#truth and reconciliation processes | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

peavhyshy · 8 months ago

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⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ - BACK TO YOU

ᯓᡣ𐭩 paring ─ ୨୧ ─ jj maybank ⋆ ex!pogue!reader

ᯓᡣ𐭩 summary ─ ୨୧ ─ in which you return to the island after moving away and have to confront unresolved feelings and changes in the friend group.

ᯓᡣ𐭩 warnings ─ ୨୧ ─ explicit language, angst, hurt/comfort, smut, fluff, drama, mention of past self-harm, mention of past suicide attempt, mention of depression/mental health issues, alcohol abuse, unresolved emotional/romantic tension, trauma, mention of parental abuse/neglect, emotional cheating, jj is dating kiara, pretend luke didn’t leave, tw: surf competition, reconciliation, emotional vulnerability, unprotected vaginal sex, fingering, oral sex, dirty talk, praise, teasing, power play, and overstimulation (please dni if your sensitive to any of these topics your mental health should come first)

ᯓᡣ𐭩 wc ─ ୨୧ ─ 19,166

⋆˚✿˖° a/n ─ ୨୧ ─ this is long and very emotional/dramatic which is half of the reason it's been sitting in drafts forever. this was only written because I just love the song and wanted something based on it.

⋆.˚✮back to you✮˚.⋆

(༝༚༝༚ selena gomez)

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──. Outer Banks Masterlist ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── Navigation ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

JJ stands awkwardly by the cooler, his fingers drumming against the metal surface as he watches you grab another case of beer. The setting sun casts long shadows across John B's backyard, painting everything in hues of orange and pink. The salty breeze carries the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore, mixing with the muffled laughter and music inside the house. He can't help but steal glances at you, memories of your past flooding his mind like an unwanted tide.

"So uh..." JJ clears his throat, adjusting his shark tooth necklace nervously. "How was... wherever the fuck you went?" He tries to maintain his usual carefree demeanor, but an edge to his voice betrays his discomfort. His blue eyes dart between you and the ground, unable to maintain steady eye contact. The weight of your unspoken history hangs heavy between you, thicker than the humid Carolina evening.

You stand awkwardly, your fingers nervously playing with the label of your beer bottle. You avoid JJ's gaze, focusing instead on the peeling paint of John B's deck railing. The tension between you two is suffocating, making the humid evening air feel even heavier. "Maine," you finally answer, your voice barely above a whisper. "We went to Maine."

JJ's jaw tightens at the mention of Maine, his fingers flexing around his beer bottle as he processes just how far away you’ve been. "Maine? Fuck, that's like... way up there with all those lobsters and shit," he says, trying to maintain his usual lighthearted tone but failing miserably.

"You look..." He starts, then stops himself, shoving his free hand into the pocket of his board shorts. "I mean, it's good you're back and shit. The group missed you." He deliberately leaves out the fact that he missed you too, that your absence left a void that even Kiara couldn't quite fill. The tension between you is palpable, like the electricity in the air before a storm - something the Outer Banks knows all too well. He takes a long pull from his beer, using it as an excuse to break the uncomfortable silence that's settled between you.

You take a long sip from your bottle, using the moment to gather your thoughts. The sight of JJ - still as handsome as ever with his messy blonde hair and those blue eyes - makes your heartache in a way you thought you’d gotten over. The sound of Kiara's laughter from inside feels like a knife twisting in your gut. "I see you and Kie finally..." you trail off, unable to finish the sentence. Your skin glows in the porch light.

"Yeah, me and Kie..." he trails off, taking another long pull from his beer to avoid finishing the sentence. The truth is, things with Kiara are good - great even - but standing here with you brings back all the complicated feelings he'd tried to bury in the sand.

"The group seems... good," you manage, trying to keep your voice steady. "Different, but good." You risk a glance at JJ, immediately regretting it when you catch his eyes. Those same eyes that used to look at you with such intensity, now belong to someone else. You shift your weight, your sundress rustling softly in the evening breeze.

A loud crash from inside the house makes you both jump causing you to spill a bit of beer on your dress, followed by John B's distinctive "Everything's fine!" JJ lets out a forced laugh, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He's hyper-aware of every movement you make, every shift in your posture, every breath you take. The familiar scent of your perfume mixed with the salt air brings back memories he's tried so hard to suppress - stolen kisses behind the Wreck, late-night surfing sessions, promises made and broken. He adjusts his stance, trying to maintain a careful distance between you, even as every fiber of his being wants to close it.

"Shit," you mutter, dabbing at the spot with your free hand. You can feel JJ's presence just a few feet away, and it takes everything in you not to close that distance. "I should've called or something," you say suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "Before I left, I mean. I just... I couldn't." Your voice cracks slightly on the last word, betraying the emotions you're trying so hard to keep in check.

The raw honesty in your voice, when you mention not calling, makes his throat tight. "Yeah, well..." JJ runs a hand through his hair again, his shark tooth necklace catching the light as he moves. "Probably wouldn't have answered anyway. Was pretty fucked up back then." He lets out a laugh, but there's pain behind it. "Still am, just better at hiding it now." The admission hangs between you like smoke, heavy and suffocating. He can hear Sarah and John B singing off-key inside, the sound a stark contrast to the tension-filled bubble you're standing in.

He watches as you dab at the beer stain on your dress, fighting the urge to help you like he would have before. "Fuck, hold up," he mutters, pulling off his worn t-shirt and offering it to you without thinking. The porch light illuminates the scattered bruises across his torso - some new, some old ones you’d recognize.

You stand there, your heart racing as you stare at JJ's shirtless form. You reach out hesitant to take his shirt, your fingers brushing briefly in a way that sends electricity through your entire body. "Thanks," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"You look good though," he finally says, the words escaping before he can stop them. His eyes meet yours for a moment before quickly looking away. "I mean, like, healthy and shit. That's... that's good." He shifts uncomfortably, very aware that he's still shirtless and that the space between you feels both too large and not large enough. The familiar scent of your perfume is making his head spin, or maybe it's the beer, or maybe it's just you - it's always been you. "Did it help?" he asks quietly, genuinely wanting to know. "Going away? Did it... fix things?" The question carries more weight than he intends, loaded with all the things he never got to say before you left.

The sound of Kiara's laughter drifts out again, and you flinches visibly. You take another long drink from your beer, needing the liquid courage. "It helped," you finally answer his question, unconsciously running your fingers over the faded scars on your wrists. "The doctors, the therapy, the distance... It helped. But it didn't fix everything." You look up at him then, really look at him, taking in how the years have changed him. He's still JJ - still beautiful but there's something harder in his eyes now, something that wasn't there before.

You clutch his shirt in your hands, the familiar scent of him - salt air, coconut surf wax, and something distinctly JJ - making you dizzy with memories. "I..." you start, then swallow hard. "I wanted to call. Every single day, I picked up my phone and stared at your number until the screen went black."

"I missed you," You confess quietly, immediately regretting the words as soon as they leave your mouth. "I mean, I missed everyone," you quickly add, but you both know it's not the same thing. You can feel the weight of everything unsaid between you, three years' worth of words you never got to say. "You look happy," you say, trying to smile even though it feels like your heart is breaking all over again. "With Kie, I mean. You guys... you make sense together." The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but you force it out anyway. Because what else can you say? That seeing them together feels like drowning? That every time you close your eyes, you still see him? That Maine might have helped you heal your mind, but it did nothing to heal your heart?

A burst of laughter from inside makes him jump, reminding him where you are and who's waiting for him. "Happy?" he scoffs, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. "Yeah, sure. I'm fucking peachy." His sarcasm is sharp enough to cut, a defense mechanism he's perfected over the years. He takes another long drink from his beer, finishing it in one go before setting it down with more force than necessary. "And don't do that shit about me and Kie making sense. You don't get to..." he stops himself again, running a hand over his face.

"Fuck, Y/N/N," JJ breathes out, using your old nickname without thinking. His fingers twitch at his sides, wanting to reach for you but knowing he can't. The sight of you touching your wrist scars makes his stomach turn - he remembers the day he found you, remembers the blood, remembers feeling more terrified than he'd ever been in his life.

"You can't just come back here and say shit like that," he says, his voice rough with emotion. He runs both hands through his hair in frustration, pacing a small circle on the deck. "You left, Y/N. You fucking left and I..." he trails off, the rest of the sentence dying in his throat. The memory of those first few weeks, after you disappeared, hits him like a physical blow - the drinking, the fights, the reckless behavior that even John B couldn't talk him down from.

