of your comfort zone? that’s hard to believe.”

you glance down, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. 

“it’s different when it’s not my crowd. football people, you know? i’m more used to influencer events or fashion shows, not… this.”

lauren chuckles softly. 

“well, for what it’s worth, you look like you fit right in. maybe too well. people are already whispering about you.”

“great,” you mutter, trying to keep the sarcasm light but unable to mask your discomfort. 

“exactly what i wanted.”

she tilts her head, studying you for a moment. 

“it’ll die down eventually,” she says, her tone more serious now. 

“but i get it. it’s weird, isn’t it? pretending like this? its going to be worse once we have to tell the media.”

you let out a small laugh, more out of relief that she said it than anything else. 

“weird doesn’t even begin to cover it,” you admit. 

“i mean, we haven’t even met before today, and now the world will think that we’re madly in love. it’s ridiculous.”

lauren nods, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. 

“yeah, it is. but hey, we’re in this together, right?.”

you meet her gaze. she’s genuine, at least, and that’s something. “you’re right,” you say softly, your smile more genuine now. 

“i guess we’ll figure it out.”

she grins, and the moment feels strangely natural despite the layers of pretense surrounding it. then she gestures toward the lounge area where the other players’ families are gathered. 

“come on. let’s get you out of the corner. they’re going to think i’m a terrible girlfriend if i leave you standing here alone.”

you laugh, following her lead, the tension still present but slightly eased by her presence. it’s strange, walking beside her, knowing that the world will see something entirely different from what you feel inside. 

for now, you push that thought aside and focus on surviving the night.

lj10

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random28383 IS THAT WHO I THINK IT ISSS??????

y/nl8vr MY BABY ON THE THIRD SLIDE

chelseafcwfan7 I KNEW IT WAS LAUREN THAT WAS DATING Y/N

❤️ *liked by author*

y/n.l/n 😘😘

user91010 oh that's not..

meazalykov ??

user91010 @/meazalykov i did not expect lauren and y/n no shade..

meazalykov well too bad..

lucybronze hard launch era

catarina_macario 😍😍

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the days throughout the next few weeks blur together in a haze of carefully curated social media posts and staged interactions. every picture, every story, every comment feels like a chess move, calculated for the public eye. 

by now, the world has accepted the narrative—lauren james and y/n l/n, england’s newest power couple.

behind the scenes, it’s a different story entirely. you and lauren barely talk, only exchanging the occasional text when coordinating your next “public moment.” it’s efficient, professional even, but cold. 

you can’t help but feel the growing weight of the disconnect between the facade you show the world and the reality of your relationship. or lack thereof.

yet, something about lauren lingers in your mind. she’s kind in the brief moments you’ve interacted—genuine, with a subtle humor that catches you off guard. you’ve noticed how her quiet demeanor shifts when she’s irritated, her sharp gaze and tense shoulders mirroring your own tells when you’re frustrated. 

it’s a trait that feels too familiar, like looking into a mirror.

sitting on your couch late one evening, your phone in hand, you scroll mindlessly through instagram. you pause looking at the instagram story you posted with lauren, staring at the image, at the way lauren’s hand rests casually on your back in the mirror picture. you’d both laughed during that shoot. the memory stirs something in your chest—a quiet ache you can’t quite place.

she’s fascinating in a way you didn’t expect. it’s not just her talent on the pitch or her rising fame; it’s the little things. the way her smile softens when she’s genuinely amused. the thoughtful pauses she takes before she speaks. the way she seems to carry a quiet confidence, even in the chaos of the public’s attention. 

you shake your head, exhaling sharply. this is ridiculous, you tell yourself. the truth is, you want to know her… the real her, not the polished version you’ve pieced together through brief interactions and online impressions. 

you open your messages, your thumb hovering over her name. for a moment, you consider texting her something—anything—to start a conversation. however, the thought of overstepping, of complicating an already convoluted situation, keeps you frozen. 

with a sigh, you lock your phone and toss it onto the couch beside you.

whatever this is, whatever it could be, will have to wait. for now, you’ll stick to the plan, no matter how much your thoughts keep drifting back to lauren.

y/n.l/n

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y/n.l/n good evening

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lj10 good evening 😍😍

lucybronze its 11:09am..

y/n.l/n again, good evening lucy bronze

lucybronze good evening ig 😒

catarina_macario 🤩

random2728 lj and y/n having a private but not secret relationship 🥰

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random2728 there's something off about this..

random10989 wym?

leahwilliamsonn 😍

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the bar is calming, music thrumming in the background as laughter and chatter fill the air. the dim lighting casts a warm glow over the group, everyone mingling and sipping on their drinks. 

you’re perched on a stool near the bar, glancing occasionally at lauren, who’s leaning against the counter, chatting easily with one of her teammates, millie. she looks relaxed, her posture casual, but there’s something about the way her eyes flick to you every so often that has your stomach in knots.

“another drink?” her voice cuts through the noise, her tone light but carrying just enough warmth to catch your attention.

you look up at her, a slight smile tugging at your lips.

“are you trying to get me drunk, lauren?”

she smirks, handing you the glass. 

“maybe. or maybe i just want to make sure you’re having a good time.”

you take a sip, feeling the burn of the alcohol mixed with something sweeter—the way she’s looking at you. 

“thanks,” you murmur. 

“but i can return the favor. what are you drinking?”

“water,” she says simply, holding up her glass. 

“staying hydrated.”

you tilt your head, studying her. 

“water? not even one drink? you’re playing it too safe.”

she shrugs, a playful glint in her eyes. 

“someone has to keep an eye on you.”

you laugh, the sound escaping before you can stop it. 

“oh, so now you’re my babysitter?”

“if that’s what you need,” she fires back smoothly, her grin widening.

there’s a moment, a charged pause, where the noise of the bar seems to fade into the background. lauren’s gaze lingers on you, and you feel your cheeks heat under the intensity of it. 

you lean in slightly, emboldened by the drinks and the energy between you.

“careful,” you tease, your voice dropping just enough to match the tension. 

“someone might think you actually care.”

“and what if i do?” she counters, her tone light but her eyes unreadable.

you blink, caught off guard. the banter feels easy, natural, but there’s something underneath it that feels heavier—real. you search her face for a clue, but she keeps her expression steady, a flicker of amusement playing at the corners of her mouth.

“then i’d say you’re doing a great job convincing everyone here,” you say finally, trying to match her confidence, even as your heart races.

her lips curve into a smirk. 