"I didn't want to leave, JJ," You say, taking a step closer to him despite yourself. The electricity between you is almost tangible now. "You think I wanted to be shipped off to fucking Maine? To be locked up in some facility where they watched my every move? Where they made me talk about every fucking thing that was wrong with me?" Your voice rises slightly before you catch yourself, glancing nervously at the house. "I was drowning here, JJ. I was drowning and I couldn't..."

"You know what? Fuck this," JJ says suddenly, his eyes blazing with a mix of anger and something else - something that looks dangerously close to the way he used to look at you. "You want to know what happened after you left? I fucking lost it, Y/N. I was so fucked up I couldn't even..." he cuts himself off, aware he's saying too much. The space between you feels charged with electricity, like the air before a storm.

"But hey, at least the doctors fixed you up real nice, right?" The words are meant to sting, but there's a tremor in his voice that betrays him. He's still that same boy who used to sneak into your room at night, who used to hold you when the darkness got too heavy, who promised he'd always be there - until you made it impossible to keep that promise." His eyes intense as they lock onto yours. "I used to check your social media every fucking day. Every. Day. Just to make sure you were still..." he trails off, unable to finish the sentence.

Your hands tremble as you clutch his shirt tighter, his familiar scent making your head spin. "Lost it?" You repeat, your voice cracking. "You think you were the only one who lost it?" The words come out sharper than intended, years of buried pain rising to the surface. Your skin flushes with anger and hurt, your eyes glistening with unshed tears. The bitterness in his voice when he mentions the doctors makes you flinch. "Fixed me up real nice?" You repeat, a hollow laugh escaping your lips. "Is that what you think? That I'm all better now? That I just went away and came back brand new?" You move closer still, close enough to see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, close enough to smell the beer on his breath. "I still have nightmares. I still get days where I can barely get out of bed. The only difference is now I have better coping mechanisms than..."

His confession about checking your social media makes your heart stutter in your chest. "I deactivated everything," you admit quietly, your voice thick with emotion. "Because every time I logged on, all I wanted to do was message you. Tell you I was sorry. Tell you I..." you stop yourself, very aware of how close you're standing now, of the fact that he's still shirtless, of Kiara just inside the house. "It doesn't matter now, does it?" You say, taking a step back, trying to create some distance between you even though every cell in your body screams to move closer. "You moved on. You're happy. That's... that's good." The lie tastes like poison on your tongue, but you force it out anyway, because what right do you have to come back here and disrupt his life? What right do you have to still want him this much?

JJ's body tenses as Pope's voice cuts through the charged atmosphere. "What’s taking so long with those beers? John B's about to start drinking mouthwash if we don't..." Pope trails off as he steps onto the deck, his eyes darting between JJ's shirtless form and you holding the said shirt. "Oh shit, my bad, I didn't..." he starts, but JJ cuts him off with a sharp laugh that sounds more like a bark.

"Nothing to be sorry for, Pope," JJ says, his voice carrying an edge that makes Pope raise his eyebrows. JJ snatches up the case of beer from the cooler, his movements jerky and aggressive. "Just catching up with our prodigal pogue here. Sharing war stories about her fancy fucking therapy in Maine." The words come out dripping with sarcasm, but there's a tremor in his hands as he grips the beer case. The porch light catches the tension in his jaw, the way his muscles are coiled tight like he's ready to either fight or flee.

"JJ," Pope says warningly, recognizing the signs of his friend spiraling. He's seen this before - usually right before JJ does something spectacularly stupid. "Maybe we should all just-" But JJ's already moving, shouldering past both of them towards the house. He pauses at the door, his back to you, his knuckles white around the beer case. "You know what the fucked up part is?" he says, not turning around. "I actually thought..." he stops, letting out a bitter laugh. "Doesn't matter what I thought. Welcome home, Y/N. Hope Maine was worth it."

Pope watches JJ disappear inside before turning to you with an apologetic look. "He was really messed up when you left," he says quietly, always the mediator. "Like, more than usual messed up. Started getting into fights with Topper almost daily, drinking more than his dad. Kiara was the only one who could calm him down sometimes." He runs a hand over his face, looking tired. "Look, I know it's not my place, but... maybe give him some time? He's better now, but seeing you again..." Pope glances at the door where you can hear JJ's forced laughter mixing with the others. "It's like reopening an old wound, you know?"

You stare at the door JJ just disappeared through, your heart feeling like it's being ripped apart all over again. His shirt is still clutched in your trembling hands, and you bring it unconsciously closer to your chest. You can feel tears threatening to spill over. "Time?" You repeat Pope's words with a hollow laugh. "Yeah, because three years wasn't enough time, right?" Your voice cracks on the last word, and you have to take a deep breath to steady yourself.

"In Maine, they made us write letters. Letters to everyone we hurt, everyone who hurt us. I wrote so many letters to JJ that they had to give me extra paper." You let out a shaky breath, running your fingers over the soft fabric of JJ's shirt. "Never sent a single one. How do you put three years of 'I'm sorry' and 'I miss you' and 'I still...' into words that don't sound completely fucking pathetic?"

The sound of breaking glass comes from inside, followed by Kiara's concerned "JJ?" Pope closes his eyes and sighs. "And there it is. I better..." he gestures towards the house. "You coming?" The question hangs in the air, heavy with the weight of everything that's just transpired.

The sound of Kiara's concerned voice calling for JJ makes your stomach twist painfully. "You should go check on him," you say to Pope, finally looking up. Your eyes are swimming with unshed tears, but you refuse to let them fall. "I'll... I'll be in in a minute. Just need to..." You gesture vaguely at yourself, trying to pull together the pieces of your composure that JJ's words had shattered. "And Pope?" You call as he turns to leave. "I know everyone probably hates me for leaving. Hell, I hate myself for it. But I didn't have a choice. It was either leave or..."

You can hear more commotion from inside - JJ's voice raised, something else breaking, Kiara trying to calm him down. The sound makes your chest ache in a way that feels physical. "Fuck," you whisper to yourself, looking down at JJ's shirt still in your hands. You bring it to your face, inhaling his scent one last time before forcing yourself to fold it neatly. You’ll have to give it back eventually, but right now, you need a moment to remember how to breathe without feeling like you’re drowning all over again. The irony isn't lost on you - you left the Outer Banks to stop feeling like you were drowning, only to come back and find yourself deeper underwater than ever before.

The tension in living room is thick enough to cut with a knife as you enter. JJ is sprawled on the couch next to Kiara, his arm draped possessively around her shoulders while nursing what appears to be his fifth beer. There's broken glass by the kitchen counter that Sarah's carefully sweeping up, shooting concerned glances at everyone.

"So this competition tomorrow," John B says too loudly, clearly trying to diffuse the tension. "Heard Topper's entering too." He's sitting cross-legged on the floor, picking at the label of his beer bottle. "Gonna be some sick waves though, bro. Weather report's saying six-footers at least."

JJ snorts, his blue eyes deliberately avoiding your direction. "Yeah, well, Topper can suck my-" Kiara elbows him in the ribs, cutting him off. "What? I'm just saying the trust fund baby probably can't even tell the difference between the nose and tail of his board." His words are slightly slurred, with anger and alcohol making his voice thicker.

"Actually," Sarah pipes up from the kitchen, dumping the broken glass in the trash, "I heard he's been practicing a lot." She settles onto the arm of John B's chair, her blonde hair catching the dim light. "Something about wanting to prove himself or whatever."

Pope shifts slightly as you sit next to him, creating a protective barrier between you and JJ. "You still surf, Y/N?" he asks, trying to include you in the conversation. "Remember that time you totally schooled JJ on that left break by the pier?"

"Fuck off, Pope," JJ snaps, his grip tightening on his beer bottle. "That was one time, and I was hungover as shit." Kiara places a calming hand on his thigh, but he shrugs it off, standing up abruptly. "I need another beer."

"Maybe you should slow down," Kiara suggests gently, reaching for his hand. "The competition's early tomorrow and-"

"I said I need another fucking beer," JJ cuts her off, his voice sharp. He stalks toward the kitchen, purposely taking the long way around to avoid passing near you. "And for the record," he adds, pausing in the doorway, "that left break? I let her win. Figured she needed the ego boost since she was so fucking fragile back then." The words are meant to wound, and from the way you tense beside him, Pope can tell they hit their mark.

John B stands up, running a hand through his hair. "JJ, bro, come on-"

"What?" JJ whirls around, his eyes blazing. "We all just gonna pretend like everything's normal? Like she didn't just fuck off for three years and come waltzing back expecting everything to be the same?" He lets out a bitter laugh. "Nah, I'm good. You guys can play happy fucking family without me."

The room falls into a heavy silence after JJ's outburst. Sarah is the first to speak, her voice gentle but firm. "JJ, that's enough." She moves from her perch on John B's chair, positioning herself between JJ and the rest of the group.

Your hands are shaking as you stand up, your voice quiet but steady. "You want to do this now? Fine." You take a step forward, ignoring Pope's attempt to grab your arm. "You think you're the only one who was hurt? You think you're the only one who was fucked up?" Your voice rises slightly, years of pent-up emotion breaking through. "I didn't just 'fuck off' to Maine for fun, JJ. I went because the alternative was being lowered into the ground in a fucking coffin!"

Kiara stands up too, torn between her boyfriend and her old friend. "Y/N, maybe we should-"

"No, Kie," you cut her off, your eyes locked on JJ. "He wants to talk about being fragile? About letting me win? At least I'm trying to get better. What are you doing, JJ? Getting drunk and picking fights? Real fucking healthy."

John B moves to intervene, but Pope holds him back, shaking his head. This has been brewing since the moment you walked through the door.

"You know what the difference is between us?" You continue, your voice cracking. "I admit I'm broken. I went and got help because I was tired of hurting everyone around me. But you?" You let out a hollow laugh. "You're still that same scared little boy, hiding behind your anger and your booze because god forbid anyone see that you're hurting too. You’re acting just like your daddy.”

The moment the words leave your mouth, the room erupts into chaos. JJ's beer bottle shatters in his hand as he lunges forward. "Don't you fucking DARE!" as John B and Pope rush to grab him. His muscles strain against their hold. "You don't get to say that shit! You don't get to fucking compare me to him!"

"JJ, stop!" Kiara shouts, but he's beyond hearing. His blue eyes are wild, unfocused, filled with a pain so deep it makes everyone in the room flinch. "You want to talk about being broken?" JJ spits, still fighting against John B and Pope's restraining arms. "At least I didn't run away! At least I stayed and faced my shit instead of leaving everyone wondering if you were even fucking alive!" His voice cracks on the last word, raw emotion bleeding through the anger. "Do you know how many times I drove by your house? How many nights I sat outside your window hoping you'd just... fuck!"

"Where the fuck was all this concern for mental health when I was showing up at your window covered in bruises? When I was sleeping on the beach because I was too scared to go home?" Blood continues to drip from his hand, creating a small puddle on the floor.

"You know what's really fucking funny?" JJ continues, his voice cracking. "The day you left? I was gonna tell you everything. About my dad, about how fucked up I was, about how you were the only person who made me feel like maybe I wasn't completely worthless." His words are like bullets, each one aimed to hit where it hurts most.

"Bro, calm down," John B grunts, struggling to maintain his grip. "This isn't helping-"

"Helping?" JJ lets out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. "Nothing helps! Nothing fucking helps because she LEFT!" He finally breaks free, stumbling forward but not advancing towards you. Instead, he stands there, chest heaving, looking more vulnerable than any of them has ever seen him. "You left," he repeats, quieter now, his voice thick with unshed tears. "You left and I couldn't... I couldn't fucking breathe. And now you're back and I still can't breathe and I..." He runs his hands through his hair violently, turning away from everyone.

Pope steps forward cautiously. "JJ, maybe we should-"

"Don't," JJ cuts him off, his voice dangerous again. "Just... don't." He grabs his keys from the counter, ignoring Kiara's protests. "I need to get the fuck out of here before I..." He doesn't finish the sentence, just storms out, the screen door slamming behind him. The sound of his motorcycle roaring to life fills the night air moments later.

The room falls into a heavy silence after JJ's dramatic exit. You stand frozen, your whole body trembling as tears finally spill down your cheeks. Sarah is the first to move, wrapping her arms around you as you begin to sob.

"I didn't mean..." you choke out between sobs. "I didn't mean to say that about his dad. I just... I was so angry and..." You collapse onto the couch, Sarah still holding you while Kiara paces anxiously by the door.

"Someone needs to go after him," Kiara says, grabbing her jacket. "He's drunk and upset, he shouldn't be on that bike." She looks torn between staying with you and chasing after her boyfriend.

John B runs a hand through his hair, exchanging worried looks with Pope. "I'll go," he says, grabbing his keys. "Pope, you stay here with them. Sarah, can you...?" He gestures at you, who's still crying into Sarah's shoulder.

"I got her," Sarah assures him. "Just... bring him back in one piece, okay?"

Pope starts cleaning up the broken glass, his movements careful and methodical. "You know," he says quietly, "JJ never told anyone this, but he used to sleep in your treehouse after you left. We'd find him up there some mornings, usually after really bad nights with his dad."

"He kept your bracelet too," Kiara adds softly, still hovering by the door. "The one you made him at that bonfire. Wears it under his watch sometimes." She pauses, conflict clear on her face. "I should go with John B-"

"No," you say, wiping your eyes. "Stay. Please. I... I need to tell you all something. About why I really left." You take a shaky breath, looking around at your friends - the family you left behind. "It wasn't just the self-harm or the suicide attempt. There was... there was more. And JJ... he deserves to know the truth. You all do."

Sarah squeezes your hand encouragingly while Pope settles on the floor in front of you. The sound of the Twinkie starting up outside fills the momentary silence.

"Take your time," Sarah says gently. "We're listening."

John B finds JJ at their usual spot - the abandoned dock near the marsh where they used to fish as kids. JJ's sitting at the edge, legs dangling over the water, a fresh beer in his hand that he definitely grabbed from his emergency stash hidden in the old boat nearby. His motorcycle is parked haphazardly in the grass, still ticking as it cools down.

"Figured I'd find you here," John B says, settling down next to his best friend. The moonlight reflects off the water, casting everything in a silvery glow. "That was quite a show back there, bro."

JJ takes a long pull from his beer, his knuckles still bloody from the broken bottle. "Fuck off, John B," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it. His hands are shaking slightly as he brings the bottle back to his lips. "I don't need another fucking lecture about controlling my temper or whatever shit you're about to say."

"Actually," John B says, pulling out two fresh beers from his pocket and handing one to JJ, "I was gonna say she had no right bringing up your dad." He cracks open his beer, the sound echoing across the quiet marsh. "That was fucked up."

JJ lets out a hollow laugh, running his uninjured hand through his messy hair. "You know what's fucked up? She's right." His voice cracks slightly. "I am turning into him. Getting drunk, breaking shit, can't control my fucking temper..." He throws his empty bottle into the water with force, watching it disappear beneath the dark surface.

"Nah, man," John B shakes his head firmly. "You're nothing like Luke. You know how I know?" He waits until JJ looks at him. "Because you care. Like, actually give a shit about people. Luke never did." He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. "And you loved her. Still do, probably."

"Doesn't fucking matter now, does it?" JJ's voice is rough with emotion. "I'm with Kie. And Y/N... she's..." he trails off, unable to finish the sentence. The crickets chirp in the silence that follows, the marsh grass swaying in the gentle breeze.

"You know," John B says after a while, "Kie knows. Has known for a while, I think. About how you feel about Y/N." He takes another sip of his beer. "Maybe that's why she's been so... I don't know, different lately?"

JJ's head snaps up, his blue eyes wide in the moonlight. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Come on, bro," John B sighs. "You've been wearing that bracelet under your watch since the day Y/N left. You sleep in her old treehouse when shit gets bad. And the way you looked at her tonight... that wasn't just anger, man."

JJ stares out at the dark water, his jaw working as he processes John B's words. "It's not..." he starts, then stops, taking a long drink. "Fuck, man." The moonlight catches the silver threads in his shark tooth necklace as he shifts uncomfortably. "You can't just say shit like that about me and Kie."

"Why not?" John B presses, watching his best friend carefully. "Because it's true? Because you've been trying so hard to convince yourself that what you have with Kie is enough?" He dodges the empty beer can JJ throws at his head with practiced ease. "I love Kie, man. We all do. But she deserves better than being someone's second choice."

"You think I don't know that?" JJ explodes, jumping to his feet. He paces the dock, his shoes making the old wood creak. "You think I don't fucking hate myself for it? For not being able to..." he trails off, running both hands through his hair in frustration. "Y/N left, John B. She fucking left without a word and Kie... Kie was there. She picked up the pieces. She..."

"She's not Y/N," John B finishes quietly. The words hang in the humid night air, heavy with truth. "And that's not fair to any of you."

JJ stops pacing, bracing himself against one of the dock posts. His knuckles are white where they grip the wood, blood from his earlier injury leaving dark smears. "You should've seen her that night," he says so quietly John B almost misses it. "The night before she left. She came to my window like she always did when shit got bad. But something was different. She wouldn't look at me, wouldn't let me touch her. Just kept saying she was sorry." His voice cracks. "I should've known. Should've fucking done something."