“convincing you, too?”

your breath catches, and for a split second, you don’t know what to say. she watches you, her expression calm but undeniably smug, as though she knows exactly the effect she’s having on you.

“maybe,” you admit, keeping your voice steady despite the way your pulse thunders in your ears.

she chuckles softly, the sound low and intimate, and it leaves you feeling both flustered and unmoored. then, as if sensing the moment tipping into something too real, she pulls back slightly, raising her glass of water in a mock toast.

“to good acting,” she says, her voice light but her eyes holding yours a beat too long.

you clink your glass against hers, your stomach twisting as you try to discern whether she’s teasing or deflecting. 

as the night wears on, you can’t shake the way her words, her gaze, her presence—all of it—lingers in the back of your mind. was it an act? or was there something more beneath the surface? you don’t know, and the uncertainty gets at you in a way you didn’t expect.

your drink—something sweet and forgettable—sits untouched in front of you, the condensation pooling around the glass on the counter. the room feels alive as you watch your surroundings again, as lauren’s teammates and your friends fill the dance floor, laughing, swaying to the music, completely at ease. 

you, however, feel like a misplaced puzzle piece.

you’re here for a purpose, after all—not to let loose, but to be seen. you and lauren were both instructed to attend, to sit in proximity long enough for someone to notice, snap a photo, and post it online. the public needed to see the happy “couple” out and about, living their seemingly charmed lives. 

that was the plan. it always is. however, something about tonight feels off.. or maybe it’s you that feels off. 

your eyes drift to lauren, who’s sitting a few stools away at this point, talking to sjoeke. lauren’s body language is relaxed, her posture casual, and she exudes that effortless charm you’ve come to associate with her. her laugh carries over the music, soft but genuine, and it’s disarming. 

you’ve seen her in a dozen different settings by now—on the pitch, in interviews, even in those staged photoshoots your teams made you do together—but she always carries the same quiet confidence. 

“why do i care so much about her flirting earlier?” the thought hits you suddenly, and you blink, startled by your own realization. you know you shouldn’t care. it’s not like there’s anything real between you two. this is business, nothing more. 

you’re about to take a sip of your drink when movement catches your eye. a brunette woman, her steps uneven and her smile a little too wide, weaves her way through the crowd and makes a beeline for lauren. 

she stops next to her, leaning on the counter for balance before sliding onto the stool beside her. 

at first, you think nothing of it. people approach lauren all the time; it comes with the territory of her being a footballer.. then you notice the way the woman leans in, her body language screaming flirtation. 

even over the music, you catch snippets of her words. 

“i’ve been watching you all night,” the brunette says, her voice slurred but still clear enough to make your chest tighten. 

you force yourself to look away, focusing instead on the condensation trailing down your glass. but your attention snaps back when you hear lauren laugh—a soft, polite chuckle that quickly morphs into something warmer. she’s flirting back. 

it’s subtle, nothing overt, but it’s enough to make your stomach churn.

you grip the edge of your stool, willing yourself to stay calm. this doesn’t matter, you tell yourself. this isn’t real. lauren is a footballer—a brilliant, talented, and undeniably attractive one. of course people are drawn to her. of course she’s going to flirt back.

you remind yourself that you’re just the one her pr team picked for this charade. nothing more. 

the tightness in your chest refuses to go away. watching lauren lean in closer to the brunette, her smile softening, feels like a punch to the gut and worse, it makes you question things you don’t want to question. 

like why you even care in the first place.

the noise of the bar feels suffocating, and before you know it, you’re sliding off the stool and heading toward the bathroom. the music dulls as you push through the door, and the quieter space is a welcome reprieve.

then, your eyes land on zion and amber. 

your two friends are tucked into a corner of the bathroom, lost in their own world. amber’s hands are tangled in zion’s hair, and zion’s lips are pressed firmly against amber’s. they don’t even notice you until the door clicks shut behind you. 

zion pulls back first, her face flushed. “y/n?” she asks, stepping forward. 

“you okay?”

you hesitate, the weight of the night pressing heavily on your chest. you don’t want to talk about it, but the lump in your throat makes it clear that you need to. 

“not really,” you admit, your voice quieter than you intended.

amber straightens, exchanging a quick glance with zion before walking over to you. 

“what’s going on?” she asks, concern evident in her tone.

just like that, everything comes pouring out. the fake relationship, the constant public scrutiny, the pressure to perform for an audience you didn’t ask for. you tell them about the brunette at the bar, how lauren flirted back, and how much it hurt even though it shouldn’t have. when you’re done, you feel a little lighter, but the knot in your chest remains.

zion crosses her arms, her brow furrowed in thought. 

“y/n,” she says carefully, “are you… catching feelings for lauren?”

the question hangs in the air, heavy and uncomfortable. your first instinct is to deny it, to brush it off as ridiculous. but the truth gnaws at you, undeniable and unrelenting. you don’t say anything, which is answer enough.

amber steps closer, placing a hand on your arm. “look,” she says gently, “you need to figure this out. either you tell her how you feel and end this whole fake thing, or you set some serious boundaries before you get hurt.”

you nod slowly, the reality of her words settling over you like a weight. “yeah,” you murmur. 

“you’re right.”

as you stand there, staring at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, the question lingers in your mind. 

how did i even let this happen?

the days pass in a haze of avoidance and overthinking. 

you bury yourself in work, content for tiktok, and anything else that keeps you busy enough to ignore the fluttering in your chest every time you think of lauren. it’s not hard to avoid her; after all, your only real interactions have been the orchestrated ones... lunches, coffee dates, the occasional walk in the park, all designed to feed the narrative. 

without the need for those, you manage to keep your distance.

your phone buzzes occasionally with texts from lauren. nothing accusatory or probing, just polite questions about when your next outing is or casual jokes about how your pr teams must be getting impatient about when the next outing will be. 

each message makes your stomach twist, the guilt poking at you. she doesn’t deserve to be avoided, but you can’t bring yourself to face her right now.

the bathroom conversation at the bar replays in your head on a loop. amber’s words, “set boundaries or tell her how you feel,” echo louder with each passing day. it feels like you’ve done neither, stuck somewhere in limbo, unsure of what to do. 

all you know is that seeing lauren flirt with someone else hurt more than it should have. and now, it’s painfully clear why.

you caught feelings. 

the realization had hit you like a train that night, leaving you panicked. you’ve spent years building walls around yourself, keeping relationships at arm’s length, unwilling to let anyone in after your last heartbreak. yet here you are, feelings growing for someone who isn’t even truly yours. 