"JJ..." John B starts, but JJ cuts him off.

"And now she's back," he continues, his voice rough. "She's back and she's wearing that fucking perfume that makes my head spin, and she's got these new scars I don't know the stories too, and she's looking at me like... like..." He slams his fist into the post, adding fresh splinters to his already injured hand. "Like I'm still that stupid kid who couldn't save her. How I didn't see how bad it was getting. How I was so caught up in my shit with my dad that I missed all the signs." He runs his hands through his hair roughly. "And you know what the worst part is? Even after everything, even with Kie... I still..." He can't finish the sentence, but he doesn't need to.

The marsh is quiet except for the gentle lapping of water against the dock and the distant sound of a boat horn. John B watches as his best friend falls apart, knowing there's nothing he can say to make this better. "Maybe," he finally suggests, "you should talk to Kie. Like, really talk to her. And then..." he hesitates. "Maybe you should talk to Y/N too. About everything."

JJ lets out a bitter laugh. "Yeah? And say what? 'Sorry, I just had a fucking meltdown in front of everyone because seeing you still makes me feel like I'm drowning'? 'Sorry, I'm such a fuck up I couldn't even move on properly'?" He slides down to sit on the dock again, his energy seemingly drained. "Nah, man. Some things are better left buried."

The two make their way to the van it rumbles down the dark road, headlights cutting through the night as John B glances worriedly at JJ in the passenger seat. JJ is slumped against the window, his breath fogging up the glass, the streetlights casting intermittent shadows across his face. His bloody knuckles rest in his lap, the makeshift bandage John B made from his t-shirt already soaking through.

"Your dad's been better lately, right?" John B asks cautiously, turning onto JJ's street. "Like, with the new job and everything?" He knows these periods of calm with Luke are temporary, like the eye of a hurricane - peaceful until it's not.

JJ lets out a laugh, his eyes still fixed on the passing shadows outside. "Yeah, for now. Give it a week, maybe two if we're lucky." His voice is tired, drained of its usual energy. "He's actually buying groceries instead of beer. Fucking miracle, right?" The sarcasm in his voice is thick enough to cut.

As they pull up to JJ's house, they can see Luke's truck in the driveway, the porch light on - a rare sight. Through the window, they can see him moving around in the kitchen, looking almost normal, almost like a real father. "You sure you don't want to crash at my place?" John B offers, killing the engine. "Sarah won't mind, and you know Pope's probably got Y/N calmed down by now..."

"Don't," JJ warns, his voice sharp. "Just... don't say her name right now, okay?" He runs his uninjured hand through his hair, a nervous habit that's become more frequent since your return. "I can't... I can't think about that shit right now. About what she said, about Kie, about..." he trails off, shaking his head.

The front door opens, and Luke steps onto the porch. "JJ? That you, son?" His voice carries across the yard, lacking its usual angry slur. "Got some leftovers if you're hungry. Made that fish you like." The attempt at normalcy is almost more unsettling than his usual violence.

"Fuck," JJ mutters, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Look at him, playing father of the year." He grabs his backpack from the backseat, wincing as the movement jars his injured hand. "Thanks for the ride, bro. And for..." he gestures vaguely, encompassing everything that happened at the dock.

"JJ," John B calls as his friend opens the door. "Just... be careful, okay? And if shit goes south..." He doesn't need to finish the sentence. They both know JJ's always got a place at the Chateau.

"Yeah, yeah," JJ forces a grin that doesn't reach his eyes. "Save the emotional shit for Sarah, man." He slams the van door, shouldering his backpack as he heads toward the house. Each step feels heavy like he's walking through water. The weight of everything - your return, his relationship with Kiara, his dad's temporary stability - sits on his shoulders like a physical burden.

Luke's waiting at the door, and for once, his eyes are clear. "Rough night?" he asks, noticing JJ's bandaged hand. There's genuine concern in his voice, the kind that makes JJ's chest ache because he knows it won't last.

He follows his father into the house, the familiar scent of fried fish and something else - hope, maybe? - filling the air. The kitchen is cleaner than he's seen it in years, dishes are actually washed and put away, no empty bottles littering the counters. It's like walking into a funhouse mirror version of his life, everything familiar but slightly wrong.

"Sit," Luke gestures to the table, already moving to reheat the food. "Got paid today. Foreman says I'm doing good work." There's pride in his voice, the kind JJ used to dream of hearing when he was younger. "Even got you something." He pulls out a small package from one of the kitchen drawers, sliding it across the table.

JJ stares at the package like it might bite him, his injured hand throbbing in rhythm with his heartbeat. "Dad, you didn't have to..." he starts, but Luke waves him off.

"Open it," Luke insists, putting a plate of steaming fish and rice in front of JJ. "Saw it at the store, thought of you." His voice is gruff with emotion he doesn't know how to express.

With trembling fingers, JJ unwraps the package. Inside is a new surf wax and a professional-grade fishing lure - the expensive kind they used to admire together in the shop window when JJ was little. "This is..." he swallows hard, something thick and painful lodging in his throat.

"For the competition tomorrow," Luke explains, sitting down across from him with his own plate. "Figured you could use some good gear." He pauses, studying JJ's face. "Your hand gonna be okay to surf?"

JJ flexes his fingers experimentally, wincing. "Yeah, it's fine. Just some scratches." He doesn't mention how he got them, and Luke doesn't ask. Some things are better left unsaid, even in this temporary peace.

They eat in relative silence, the only sounds are the scrape of forks against plates and the distant hum of crickets outside. JJ can't help but wait for the other shoe to drop, for his father to notice the alcohol on his breath, or ask why he came home so late. But Luke just keeps eating, occasionally glancing at JJ with something that looks almost like concern.

"Y/N’s back," Luke says suddenly, making JJ choke on his rice. "Saw her at the store today. She's grown up nice." He says it casually, like he doesn't know the weight those words carry like he doesn't remember the nights JJ came home drunk and broken after you left.

JJ's grip on his fork tightens, his knuckles white. "Dad..." he warns, but Luke continues.

"You know, I never told you this," Luke sets down his fork, his voice unusually serious. "But that girl... she used to come by sometimes when you were out. Would bring groceries, say she was just dropping off extras her mom bought." He lets out a dry laugh. "We both knew she was lying. She was checking on you, making sure I hadn't..." he trails off, shame coloring his voice.

The revelation hits JJ like a physical blow. He pushes back from the table, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I can't... I can't do this right now," he manages to say, his voice rough. "Thanks for dinner. And the..." he gestures at the gifts, unable to finish.

Luke nods, understanding in his eyes that hurts worse than any punch he's ever thrown. "Get some rest, son. Big day tomorrow." He watches as JJ practically flees to his room, the sound of his door closing echoing through the unusually quiet house.

In his room, JJ collapses onto his bed. The surf wax and lure sit on his nightstand, mocking him with their newness, their promise of a father he's always wanted but never quite had. He pulls out his phone, seeing missed calls from Kiara and texts from the group chat. But it's his wallpaper that catches his eye - still that old photo of him and you at the beach, your smile bright and real, his arm around your shoulders. He'd never changed it, not even after starting things with Kiara.

"Fuck," he whispers into the darkness, throwing his arm over his eyes. Tomorrow's competition suddenly seems like the least of his problems.

JJ is hunched over his surfboard on the front porch, a half-eaten piece of toast dangling from his mouth as he meticulously applies the new wax his father gave him. The morning sun casts long shadows across the worn wood of the porch, the air already thick with humidity. His injured hand throbs as he works, the makeshift bandage John B wrapped it in last night now stained and fraying.

The knock makes him jump, nearly dropping the wax block. "It's open!" he calls out, not looking up from his work. He knows it's Kiara before she even speaks - recognizes the pattern of her footsteps, the jingle of the shell anklet she always wears.

"Hey," Kiara's voice is soft and cautious. She's wearing her competition bikini under a loose tank top, her curly hair pulled back in a messy bun. "You weren't answering your phone." She settles down next to him on the porch steps, close but not touching - a careful distance that speaks volumes.

JJ continues working on his board, his movements perhaps more aggressive than necessary. "Yeah, well, been kind of busy." He gestures at the board with his injured hand, causing Kiara to suck in a sharp breath at the sight of his knuckles.

"Jesus, JJ," she reaches for his hand but he pulls away, standing up abruptly. "We need to talk about last night-"

"No," JJ cuts her off, running his good hand through his already messy hair. "We really don't. I fucked up, lost my temper, same old shit. Can we just..." he trails off, finally looking at her. The concern in her eyes makes his stomach twist with guilt.