lauren’s face lingers in your mind far more often than you’d like. the chelsea player’s quiet humor, her thoughtfulness, the way her smile lights up when she’s genuinely happy.. it’s all etched into your brain, no matter how much you try to push it away. 

the worst part? you know this is going nowhere. fake relationships don’t magically become real, and even if they did, there’s no guarantee lauren feels the same.

you sit on your couch, scrolling absentmindedly through your phone. the notifications pile up—comments on your latest post, messages from friends, an email from your team about your next public appearance. 

you can’t bring yourself to focus on any of it. all you can think about is how scared you are that you’ve made a mistake, one that’s far too late to undo.

hours later.. around midnight.. you’re curled up on your couch, a soft blanket draped over your legs as you dig into a bowl of rice and chicken. the dim glow of the tv lights up the room, the suspenseful soundtrack of squid game filling the air. 

it’s the perfect distraction, engrossing enough to keep your thoughts at bay, even if just for a little while.

then, a faint knock interrupts the quiet. at first, you assume it’s coming from the show, but when it happens again, you freeze. your eyes flick to the door. you weren’t expecting anyone, and frankly, you’ve been avoiding everyone for the last few days. 

the knocking persists, steady and deliberate, until you reluctantly pause the show and get up.

your heart races as you peek through the peephole. the sight of lauren standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of her hoodie, sends your mind spiraling. 

what is she doing here? how did she get my address?

you open the door slowly, your confusion evident. 

“lauren?” you ask, your voice wary. 

“what are you doing here? how did you even know where i live?”

she offers a small smile, almost sheepish. 

“hey. i asked madeline. hope that’s okay.”

you step aside, letting her in despite your confusion at why she would go so far to ask your mutual friend what your address was. lauren looks around, her eyes landing on the paused screen of squid game. 

“season two?” she asks, nodding toward the tv. 

“is it any good? haven’t had the chance to watch it yet because of training.”

“so far, yeah,” you reply, your tone cautious. 

“like the first season. but… why are you here?”

she turns to face you, her expression soft but serious. 

“i came to talk to you. you’ve been avoiding everyone.. me included.. and it’s not like you. i just want to make sure you’re okay.”

you try to brush it off, waving a hand dismissively. 

“i’m fine. just needed some space, that’s all.”

lauren doesn’t budge. she crosses her arms, tilting her head slightly. 

“come on, y/n. i know something’s wrong. you can’t just disappear like that and expect no one to notice.”

you let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. 

“what does it matter? you probably have a real date to get to or something.”

she frowns, her brows knitting together. 

“what are you talking about? i don’t have a real date. why would you say that?”

your heart pounds in your chest, but you push forward, your voice tinged with frustration. 

“do you have a real partner, lauren? someone you’re seeing while we’re doing this… this fake thing?”

lauren’s confusion deepens. 

“what? no. where is this even coming from?”

the tension boils over, and before you can stop yourself, the words spill out. 

“because it’s driving me insane, lauren! this whole fake relationship thing.. it’s messing with my head. i can’t stop thinking about you, and it’s not just for the cameras or the public or whatever. i caught feelings, okay? within these few months of pretending to be your girlfriend, i somehow…. god, i don’t even know. i like you and i know that’s not part of the plan, so if this makes things too complicated, we can stop. i get it.”

the room goes quiet, your words hanging heavily in the air. lauren’s eyes widen, and for a moment, you brace yourself for rejection. but then her expression shifts… softening into something that looks like relief.

“wait,” she says, stepping closer. 

“are you serious?”

you nod, your heart in your throat. 

“yeah. and if that’s too much, just say the word, and we can call this off. i’ll tell the pr team about the situation myself.”

lauren shakes her head quickly. “no, no. you’re not calling anything off.” her voice is steady, her gaze locked onto yours. 

“if we’re going to stop the fake relationship, it’s only because we’re starting a real one.”

your brows knit together, confusion washing over you. 

“what are you saying?”

she takes a breath, her lips curving into a small, genuine smile. 

“i’m saying that i’ve caught feelings too. you’re kind, funny, and beautiful.. completely yourself no matter the situation. you’re the kind of person who i love spending my time with, even for something as ridiculous as a fake relationship, this has been the best part of my year.”

you stare at her, your brain struggling to catch up. 

“you… like me?”

“yeah,” she says, her smile widening. 

“i like you, y/n. for real, nothing fake.”

the tension in your chest finally loosens, replaced by something warm and overwhelming. 

“so, what do we do now?”

lauren grins, her expression brighter than you’ve ever seen it. 

“first, i’m calling the pr team and telling them we’re done with this fake stuff. after that, we’ll figure it out. together.”

you let out a breathy laugh, relief washing over you. 

“okay. yeah. let’s do that.”

she glances at the tv, her grin turning playful. 

“before that, can we watch the rest of this? i’ve been meaning to start season two.”

you laugh, gesturing to the couch. 

“sure, but you’re sharing my blanket.”

lauren plops down beside you, pulling the blanket over her legs as the two of you settle in. for the first time in weeks, everything feels right.

also real.. 

masterlist

happy very early birthday aj 😆

[cheezewhis]

I'm going to regret this.

Sometimes the iwtv fandom makes me worry about the future of diversity in media. I mean I expect the racist assholes to pop up and bother everyone. That happens all the time and while it sucks, there are ways to filter those people out.

My big worry is honestly on the other end, where people are so desperate for harmony they end up treating minorities like monoliths of purity. Seriously, we have a show with morally grey characters of a variety of colors, a color conscious writing team, actors who constantly discuss the nuances of their characters, and people still find a reason to fight about this. Wasn't this the ideal we were asking for???

How are we supposed to evolve the representation in media if we can't go 2 seconds without fighting about which characters you're "allowed" to like?

You can't like Lestat because then you're condoning his behavior, but you can't condem anything Louis does cause then you're racist, but also you can't like Louis more than Armand because Louis was a pimp, but also you can't like Armand because he killed Claudia, but also that was all Lestat's fault and Armand did nothing wrong and if you don't ship Loumand it's because you're racist and if you do ship Loumand it's because you just hate Lestat and Anne Rice and puppies??? or something, and Clauida is the only character you're actually allowed to like except you are not allowed to like her unless you hate Lestat or Louis because as we've established it's really Lestat's fault she died and also Louis was a bad father and is responsible for Clauida's death so you cant like him either but also you are racist for thinking Louis did something wrong because black characters are not allowed to make mistakes or be nuanced or be human but also you don't get nuance if you like 1x05, you have to hate 1x05 because that episode of the toxic abusive vampire show dared to show toxic abusive vampires and ruined your precious precious perception of Lestat but also if you still like Lestat after that then you must hate Louis because Louis is 5 fucking years old and needs to be coddled but also he's a piece of shit and you cant like him and idk i don't really hear people argue about Daniel but maybe I'm just not looking hard enough and who ever cares cause I lost the plot about 100 fucking words ago.