Kiara stands too, crossing her arms. "Y/N told us everything last night," she says quietly. "After you left. About why she really went away." She watches as JJ's entire body tenses, his jaw clenching. "JJ, it wasn't just about the self-harm and the attempt. She was-"

"Stop," JJ's voice is sharp, dangerous. He turns away from her, gripping the porch railing so hard his knuckles turn white. "I don't want to know. I can't... I can't hear that shit right now. Not before the competition."

"You can't keep running from this," Kiara says, her voice stronger now. "And you can't keep pretending that what we have is..." she stops, taking a deep breath. "I see the way you look at her, JJ. I've always seen it. Even when you're angry at her, even when you're with me, you look at her like... like she's the sun and you're drowning in her light."

JJ lets out a bitter laugh, turning back to face her. "That's some poetic shit, Kie." But there's no humor in his voice, just pain and exhaustion. "What do you want me to say? That I'm sorry? That I'm a fucking mess who can't get his shit together? That I-"

"I want you to be honest," Kiara interrupts. "With me, with yourself, with her." She steps closer, reaching up to touch his face gently. "We both knew this wasn't forever, JJ. We were just... holding each other together until something better came along."

"You deserve better than that," JJ says quietly, leaning into her touch despite himself. "Better than me using you as a bandaid for my fucked up heart."

Kiara smiles sadly. "Yeah, I do. And so do you." She drops her hand, stepping back. "The competition starts soon. Y/N’s entering too, by the way. JJ? She still wears that shell necklace you made her. Never took it off, even in Maine."

The information hits JJ like a physical blow, making him grip the railing tighter. The surf wax sits abandoned on his board, the morning sun turning it soft and sticky. JJ sighs heavily, sliding down to sit on the porch steps. The morning sun continues to rise, casting long shadows across the yard where weeds push through cracked concrete - a perfect metaphor for their relationship, beautiful things growing in broken places.

"You're not mad?" JJ asks finally, his voice rough. He picks at the fraying bandage on his hand, avoiding her eyes. "About... everything?"

Kiara lets out a soft laugh sitting back down next to him bumping his shoulder with hers. "I mean, I probably should be. But honestly?" She tilts her face toward the sun, closing her eyes. "I think I've known since the beginning. We were both just... trying to fill empty spaces."

JJ runs his good hand through his hair, a nervous habit he can't shake. "You're too good for this shit, Kie. Too good for me and my fucked up baggage." He glances at her sideways. "I never meant to hurt you."

"I know," Kiara says simply. "And hey, at least we had some good times, right?" She grins at him, that familiar sparkle in her eyes. "Like that time we got caught skinny dipping at the country club pool?"

"Fuck," JJ laughs despite himself, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Your dad's face when he found us... thought he was gonna have a stroke." The memory feels lighter now, less weighted with guilt.

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment. Finally, Kiara speaks again, her voice gentle but firm. "You need to talk to her, JJ. Like, really talk to her. No yelling, no running away."

JJ's jaw tightens. "Kie..."

"No, listen," she cuts him off. "What she told us last night... it changes things. And you deserve to know." She stands up, brushing off her shorts. "But first, you need to kick Topper's ass in this competition. Show him that pogues rule the waves, right?"

JJ looks up at her, gratitude and affection washing over him. "How are you so fucking cool about all this?"

Kiara shrugs, a small smile playing on her lips. "Because I love you both, you idiot. Just... not in the way we've been pretending." She starts walking backward toward her car. "See you at the beach. And JJ?" She pauses. "Whatever Y/N told us last night? It's not my story to tell. But when she does tell you... just remember she never stopped loving you either."

JJ watches her drive away, his heart feeling both lighter and heavier at the same time. He turns back to his surfboard, running his fingers over the fresh wax. The competition starts soon, and somewhere on that beach, you’ll be there. The thought makes his stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with pre-competition nerves.

The beach is alive with pre-competition energy, the morning sun casting long shadows across the sand as spectators and competitors mill about. The group has claimed your usual spot, a patch of sand near the judges' stand where you're spread out with blankets and coolers. The air smells of salt spray and sunscreen, mixed with the distant scent of food vendors setting up their stalls.

JJ sits cross-legged next to Pope, obsessively checking the fins on his board while stealing glances at you. His injured hand is wrapped in fresh bandages - Pope's handiwork from earlier that morning. "You think the swell's gonna hold?" he asks Pope, his voice tighter than usual. "Weather report said it might pick up around noon."

"Dude, stop stressing," Pope replies, not looking up from his phone where he's tracking the wind patterns. "You could surf these waves in your sleep." He pauses, glancing at his friend. "Though maybe focus more on the waves and less on staring at Y/N every five seconds?"

A few feet away, Kiara and you sit huddled over your board, your heads close together as you work on the design. "Pass me the blue paint?" Kiara asks, her voice carefully casual. "I think it'll pop against the white."

"Here," You hand over the paint pen, your finger steady as you work on your own section of the board. "Thanks for helping me with this, Kie. I know it's... weird."

Sarah's voice carries over from where she's practically sitting in John B's lap, her laugh bright in the morning air. "John B, I swear to God, if you get any more sunscreen in my hair..." She squirms as he deliberately rubs more lotion on her neck.

"What? I'm being helpful!" John B protests, grinning. "Can't have my girl turning into a lobster." He catches JJ's eye and makes an exaggerated kissing face, earning himself a handful of sand thrown his way.

"Get a room, you two," Pope groans, but there's affection in his voice. "Some of us are trying to focus here."

"Yeah, focus on what?" JJ snaps, more harshly than intended. "The competition doesn't start for another hour." His eyes drift back to you, watching as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear - a gesture so familiar it makes his chest ache.

"Speaking of the competition," Sarah pipes up, clearly trying to diffuse the tension, "heard Topper's been practicing his aerial moves. Might actually give you a run for your money this time, JJ."

"Please," JJ scoffs, his trademark cockiness returning. "Trust fund baby probably had to pay someone to teach him which end of the board goes in front." But his bravado falters when he catches you hiding a smile at his comment.

"The waves are looking good though," you offer quietly, your first direct contribution to the group conversation. "Nice clean sets coming in." Your voice carries over the beach noise, making JJ's hands still on his board.

The group falls into a loaded silence, everyone pretending not to notice the way JJ and you carefully avoid looking at each other, or how Kiara's shoulders relax slightly when JJ doesn't snap back with a sarcastic comment.

"Alright, enough of this weird energy," Pope announces, standing up and brushing sand off his shorts. "Who wants to help me get drinks from the vendor? We've got..." he checks his watch, "forty-five minutes to get JJ properly hydrated before he has to show these kooks how it's done."

"Let me help," Sarah jumps up, linking her arm through Pope's. "John B, Y/N, you coming?" There's a pointed look in her eyes that everyone pretends not to notice.

"I'm good," You reply, still focused on your board design. "Need to finish this before the competition starts." Your fingers trace the intricate pattern you and Kiara have created - waves and stars intertwining across the white surface.

"Me too," John B replies, stretching out on their blanket. "Someone's gotta make sure these two don't kill each other." He gestures vaguely between JJ and you, earning himself a glare from both of you.

Kiara looks up from the surfboard, her hands covered in paint. "Get me one of those açai bowls if they have them?" she calls after Pope and Sarah. "And maybe some water for everyone? It's getting hot out here."

As Pope and Sarah head toward the vendors, the remaining group falls into an awkward silence. JJ continues fidgeting with his board, though there's nothing left to adjust. The morning sun beats down on you, the humidity making everything feel sticky and tense. The beach is getting more crowded now, the excitement building as more competitors arrive with their boards.

"Your hand looks better," You say suddenly, your voice soft but carrying clearly over the beach noise. You're still focused on your board, not looking up, but your fingers have stilled on the paint pen.

JJ flexes his injured hand unconsciously. "Yeah, well, Pope's got practice wrapping shit up. Comes with being friends with a walking disaster." He tries for his usual sarcastic tone but it falls flat.

"Remember that time you tried to do a backflip off the pier?" John B interjects, clearly trying to ease the tension. "Pope had to use an entire first aid kit on your stupid ass."

"That was one time," JJ protests, a genuine smile finally cracking through his facade. "And I totally would've landed it if that jellyfish hadn't been in the way."

"There was no jellyfish," Kiara laughs, rolling her eyes. "You just chickened out halfway through."

"I did not!" JJ's voice rises indignantly. "Tell them, Y/N/N, you were there-" He cuts himself off abruptly, realizing he'd used your old nickname without thinking.

The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the distant sound of waves and other competitors warming up. Your hand has started trembling slightly, though you try to hide it by gripping the paint pen tighter.

"There definitely wasn't a jellyfish," you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. "But there was that group of tourist girls watching, and you were trying to show off..."

"Classic JJ," John B jumps in, trying to keep the conversation flowing. "Always trying to impress the ladies with his 'sick moves.'" He makes air quotes with his fingers.

The moment breaks when someone calls out "Maybank!" from down the beach. It's one of the competition organizers, clipboard in hand. "You're up in heat three, twenty minutes!"

"Shit," JJ mutters, standing up and grabbing his board. "I should probably warm up or whatever." He pauses, looking down at your board. "The design's good," he says quietly, before quickly adding, "Both of you. It's... yeah." He turns and jogs toward the water, his board under his arm.

"Well, that was almost a normal conversation," John B observes, earning himself an elbow in the ribs from Kiara. "What? I'm just saying..."

"I should warm up too," You say suddenly, standing and picking up your board. The morning sun catches the shell necklace around your neck - the one JJ made you years ago - making it gleam.

"Want company?" Kiara offers, but you shake your head.

"I need to..." you gesture vaguely toward the opposite end of the beach from where JJ went. "You know."

They watch as you walk away, your hair blowing in the ocean breeze. John B wraps an arm around Kiara's shoulders. "They'll figure it out," he says confidently. "They always do."

"Yeah," Kiara agrees, leaning into him. "But how many hearts are gonna get broken in the process?"

The question hangs in the air as they watch you two paddle out into the waves from opposite ends of the beach, like magnets simultaneously attracting and repelling each other. The waves crash against the shore as the competition gets underway, the beach packed with spectators cheering from the sand. The morning sun glints off the water, creating perfect conditions for the surfers waiting in the lineup. JJ sits on his board, straddling it as he watches the sets roll in, his injured hand gripping the rails slightly tighter than necessary. He's in heat three, along with you and Kiara, a cruel twist of fate that has his stomach in knots.

From the beach, John B's voice carries over the crowd. "Let's go, JJ! Show these kooks how it's done!" Sarah and Pope join in with their cheers, their enthusiasm infectious enough to draw smiles from other spectators.

JJ catches sight of you about twenty yards to his left, the shell necklace he made you glints in the sun. You're focused on the horizon, reading the waves with an intensity he remembers well from your late-night surfing sessions years ago. Kiara floats between you two, creating a triangle formation in the water, her presence both a buffer and a reminder of everything that's changed.

"First wave of heat three!" the announcer's voice booms over the speakers. "Riders, get ready!"

A set approaches and JJ feels the familiar surge of adrenaline. He watches as you turn your board, positioning yourself for the wave. Your form is different now - more refined, more confident. You catch the wave with practiced ease, your movement fluid as you drop in. The crowd cheers as you execute a perfect bottom turn, spraying water in an arc that catches the sunlight.

"Fuck," JJ mutters under his breath, both impressed and frustrated. He spots his own wave approaching, bigger than yours, and paddles hard. As he pops up, everything else fades away - the crowd, the competition, the complicated mess of emotions. It's just him and the wave, the way it's always been. He drives hard off the bottom, launching into an aerial that has the crowd screaming. His injured hand protests as he grabs his rail, but he sticks the landing, finishing with a powerful snap off the lip.

Kiara catches the next wave, her style more aggressive than yours but equally skilled. She shoots JJ a quick smile as she paddles back out, no trace of their earlier conversation in her expression. You're all competitors now, regardless of your personal drama.

The heat continues, each rider pushing themselves harder with each wave. JJ finds himself watching you more than he should, noticing how you’ve incorporated new techniques into your surfing. There's a grace to your movements that wasn't there before, a confidence that makes his chest tight with something between pride and regret.

From the beach, Pope's voice cuts through the crowd noise: "Time check! Two minutes left in the heat!"

JJ sits up straighter on his board, scanning for one last good wave. He needs something big to secure his spot in the finals. A set approaches, and he can see both you and Kiara eyeing it too. It's the kind of wave you used to fight over during your dawn patrol sessions - clean, powerful, perfect for showing off.

The tension in the water is palpable as you all turn toward shore, ready to battle for position. JJ glances at you, catching your eye for the first time since you paddled out. For a moment, it's like nothing has changed - you're just two kids from the Cut, living for the next wave. Then the moment breaks as the announcer's voice booms: "Final wave of heat three approaching! Who's gonna take it?"

The tension crackles through the air as all three surfers eye the approaching wave. JJ's muscles tense as he prepares to paddle, but suddenly you make your move first, cutting across his line with precise timing. You catch the wave perfectly, popping up with fluid grace that makes the crowd gasp.

"Holy shit!" John B's voice carries over the noise as you drop into the face of the wave. Your form is flawless, body low and controlled as you set up for your first maneuver.

JJ can't help but watch, even as he and Kiara paddle back to position. You carve up the face of the wave, your movements more aggressive than before, spraying water in an arc that catches the sunlight. You transition into a series of snaps that have the judges leaning forward in their seats, before setting up for your finale.

"No fucking way," JJ mutters, recognizing the setup. It's a move you used to practice together, late at night when the beach was empty - a risky aerial that you’d perfected during those endless summer sessions. You launch off the lip, grabbing your rail and rotating in a way that seems to defy gravity. The landing is clean, and precise, sending another spray of water toward the sky as the crowd erupts.

"That's my girl!" Sarah screams from the beach, jumping up and down while clutching John B's arm. Pope's got his phone out, recording everything while shouting his own encouragement.

As you paddle back out, JJ catches your eye again. There's something different in your expression now - a mix of pride, challenge, and something else he can't quite read. Kiara paddles up beside him, a knowing look on her face.

"Damn," Kiara whistles low. "She's been practicing."

"Time!" The announcer's voice booms across the water. "Heat three is complete! Riders, return to shore for scoring."

The paddle back is quiet, each lost in your own thoughts as the judges figure out scores. JJ can feel the energy on the beach, knowing without looking that your last wave changed everything. As you hit the shallows, John B and Pope rush out to help with your boards.

"That was fucking insane!" John B exclaims, grabbing your board. "When did you learn to fly?"

You push your wet hair back, that shell necklace still somehow perfectly in place. "Maine has waves too," you say quietly, but your eyes flick to JJ as you say it. "Different, but good for practicing."

"Attention competitors," the announcer's voice cuts through their conversation. "Scores for heat three are ready..."

The group falls silent, tension building as you wait for the results. JJ finds himself holding his breath, his injured hand throbbing. The morning sun is high now, turning the ocean into a field of diamonds, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembers teaching you that aerial on a night just like this, under a full moon with no one else around.

The announcer's voice crackles over the speakers: "In third place, with a score of 8.7 - Kiara Carrera!"

Kiara grins, accepting high-fives from the group. "Not bad for a warmup," she says, squeezing water from her hair. Her eyes dart between JJ and you, anticipating what comes next.

"In second place, with a score of 9.2..." The pause feels endless, "JJ Maybank!"

JJ's jaw tightens, his fingers flexing around his board. He knows what's coming, and can feel it in the electric tension running through their little group. Pope claps him on the shoulder, but he barely feels it.

"And taking first place in heat three, with a score of 9.8 - Y/N L/N! That final aerial was something else, folks!"

The beach erupts in cheers, but JJ's focused on your face - the way your eyes widen in surprise, the slight tremor in your hands as Sarah pulls you into a crushing hug. You look exactly like you did years ago when you landed your first aerial under his guidance.

"Holy shit, Y/N!" John B whoops, lifting you off your feet in celebration. "That was fucking incredible!"

"All riders advancing to the finals, please check the board for heat assignments," the announcer continues. "Thirty-minute break before the next round."

JJ watches as they swarm you with congratulations, his emotions a tangled mess he can't sort through. Pride, jealousy, regret, and something deeper, something that feels like the undertow that used to drag you both out during night sessions.

"You taught her that aerial," Kiara says quietly beside him, her voice carrying a knowing tone. "I remember watching you two practice it for weeks."

Before JJ can respond, you break away from the group, approaching them with hesitant steps. You're holding something in your hand - his old surf wax, the one he'd always let you borrow during your sessions.

"Found this in my bag this morning," you say, your voice barely audible over the beach noise. "Thought you might want it back." Your finger brushes his as you hand it over, sending a jolt through his system that has nothing to do with the competition.