Like jesus fuck we'll never weed out the racist people in the fandom cause we're too fucking busy fighting each other about, like, if we should let black characters be nuanced and interact with white characters who are mean??? Istg half this fandom thinks Louis (and Jacob Anderson for that matter) is like a battered helpless child who has never been able to stand up for himself. Louis is a character built from very real pain, he's always going to be kind of sad by virtue of that, but he's not 5, he can make decisions for himself.

How the fuck are we supposed to normalize diversity in media if we can't be fucking normal about diversity in media.

Fuck. Everything. And. Everyone.

[zvezdacito]

First analysis on Sebek's attitude towards humans that actually takes the human colonization of the Briarlands into account instead of stopping at "its internalized racism because nocturnal fae are just conservatives clearly🤓☝️". I'm genuinely so thankful for this💀😭🙏

I don't blame people for misunderstanding the power dynamics between humans and fae here before Book 7 because there was literally no info/they SEEMED to be leaning on the "biracial kid hates his other half" trope/them leaving it so the initially elf-like fae could be interpreted as elitist snobs to human innovation, so the Briar Valley's history was intentionally set up to be a surprising revelation as to what actually motivates all of the afformentioned. But Book 7 has been out for 2 whole years; 2 whole years worth of time to actually catch up on lore. Twst is literally spoonfeeding its sympathetic stance to how the fae feel about their history the entire time too, its not as if its easy-to-miss subtext😭

Some real world tension Sebek's case is *more* comparable to is probably like Korean, Chinese and SEAsian elders having a strong grudge against Japanese people because of all their warcrimes in our countries, but it technically becoming "less relevant" to the daily lives of succeeding generations (and it seemingly being irrelevant to Japan from the start with the historical revisionism + refusal to acknowledge and apologize for said warcrimes) thus leading to some today seeing that hatred as some sort of reverse racism (even if it isn't)

I don't think it's comparable to the dynamic of racial oppressor and racially oppressed in western countries since its still very structurally relevant/less malleable between positions I'd say? (Even tho this is people's default when thinking about Sebek's "racism")

And Sebek's position is more similar to the mixed children of occupying soldiers/settlers with native women being conflicted about their identity and place (less because the "white" side being a (statistical) minority in the colonized-majority community, but a sense of guilt that their very existence feels like a reminder of the brutality and suffering that community faced). Though I'm not claiming it's a DIRECT parallel or allegory for these, since Mr. Zigvolt is not a soldier and may not even be part of the soldiers' descendants, just bringing it up to illustrate Sebek's actual place in the dynamics implied by Book 7 lore

Ngl I think twst fans have this issue of understanding stories where systemic issues contextualize why characters do what they do based entirely on how "nice" or "polite" that character is as an individual😭 Same reason people think Jamil (a literal modern day slave) is evil and "should've just talked to Kalim", or attempt to downplay the Dawn Knight's accountability in the invasion because he did lip service to wanting peace between species (even though it's likely a white-saviory idea of peace where human ideas take the lead and there's no trust for fae's autonomy. Just the bare minimum that they survive and get along with everyone else at their own cultural expense, if the loss of Fae tongue to Common even in the BV is anything to go by)

Idk I guess this is just my long comment about my pet peeve on people oversimplifying Sebek's attitude to "racism" because historically fae were not the ones with the systemic power and authority to discriminate and control the humans on the basis of them being human (which is what racism is systemically, it's more than just personal feelings of dislike lmao. And either way it was more the other way around for humans vs fae but fanon ignores this because "well, sebek is annoying")

Is sebek racist? Only a fun question, do not take seriously

Hello hello! Thank you so much for this question, I have been so excited to discuss Sebek's speech patterns since Book 7 reached EN~🥳

Silver says outright that Sebek can be prejudiced at times and Lilia states in the beginning of Book 7 that Sebek is the very picture of his grandfather, from the way he talks to the way he thinks.

We as the players do not realize how literally he means this comment until later in Book 7 when we meet Baul Zigvolt and realize that their speech patterns have a lot in common:

While maybe difficult to put across in the English-language adaptation of the game, Sebek has always spoken very old fashioned.

(Ace: "Okay grandpa, you gonna take her for a buggy ride next?")

He will occasionally say "this Sebek" in reference to himself, which Baul also does. (They are also both canonically quite loud, possibly another trait that Sebek adopted from Baul).

Sebek will also infamously refer to others using the 貴様 form of "you," which doesn't really exist outside of fiction and is such a rude form that it is practically a swear word. More here ->

Sebek uses it constantly, in everyday conversation.

And see Baul using it in Book 7 just all the time, with everyone except his superiors such as Lilia and Maleanor (there is even a time he becomes very angry and uses it with the senate).

Also like Baul, Sebek will switch to the extremely old-fashioned and formal "kiden" to refer to people who have impressed him. More here ->

Sebek's battle cry of "I'll swallow you whole" even seems to come from Baul!

And another thing Baul did in Book 7: refer to Sebek as human rather than by his name until Sebek earned his respect, which we have also seen happen between Sebek and Azul.

(In a Nightmare Before Christmas voiceline Sebek refers to Zero as a ghost and then a dog, eventually settling on his name, while he refers to Jack Skellington as "Bones." Is Sebek not just calling out humans, but referring to everyone by what they are rather than who they are?*)

(Does he simply yell human more than "dog," "ghost," etc., because humans are the species we have seen him interact with the most? It was confirmed in the novels that mermaids, beast-people, etc., are all referred to as "human" within the Twst universe, which has yet to be confirmed by the game but also has yet to be disproved.)

Sebek also refers to Grim as "dire beast."

There is a significant moment where he shifts to calling both Grim and the prefect by their names in Book 7, which the prefect even has the option of acknowledging aloud: "Whoa, you called me by my name?"

In a Harveston sub-plot Sebek even refuses to use an honorific with Epel's grandmother Marja until she proves herself worth of his respect.

Silver calls Sebek out on his inappropriate use of "kisama," while both Riddle and Sebek scold him for referring to people as "humans."

Whereas Epel's rude speech patterns can be explained by how it is a part of the dialect he was raised to speak and therefore he doesn't know any better (more here ->) Sebek is consciously and intentionally speaking down to others until they prove themselves worthy--is this something he learned from Baul?

Sebek says that Baul provided him with "an enriching education," but what exactly did that education entail?

Lilia expresses frustration with Sebek's inability to adapt to society, but canonically Sebek has only been outside of Briar Valley for 6 months, while he's been emulating his grandfather for 16 years.

Lilia says that Sebek has always been close to Baul and Jamil has a line of, "When admiration goes too far, the consequences can be dire."

I always assumed this was meant to be about Malleus, and while it still might be, is it also a reference to Sebek's devoted imitation of his beloved grandfather?

And we can go even deeper if we want, though this goes into theoretical territory:

Sebek was born after Briarland had already fallen to its invaders, but he was raised in a community where the war is still living memory.

Baul fought to protect his home against those who overran the land, exploited its resources, labeled him a monster, and drove them all into a fraction of their former territory.

He remembers what Briarland was before it the invasion, he fought to save it, he failed, and he survived to help put what was left of the country back together.

And then his daughter married someone who is potentially a direct descendent of the very invaders who had spent years killing anyone who looked like him and destroying everything he'd known (with even his native language possibly disappearing: Sebek says that speakers are "somewhat rare" in modern day, as the fae have generally adopted Common as their language of choice).

Sebek: "This has been weighing on me ever since we entered Lilia's dream. That my own father's distant ancestors may very well have been involved in all this too..."

And due to the long lifespans of the fae he isn't the only one with trauma and loss that feels both recent and personal.

Sebek and his siblings were not raised amongst the offspring of those who survived the war but the literal survivors themselves, unlike the humans to whom the wars are ancient history.

Sebek: "You must remember: from Lilia, Grandfather, and Malleus's perspectives...the Dawn Knight is not likely someone they consider to belong to the 'distant past.'"

While not confirmed in-game, it is not too wild to imagine that Sebek has chosen to ally himself with the survivors rather the invaders, and especially when he has been raised to idolize Malleus, whose own mother they killed not very long ago by fae standards.

While humans have been reproducing and dying at such a rapid pace that the current generation might not know that dragons are real, the same fae that managed to escape the slaughter are still there, and are now being met with the people born of those who stole their country but to whom there doesn't seem to be much significance to it all beyond a chapter in a history book.

And that might all be very well tied up in Sebek's use of "human"! (Disclaimer: this is all just a personal analysis and one of many possible explanations!)

Not only does it seem to be a speech pattern that Sebek has adopted directly from the grandfather he adores (and from Lilia and Malleus, who are also known to refer to non-fae as "humans" and whom he idolizes), but it may also be a reminder both to himself and to everyone around that while he may be two worlds in one, he does not approve of those that tore apart the community he grew up in, lest someone wrongfully assume that he agrees with the actions of his human ancestors.

Which would make it a form of self-preservation while growing up in a predominantly fae area.

Sebek's speech patterns and behaviors might be serving as a way for him to assert his loyalty to the fae, the people whom he admires, identifies with and was raised by, and distance himself from the humans who tried to eradicate them.

(If Sebek’s mother brought his father to Briar Valley from somewhere else (possibly Sunset Savanna) as has been implied, it’s possible Sebek’s human lineage isn’t tied to the invaders at all, but this is still vague.)

*Sebek refers to Sally as "Sally" throughout the Halloween event, using her name without an honorific but at least using it, much like he did with Marja. He also chastises Trey for failing to offer his hand to Sally and help her to her feet when she falls to the ground. Does Sebek possibly have a chivalrous side, not dissimilar to Leona? Memo: must check.

[magical-reid]

A Fine Mess

Pairing: 40s!Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 1.1 K

Prompt: 5: “Did you just tell the person I was gonna go out with that we’re dating?” 

Summary: In 1943 Brooklyn, you’ve been friends with Bucky Barnes for as long as you can remember. When he interferes with your date, you’re determined to confront him—but the truth has a way of coming out in the most unexpected moments.

The night was one of those perfect Brooklyn summer evenings, the air warm but not stifling, carrying the faint scent of street vendor hot dogs and fresh-cut flowers from the bodega down the block. You adjusted the hem of your dress for the fifth time, staring down the street where Eddie Johnston had just disappeared, looking half-apologetic and fully confused.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

“Did you just tell the person I was gonna go out with that we’re dating?”

Your voice cut through the quiet hum of the evening, sharp and incredulous, as you turned to face the culprit leaning against the stoop railing with all the smugness of a man who thought he could charm his way out of anything.

Bucky grinned like the cat that got the cream, arms folded and his suspenders hanging loose over his broad shoulders. “I mean… yeah. Technically, I might’ve said somethin’ like that.”

“Technically?” you snapped, climbing the steps to meet him face-to-face. “Bucky!”

“What?” He held up his hands in mock innocence, though his grin never faltered. “The guy didn’t seem like much fun anyway. Didn’t even laugh when I told him that joke about the two pigeons and the bread cart.”

Your mouth fell open. “You… you told him a joke before you lied to him about us?”

Bucky shrugged, his dark hair falling boyishly across his forehead. “Wanted to test his sense of humor. It’s important to you, isn’t it? A guy who can make you laugh?”

“Oh, so now you’re vetting my dates?” You jabbed a finger into his chest, ignoring the faint warmth that spread through your hand when you made contact. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Thank you,” he said smoothly, like you’d just paid him a compliment.

“That wasn’t a—” You groaned, dragging your hand down your face. “Bucky, you can’t just go around scaring off guys like this! Eddie was nice, okay? He was polite, he was kind, and he didn’t deserve whatever you said to him!”

Bucky’s smirk faltered just slightly, his gaze softening. “He didn’t deserve it, huh?”

“No, he didn’t,” you said firmly.

He tilted his head, studying you for a moment before asking, “So, what’d you like about him?”

“What does that matter?” you huffed.

“It matters,” he said, his voice dropping just enough to make your pulse stutter. “Because if you liked him so much, why’d you let me talk him into leavin’?”

Your breath hitched, but you quickly crossed your arms over your chest, glaring at him. “I didn’t let you do anything, Barnes. You ambushed him. You didn’t give me a choice.”