"Keep it," he finds himself saying, his voice rougher than intended. "Looks like you're putting it to better use anyway." He tries to make it sound casual, but there's too much history in those words, too many memories of dawn patrols and midnight sessions and promises made under starlit skies.

The moment stretches between you, heavy with unspoken words, until Pope's voice breaks through: "Guys! They're posting the final heat assignments!"

The group moves toward the bulletin board, but JJ hangs back, watching you walk away. The shell necklace catches the light again, and he remembers making it for you on this very beach, his fingers working the knots while you talked about constellations and dreams and futures that seemed possible then.

"You okay?" Kiara asks, lingering beside him.

"Yeah," JJ lies, running a hand through his salt-stiffened hair. "Just... fuck." He doesn't need to finish the sentence. Kiara understands - she always has.

The finals loom ahead, but all JJ can think about is that aerial, and how your form was exactly the same as when he first taught it to you, right down to the way you point your toes during the rotation. Some things, it seems, don't change - even when everything else does.

The beach is winding down as the sun begins its descent, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and pinks. The competition crowd has thinned, leaving behind only the most dedicated spectators and the Pogues, who are sprawled out on their blankets celebrating their friends' success. JJ, you, and Kiara stand together on the podium, your medals glinting in the late afternoon light.

"Third place, Kiara Carrera!" The announcer's voice booms one final time. Kiara grins, holding up her bronze medal as Sarah and John B whoop and holler from the crowd.

"Second place, Y/N L/N!" You step forward, accepting your silver medal with a small smile. The shell necklace around your neck catches the light, drawing JJ's attention momentarily.

"And your first-place winner, JJ Maybank!" The crowd erupts as JJ accepts his gold medal, his signature cocky grin in place despite the storm of emotions brewing beneath the surface. His final wave had been spectacular - a combination of raw power and technical skill that even the most critical judges couldn't deny.

As you step down from the podium, Pope approaches with a cooler. "Time to celebrate properly!" he announces, pulling out beers for everyone. The group gravitates toward your usual spot on the beach, away from the dispersing crowd.

"To the most talented pogues in the OBX!" John B raises his beer, his other arm wrapped around Sarah's waist. "And to Kiara for not killing JJ when he snake dropped her wave in the finals!"

"Hey!" JJ protests, but he's laughing. "All's fair in love and surfing, right?" The words hang in the air for a moment, loaded with meaning as his eyes unconsciously drift to you.

"That last aerial though," Pope interjects, sensing the tension. "Thought you were gonna break your neck, JJ."

"Please," JJ scoffs, taking a long drink from his beer. "That was nothing compared to the shit we used to pull during night sessions." He freezes slightly, realizing what he's said, and who he's referencing.

You shift beside him, your silver medal catching the dying light. "Remember that time we tried to surf during a lightning storm?" You say quietly, surprising everyone. "John B had to come to rescue us in the Twinkie."

"Jesus," Sarah laughs, but her eyes are watchful. "You two were always doing crazy shit like that."

The group falls into a comfortable rhythm of storytelling and laughter, the competition tension slowly easing. JJ finds himself hyper-aware of your presence, the way you laugh at John B's terrible jokes, and how you unconsciously play with that shell necklace when you're thinking.

"You've improved," he says suddenly when the others are distracted by Pope's dramatic reenactment of a wipeout. "Your form, I mean. It's... different. Better."

You look at him, really look at him, for what feels like the first time since you’ve been back. "Had a good teacher," you reply softly, your fingers still toying with the necklace. "Some things you don't forget, even when you're trying to."

The weight of unspoken words hangs between you, heavy as storm clouds. Kiara watches you two from across the circle, a knowing look in her eyes as she catches JJ's gaze.

The Wreck is bustling with the usual dinner crowd, but Kiara's parents have reserved the back section for their celebration. The smell of fried shrimp and hush puppies fills the air as you pile around your favorite table, medals still hanging around the winners' necks. The sunset streams through the windows, casting everything in a warm golden glow.

JJ slouches in his chair, one arm draped over the back as he nurses his beer. His eyes keep drifting to you, who's sitting between Sarah and Pope, your hair still damp from the ocean. The shell necklace catches the light every time you move, a constant reminder of everything that's changed and everything that hasn't.

"Yo, check it out," John B nudges JJ, nodding toward the entrance where Topper and Rafe are making their way over. The entire table tenses slightly, years of rivalry making everyone wary.

"Hey," Topper says, stopping at their table. He looks different - less aggressive than usual, almost humble. "Just wanted to say... that was some sick surfing today. All of you." His eyes linger on you for a moment longer than necessary, making JJ's jaw clench.

Rafe, surprisingly sober, nods in agreement. "That move in the finals, Maybank? Pretty fucking impressive." He shifts uncomfortably, clearly not used to complimenting pogues. "And Y/N... didn't know you had moves like that."

"Thanks," you reply quietly, your fingers automatically going to the shell necklace. The gesture doesn't go unnoticed by anyone at the table, especially JJ.

"Yeah, well," JJ starts, his voice carrying an edge, but Kiara kicks him under the table. He swallows whatever sarcastic comment he is about to make. "Thanks, man. You weren't half bad either, Topper."

"Listen," Topper says, running a hand through his hair. "We're having a bonfire in Figure Eight tonight. Victory party kind of thing. You guys should come." The invitation hangs in the air, surprising everyone.

Sarah raises an eyebrow at her brother. "Rafe? You're okay with this?"

Rafe shrugs, looking almost uncomfortable. "New leaf and all that shit, right? Besides," he grins, some of his old cockiness returning, "can't let you pogues have all the fun."

The group exchanges looks, years of kook-pogue rivalry making them hesitant. It's Pope who finally speaks up. "Yeah, alright. Could be fun."

"Cool," Topper nods, already backing away. "Starts at nine. Bring whatever." He and Rafe head back to their table, leaving you in stunned silence.

"Did that just happen? Did we just have a civil conversation with Topper and Rafe?" Kiara says surprised.

"End times," Pope declares solemnly, making everyone laugh. "The apocalypse is definitely coming."

"Well, that was weird," John B says, voicing what everyone's thinking. "Think it's a trap?"

"Nah," Sarah shakes her head. "Topper's been different lately. And Rafe... well, rehab changed him. A little, anyway."

JJ snorts, taking another drink. "Still don't trust them." His eyes find you again. "You gonna go?"

The question feels heavier than it should, loaded with implications. You meet his gaze, something unreadable in your expression. "Maybe," you say softly. "Might be nice to see how the other half lives, right?"

The tension at the table shifts, everyone pretending not to notice the way JJ's grip tightens on his beer bottle, or how your fingers haven't left that shell necklace since Topper walked away.

"Well," Kiara stands up, ever the peacemaker, "if we're doing this, we should probably get more food first. Can't show up to a kook party on empty stomachs." She heads toward the kitchen, leaving the others to navigate the complicated dynamics at the table.

The bonfire casts dancing shadows across the beach as JJ stands near the water's edge, the sound of waves mixing with distant laughter and music from the kook party. He's already several beers in, trying to drown out the memories that keep surfacing every time he catches sight of you. The others have conspicuously disappeared - John B and Sarah wandering off toward the dunes, Pope getting caught up in some debate about marine biology with a group of college kids, and Kiara conveniently remembering she needed to help set up the speakers.

You approach quietly, your presence announced only by the soft crunch of sand under your feet. You’ve changed since dinner, wearing a loose white beach dress that catches the firelight, that damn shell necklace still around your neck. Without warning, you reach out and take his beer, replacing it with a bottle of water.

"The fuck, Y/N/N?" JJ protests, the nickname slipping out before he can stop it. His voice is rougher than usual, whether, from the alcohol or emotion, it's hard to tell.

"You've had enough," you say softly, but firmly. "And we both know you get mean when you drink too much." There's no judgment in your voice, just stated fact - you know him too well, even after all this time.

JJ runs a hand through his hair, agitation clear in every movement. "Yeah? And what makes you think you still get to make that call?" The words come out harsh, but he takes a drink from the water bottle anyway.

You settle into the sand, patting the spot next to you. After a moment's hesitation, JJ sits too, maintaining careful distance between you two. The fire casts an orange glow across your skin.

"Remember the last bonfire we were at together?" You ask suddenly, your voice barely audible over the waves. "Before... everything?"

JJ tenses beside you, his fingers digging into the sand. "Don't," he warns, but there's less bite in his voice now. "We're not doing this, Y/N."

"Aren't we?" You turn to look at him fully, the firelight reflecting in your eyes. "Because I think we've been doing this dance since I got back. Everyone sees it, JJ. Even Kiara-"

"Leave Kie out of this," he snaps, but you both know it's a weak protest. His hand unconsciously moves toward yours in the sand before he catches himself. The shell necklace gleams as you shift, drawing his attention. "You kept it," he says suddenly, nodding toward the necklace. "Even in Maine."