“Maybe.” He took a step closer, his shoes scuffing softly against the stoop. “Or maybe you didn’t stop me because deep down, you didn’t really wanna go out with him.”

Your heart skipped, the warmth of his words sinking in before you could shove them away. “That’s ridiculous,” you said weakly.

“Is it?” His eyes searched yours, and for once, there was no teasing, no smirk—just Bucky, stripped of his bravado. “C’mon, doll. You know me better than that. You know us better than that.”

His words hit harder than they should have, the weight of them settling in your chest. For years, you’d told yourself that Bucky was just your best friend, the boy who walked you home and shared his sandwiches and made you laugh when the world felt like too much. But now, with the way he was looking at you, it felt like the truth had been waiting just beneath the surface all along.

You shook your head, trying to gather your thoughts. “You—you don’t get to do this,” you said quietly. “You don’t get to swoop in and mess everything up just because you’re—”

“Because I’m what?” he asked, his voice soft and insistent.

“Because you’re scared to lose me,” you finished, meeting his gaze.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of a distant radio playing a swing tune. Bucky’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might brush it off with one of his usual quips. But then he exhaled, his shoulders slumping just slightly.

“You’re right,” he said. “I am scared. I’ve been scared for a long time.”

Your heart ached at the quiet vulnerability in his voice, and before you could stop yourself, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his arm. “Bucky…”

He looked at you then, his blue eyes impossibly soft. “The thought of you with someone else—of you fallin’ for someone who ain’t me—it drives me crazy, doll. And I know I screwed this up, and I know you’re mad at me, but if there’s even a chance that you might…”

He trailed off, his words hanging in the air like a wish.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. Then, slowly, you stepped closer, close enough to feel the warmth of him, and reached up to rest a hand against his cheek. His breath hitched at the touch, his lashes fluttering as he leaned into it.

“You’re lucky you’re cute, Barnes,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips.

His grin returned, bright and boyish, and he let out a soft laugh. “So, that a yes?”

“Don’t push it,” you said, though the warmth in your voice betrayed you.

But when his hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer, you didn’t resist. And when his lips finally met yours, soft and warm and everything you’d been too afraid to admit you wanted, it felt like the world had finally snapped into place.

The kiss lingered, sweet and unhurried, the faint sound of the radio mixing with the rhythm of your heart. When you finally pulled back, Bucky’s forehead rested against yours, his smile so wide it made your chest ache in the best way.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice teasing again, “if I knew it’d feel this good, I’d have scared off Eddie a lot sooner.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re mine,” he said softly, the sincerity in his voice making your knees weak.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your smile matching his. “I guess I am.”

And for the first time, it felt exactly right.

[urfavlarry]

Doomsday

Seok-woo x fem!reader warning. swearing, not proof read, no happy ending

A/N. rewatched train to busan a few days ago and I just thought of this and wanted to write it out!

You had worked for Seok-woo for as long as you could remember. You were probably there even before he was blessed with his beautiful little girl, Su-an. She had a way of melting your heart effortlessly, much like her father had managed to do over the years, though you'd never admit it. Not out loud, at least.

It was a shameful thing to feel. You, a grown, intelligent, and self-sufficient person, were in love with a man who has a wife. Or, well... had a wife until just a few months ago.

You'd seen how the divorce affected him, but it was Su-an who suffered the most. Her bright, contagious smile had dimmed, replaced by a sadness far too heavy for a child to carry. You tried your best to bring it back whenever she came to the office with her dad on the less hectic days. Whether it was through little jokes, snacks, or just letting her draw all over the unused papers and documents you were sure you’d never need.

Seok-woo noticed, of course. He always did. "You’re too good to us," he'd said more than once, half-smiling in that soft way that made your chest tighten.

Today was one of those days when Su-an had tagged along. She was sitting quietly in your office, flipping through the stack of magazines you kept on the coffee table for guests. Her small hands delicately turned the pages, her big eyes wide with fascination. "A little birdie told me it’s someone’s special day today," you teased with a playful smirk, pulling open your desk drawer to retrieve the small, neatly wrapped gift you had tucked away a week ago.

The girl looked up at you, curious, setting the magazine aside as you extended the gift toward her. Her wide eyes sparkled with surprise and excitement. Just as she reached for it, the door opened. “Morning,” you greeted automatically, your tone warm as Seok-woo stepped inside. His expression was a mix of relief and mild irritation, likely from rushing to drop off an urgent client file before picking Su-an up. “Morning, [Name]. I hope she wasn’t too much trouble,” he said, his voice carrying that clipped efficiency you’d come to know.

His gaze shifted to the box in Su-an’s hands, his eyebrows raising slightly. “You got her a gift?” “Of course,” you replied with a small laugh, brushing off the question as though it were nothing. “She’s been a sweetheart, as always. You know I don’t mind having her around. Though…” You glanced at Su-an with a teasing grin. “I’m not sure she’ll like it.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it!” Su-an piped up, her small voice full of determination as she started tugging at the ribbon. You shared a smile with her father as you both watched her carefully unwrap the present, revealing a set of colored pencils and a thick sketchbook.

The reaction was immediate, and a bit expected. “Oh my gosh! It’s perfect!” she exclaimed, holding it up like a treasure. “Thank you so much!” “She’s been doodling on all my reports lately,” Seok-woo muttered under his breath, though there was no real bite in his words. You caught the faint twitch of a smile tugging at his lips. “She’s creative,” you quipped, ignoring the smirk he gave you. “Now she has her own space for it.”

Before Su-an could dive into her new gift, Seok-woo glanced at his watch. “We should get going. Her mother wants her by tonight. Something about her recital.” His tone was carefully neutral, but the slight stiffness in his posture was hard to miss.

Su-an’s excitement visibly faded. She clutched the sketchbook close to her chest but didn’t argue. The silence was heavy, but you stepped in, as you always did. “Su-an,” you said softly, crouching to her level, “don’t forget to fill at least one page before you leave, okay? I want to see what you create next time.” Her lips quirked into a small smile, and she nodded. “Okay. I promise.”

Seok-woo offered a brief but genuine “Thank you” as they left your office. You watched them go, a pang in your chest you couldn’t quite ignore. You couldn’t help but worry about both of them—how fractured their lives had become and how much weight they carried in silence.

That evening, everything changed.

It started as a last-minute phone call. Seok-woo, his voice uncharacteristically urgent, asked if you could meet them at the station. “Su-an wants to take the early train to Busan,” he explained hurriedly. “Her mom’s there, and I promised I’d get her there by morning but I forgot..” You tuned out the rest of what he said, answering with no hesitation in your response. “Of course. I’ll be there.”

You arrived at the station with a bag of snacks and supplies, something told you they might need it. When you spotted Seok-woo and Su-an on the crowded platform, you waved, smiling as Su-an ran to greet you. “Are you coming with us?” she asked hopefully, clutching your hand. Seok-woo frowned slightly but didn’t protest. “It might actually be good to have you along,” he admitted after a pause. “Just in case.”

You didn’t realize how ominous those words would soon feel.

Everything spiralled into chaos, news of an outbreak causing great panic all over Korea. You were lucky enough to get away from every danger you were faced with, always having Su-an’s safety on your mind before anything else.

In a state of panic and overwhelming emotions you couldn’t quite control, you pulled Seok-woo into a hug, almost seeming desperate as you clung to him like a lost child; however to your surprise, he returned the hug with just as much desperation. Something inside you instantly clicked as you pulled him away from the little group you’ve gathered over the many carts full of infected monsters; a pregnant lady and her husband.. their names being Seong-kyeong and Sang-hwa, at least you think.

Seok-woo looked at you with confusion as you took a deep breath, your hands shaking with nervousness and especially adrenaline. “Seok-woo, I know you absolutely do not want to hear this right now but in case we don’t get o—“ He glared at you and gripped your shoulders. “There is no ‘not getting out of here’ [Name], I will get you and Su-an off this train no matter what.” Your breath was shaky, tears threatening to spill as the days events sink in. “No, Seok-woo listen to me. If we— if I don’t get out, I want to let you know that I love you. You and Su-an. Please stay— stay safe for me okay? And make sure to tell Su-an to kill that recital.” You say between sobs, Seok-woo already pulling you into a tight embrace, shushing you. “I’ll get us out.” was the only thing he said before he went back to his daughter who was patiently waiting for you all to make a move.

You felt your heart ache as your words and confession was left unheard; the three simple words slipping from your tongue and left unnoticed by the man who has had your heart in a headlock for what seemed like all eternity, but of course, love could wait— survival can’t.

The silence in the next car was suffocating. Seong-kyeong sat in a corner, her face buried in her hands as she quietly sobbed. Su-an clung to you, her small hands gripping your sleeve as if she found your embrace as some sort of escape from this absolute nightmare. Seok-woo stood near the window, staring out at the chaos with a blank expression.

But you couldn’t focus on him. Your own thoughts were spiraling. The burn in your side was impossible to ignore now. At first, you thought it was just exhaustion, maybe a bruise from the earlier bumping into seats and doors—but when you finally glanced down, your blood ran cold.

The tear in your shirt revealed jagged teeth marks. Red blossomed around the wound, dark and unmistakable. You’d been bitten. Your breath hitched, your chest tightening as you quickly covered the mark. You looked around, panic rising, but no one had noticed yet. Not Seok-woo, not Su-an.

“[Name]?” Su-an’s soft voice pulled you back. She was staring up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes. “You’re shaking. Are you okay?” You forced a smile, kneeling to her level. “I’m fine, sweetheart,” you lied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Just tired, that’s all.”

Seok-woo turned at her voice, his gaze narrowing as he studied you. You could tell he sensed something was wrong, but before he could speak, the train lurched violently, sending everyone stumbling. You held Su-an’s head close to your chest, trying your best to shield her as the train started to slow down.

“Attention please. Due to blockage on our track we’ve stopped at East Daegu station. We either wait for the rescue team or go to Busan by a different train. I’ll go and find a working train, if you’re alive.. please transfer safely. Godspeed.”

That was all you heard from the train operator before it went silent; only the awful sound of hissing and gurgling coming from the other cars. Your head felt heavy, and with every step you took your legs started getting heavier and heavier, sweat dripping down your neck. Everyone managed to get out, however you stopped in your tracks as you felt a sharp pain shoot through your side and body. “[Name]..” Su-an called out with worry as she stepped back into the car even after your protests. “[Name] come on, we need to go to the east track like they told us. We can’t loose time.” Seok-woo said, his tone rough yet laced with worry. You smiled with tears streaming down your face, your hands shakily taking off your ring that you got yourself not long after your first ever pay check at the company.

“I think this is my stop, yeah?” You hiccupped, caressing the little girls cheek with nothing but love. “Hold onto this for me yeah?” You placed the ring into her smaller hands, closing her palm and kissing it gently. You turned your gaze to Seok-woo who looked terrified, kneeling next to you and shoving your hand that was clutching your side away, revealing those disgusting teeth marks. “Shit. No, no… no. [Name] you— Why didn’t you say anything? I told you to stay close to me, why, why didn’t you—“ You put a finger against his lips, smiling. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere. I’m just going on a little trip, okay? Promise me you’ll get to Busan safely. That you will go to that recital and that you—“ You shook violently, a painful groan echoing through the car. “Seok-woo. I love you, I love you and Su-an so much.” You smiled weekly before backing away from them, stumbling towards an empty cart which you then closed.

Su-an pressed her hand against the class, screaming your name with tears flowing down her face, while all you could do while your mind was still somewhat conscious was look at her, pressing your forehead against the glass. “I love you Su-an.”

That was the last words they heard before they rushed out the car and your mind got twisted into a flesh eating monster.

— 3 years later

A memorial was held for all the people who were lost during the breakout, bodies never being collected; only burned to get rid of every trace those events had left. The memorial was held in Busan on the Haeundae beach where thousands gathered to try and put their resting loved ones to peace.

"We’ve come here to remember those we’ve lost and honor the lives they lived. Though some of us come here to remember, some might want nothing more than to forget. The world has changed, and the scars left by all we’ve suffered remain, but we gather in the hope that together, we can begin to heal.

Let us find strength in their memory and courage in one another as we face what lies ahead, carrying their legacy forward in the world we rebuild."

A roar of cheers and applause filled the area as everyone spread across the beach, lanterns in hand, ready to release them into the sky. Each glowing light was a symbol—a guide for lost souls to find their way to a better, pain-free afterlife.

Su-an clutched her father’s hand tightly. The scar left on her young heart that day was still fresh, though it was slowly healing with time. Seok-woo, however, had never truly moved on from your loss. Your office remained untouched, never given to anyone else, despite countless suggestions from others after his company started up again. It was your place, and no one else’s. Su-an still visited occasionally, sitting there to draw and talk to you—or perhaps to herself.

“Hold this for me, please,” Seok-woo said gently, handing the lantern to his daughter. He lit it carefully, just as many others around them were doing, their lanterns already rising into the dark sky. Together, they held the lantern—Su-an on one side and Seok-woo on the other. With a nod of silent agreement, they released it, watching as it drifted upward to join the hundreds of others.

Seok-woo knelt down beside his daughter, pulling her into his side as she sobbed against his shoulder. He rubbed his hands up and down her arm, trying to comfort her, though his own heart ached just as much. A small silver chain was around his neck, a ring on it like a sort of charm; the same ring you always wore until that day. He couldn’t deny the weight of his regrets. The regret of not saying goodbye. The regret of not saving you. The regret of failing to protect you.

But worst of all…

That he never said I love you back.

© URFAVLARRY

DO NOT REPOST, TRANSLATE OR COPY ANY OF MY WRITING TO OTHER PLATFORMS

I DON’T CONSENT FOR MY WRITING TO BE USED TO TRAIN AI 🚫

[snoopychris]

hardest part

warnings: angst but it’s not too bad. yet.

college admissions were so nerve wracking. it sucked. the waiting and the fear of not getting in consumed you. when you took the middle school field trip to New York, you and nick were hooked. in the 4 hour bus ride back to Boston, your entire life was planned out. high school then NYU with nick. you’d live in the dorms for a year, then when you were able you’d move into an apartment together until you both graduated. you’d fall in love, tell each other about dates, share everything possible. you’d do everything together.

today was just the first day of that

nicks room was always so much more quiet than the other rooms in the house. it was nice. comforting. familiar. that’s where you sat now. both you and nick were refreshing the NYU admissions like crazy. there was a mutual squeal when there was finally an update. as if it were new years, there was a countdown. 3…2…1…

two white screens with big purple letters. ACCEPTED. your two screams became one as you hugged each other and jumped up and down. it looked like two little kids celebrating for the first time ever.

crazy enough, you were the first to run downstairs. “MARYLOU MARYLOU!!! I GOT IN I GOT IN I GOT IN.” you cheered, tears forming in your eyes as your second mother pulled you in for a hug. you had grown closer with her as of late, but she had always supported everything you did. nick was next to celebrate with his mother, as you switched places to celebrate with jimmy.

“i always knew you’d do it.” jimmy whispers to you, hugging you tightly. you smile at the simple action, giggling at your achievements. matt was at work for another while so he wouldn’t be able to celebrate, at least not right away. chris, however, was home. he ran down the stairs after hearing all of the screaming going on. you locked eyes with him before nick did, and with that look all was well again.

he pulled you in for the tightest embrace you’ve ever experienced and just smiled. “‘m so damn proud of you, sweetie. i always knew y’could do it. you’re gonna do such big things.” chris whispers, moving away from you to pat his brother on the back. though chris would never admit it, tears formed in his eyes. “and you! you’re gonna be the best damn photographer this world has ever known.” you giggle at his words, pulling nick in for another hug.

“oh my god. sweetie we’re actually going to college together… and you know it’s perfect cause now the hard parts over. and you’re only what? 4 hours from boston? you’ll be able to come home to matt all the time! i mean it works out.” nick whispers, making you reconsider everything.

you hadn’t taken that into account. as much as you’d hate to admit it, you never even thought about matt when reading over the acceptance letter. “yeah… yeah we can… come back a few weekends a month! and… and i’ll take my car.” you whisper, hands settling on the counter. half of you is filled with excitement while the other hand is filled with regret. how were you meant to leave the boy you had been attached to the hip to for a month now? the late night conversations, the kisses, all of the plans, were they supposed to be thrown away?

the celebration died down decently fast. everything was calm. your previous spot in the kitchen was now on the couch. your feet were on chris’ lap the way everything used to be. at some point or another nate showed up. then sadie showed up. then claire showed up. it was all of your friends right there with you celebrating your accomplishments. a party had been planned for that saturday, the first party in two or so weeks. you were okay. like nick had said, the hardest part was over.

matt arrives about a half hour later. he still had his black GameStop polo on. if you could, you’d tackle him to the floor then and there. he just looked that good. his face turns white when he sees all the people there. even if he had a few more friends now, he was still the same socially awkward kid who ate lunch in the science room and had a pokémon backpack. he twiddles his thumbs before pointing towards sadie, claire, and even nate. “i need to three out. um… are mom and dad here?” he whispers, looking around as your friends leave the room.

chris pushes your feet off his lap and nods, calling out for his parents. he notices the way his brothers face is full of fear. the same way you do. part of you wants to stand up and hug him, just to ease the nerves, but you don’t think now’s the time. it’s not until marylou and jimmy are in the room that he finally speaks. his voice is shaky and he’s visibly nervous. “i um… i got a full ride to Stanford. and im…. i’m gonna take it. i’ve been saving money. i can buy a car there… im gonna be farther than expected i know but i just… really need this after harvard.”

oh. stanford. 3000 miles away from NYU. matt doesn’t seem to notice the way your face turns as white as his had, but nick and chris do. you push it all away and stand up, instantly taking your boyfriend into a tight hug. “i’m so proud of you.” is all that you can muster out. it’s genuine. it’s also so full of pain. something matt also doesn’t seem to recognize. you choke back tears as you kiss his cheek, turning to avoid his gaze. nick and chris catch it. chris wants to beat matt’s ass. nick wants to pull you into a hug. they both know they can’t. not right now. “i’m gonna… go to the bathroom.” you whisper, heading through the house to the bathroom.

nate, sadie, and claire are chatting it up in the kitchen, and not a single them misses the tears in the eyes. nate’s the only one to act on anything. he doesn’t ask any questions, he just knows that something’s not right. you’re not okay. without thinking, he pulls you into a hug similar to the one chris had pulled you into earlier.

at that moment everything snaps. the hardest part was not over.

a/n: you guys should’ve picked the p!links. kiss kiss! -gen.

tags: @ifwdominicfike @frankoceanfanpage @mattssslutbby @sophand4n4 @matthewsturnsgf @izzylovesmatt @m11rx @chris-hallelujah @sturniolotoast @mattsbrat @wastelandzella @le4hsblog @mattsd0llfac3 @st7rnioioss @isabellewhatt @sturnslutz @chrisscoraline @m4ttg1rl @princessesgarden @ikyoudreamofme @allylovescody @ayesha-eroticaa @ivysturnss @slutformatt17 @user1smvtysturniolo @chrislova