"Never took it off," you admit quietly. "Even when they..it was the only piece of home I had left. The only piece of you."

JJ's breath catches at your words, his fingers curling into fists in the sand. The firelight dances across your faces as the party continues behind you, but you might as well be alone on the beach. The sound of waves seems to grow louder, matching the thundering of his heart.

"You can't just..." he starts, his voice cracking.

"You can't just say shit like that, Y/N. Not after... not after everything."

You shift slightly closer, the hem of your white dress brushing against his leg. "Then what can I say, JJ? Because we need to talk about it. About that night. About why I really left."

"Yeah?" JJ's voice turns sharp, defensive. "What's there to talk about? You made your choice. You left. End of fucking story." But his eyes betray him, constantly drawn to your face, to the necklace, to the way the firelight catches in your hair.

"It wasn't a choice," you say quietly, your voice trembling slightly. "My parents found the letters, JJ. The ones I wrote to you about... about everything. About your dad, about what we were planning..." You take a shaky breath. "About how much I loved you."

JJ's whole body goes rigid at your words. The water bottle crumples in his grip, forgotten. "Stop," he says, but it sounds more like a plea than a command. "Just... fuck, Y/N."

"You want to know why I really left?" You continue, your voice stronger now. "Because that night, after I left your house, after your dad..." you swallow hard. "After I saw what he did to you, I went home and wrote everything down. Every bruise I'd helped you hide, every night you climbed through my window bleeding, every time you flinched when someone moved too fast. I was going to turn him in, JJ. I couldn't watch him hurt you anymore."

The confession hangs in the air between you, heavy as storm clouds. JJ's breathing has become ragged, his jaw clenched so tight it must hurt. Behind you, someone cranks up the music, but it feels distant, muffled like you're underwater.

"My parents found the letters before I could do anything," you continue, your voice barely above a whisper. "They read everything - about us, about your dad, about how we were planning to run away after graduation. They didn't give me a choice, JJ. It was either Maine or..."

JJ stares at the water, his whole body vibrating with tension as he processes your words. The firelight catches the tears threatening to spill from his eyes, but he blinks them away furiously. His injured hand flexes in the sand, leaving small indentations that quickly fill with darkness.

"You were gonna..." he starts, his voice hoarse. "You were trying to protect me?" A bitter laugh escapes him. "Fuck, Y/N. I thought... all this time I thought you just couldn't handle my shit anymore. Thought you got tired of dealing with the fucked up pogue kid."

You shift closer, close enough that your shoulders brush. The contact sends electricity through both of you. "I could never get tired of you, JJ," you whisper, your voice catching. "Even in Maine, even when they had me so medicated I could barely remember my own name... I never stopped..."

"Don't," he cuts you off roughly, but he doesn't move away. "You can't just come back here and tell me all this shit. You can't just..." he runs his hand through his hair again, agitation clear in every movement. "Fuck, do you know what it did to me? Finding your room empty that morning? Your mom wouldn't tell me anything, just kept saying you were 'getting help' like you were some kind of..." he can't finish the sentence.

"I tried to call," you admit quietly. "That first month, I called your number every day until they took my phone. Left so many voicemails I filled up your inbox." You touch the shell necklace again, a habit he's starting to recognize as nervous comfort. "Did you... did you ever listen to them?"

"Every fucking one. Over and over until the system deleted them." He finally turns to look at you fully, his eyes intense in the firelight. "I still have that old phone. Can't bring myself to throw it away because it's got your last message saved."

The confession hangs between you, heavy with meaning. Behind you, the party continues, but you might as well be alone on the beach. The waves crash steadily, a rhythm you both know by heart from countless night sessions together.

"I kept every letter," You say softly. "The ones they wouldn't let me send. There's a whole box of them under my bed. Three years' worth of things I needed to tell you." Your hand moves unconsciously toward his in the sand, stopping just short of touching.

JJ stares at the ocean for a long moment, processing everything. The firelight dances across his features as he finally turns back to you, his expression raw and vulnerable in a way you haven’t seen since that last night three years ago.

"Every time something good happened, or something shit happened, or just... anything happened, my first thought was always 'I gotta tell Y/N.' Then I'd remember you weren't there anymore." He lets out a shaky breath. "Took me almost a year to stop turning to tell you stuff."

Your hand finally bridges the gap between them, your fingers brushing against his in the sand. Neither of you pulls away. "I did the same thing," you admit. "In group therapy, they'd ask who we missed most from home. I'd always say my parents, but..." You touch the shell necklace with your free hand. "It was always you, JJ. Every single time."

JJ's thumb unconsciously strokes across your knuckles, a gesture so familiar it makes your heartache. "I can't..." He starts, his voice catching. "I can't go through losing you again, Y/N. I barely survived it the first time." The admission costs him, you can see it in the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers tighten slightly against yours.

"I'm not going anywhere," you whisper, the words carrying on the ocean breeze. "Not this time. Not ever again." You turn your hand in the sand, properly lacing your fingers together. "I'm done running, JJ. From you, from us, from everything."

The silence that follows is heavy with possibility. Behind you, someone calls your names - probably Pope or Sarah looking for you - but neither moves. "We can't just pick up where we left off," JJ finally says, but he doesn't let go of your hand. "Too much has happened. We're different people now."

You nod, understanding in your eyes. "I know. But maybe..." you squeeze his hand gently. "Maybe we can start something new. Something better."

JJ looks at your intertwined hands, then back at your face - at the girl who's haunted his dreams for three years, who's sitting here now in the firelight wearing his necklace and holding his hand like you never left. "Yeah," he says softly, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through. "Maybe we can."

The party continues behind you, but you stay there on the beach, hands linked, watching the waves and starting the long process of healing what was broken. It's not perfect, and it's not fixed, but it's a beginning. And sometimes, that's enough.

The moonlight streams through your bedroom window as you and JJ slip inside, your footsteps quiet on the hardwood floors. Your room looks different than JJ remembers - new paint, new decorations, but somehow still unmistakably you. The fairy lights strung across the ceiling cast a soft glow over everything, creating shadows that dance across the walls.

JJ hovers near the door, hands shoved in his pockets as he watches you drop to your knees beside the bed. The fabric of your dress ghosting around your legs as you reach under the bed frame. His shell necklace catches the light as you move, making his chest tight with memories.

"It's here somewhere," You mutter, pushing aside boxes and old notebooks. "I kept everything organized when I moved back, but..." you trail off, stretching further under the bed.

JJ forces himself to look away, focusing instead on the photos newly tacked to your wall. Most are recent - your time in Maine, new friends, new places. But there, in the corner, partially hidden behind others, he spots one that makes his breath catch. It's you two, three years ago, on the beach after a night session. His arm is around your shoulders, both of you grinning at the camera, saltwater still dripping from your hair.

"Found it!" Your voice pulls him back to the present. You emerge from under the bed with a large shoebox, worn at the edges and covered in doodles. Your hands shake slightly as you set it on the bed, looking up at JJ with uncertainty in your eyes.

"That's... all of them?" JJ asks, his voice rougher than intended. He takes a step closer, drawn by the box like a magnet. Three years of words you couldn't say, couldn't send, all contained in one shoebox.

You nod, sitting cross-legged on the bed beside the box. "Every letter I wrote. Every time I missed you, every time something reminded me of you, every time I..." you trail off, fingers tracing the edge of the box. "Every time I needed you to know I still loved you."

The admission hangs in the air between you, heavy with possibility. JJ moves closer, perching on the edge of the bed, careful to maintain some distance. The fairy lights cast soft shadows across your face as you open the box, revealing stacks of envelopes, some crisp and new, others worn from being handled repeatedly.

"You don't have to read them now," you say quickly, noticing how JJ's hands have started to shake. "I just... I needed you to know they existed. That I never stopped trying to reach you, even when I couldn't actually send them."

The tension breaks as he lets out a snort of laughter, picking up one of the envelopes. "Your handwriting still looks like shit, Y/N," he teases, falling easily back into your old dynamic. "Seriously, did they not teach penmanship in Maine?"

You gasp in mock offense, snatching the letter from his hands. "Excuse you, this is art." You fought back a smile though, relief evident in your features at his attempt to lighten the mood. "Not all of us can have perfect surfer boy handwriting."

"Perfect?" JJ grins, reaching for another letter. "Have you seen my grocery lists? Even Pope can't read them." He settles more comfortably on the bed, his earlier hesitation melting away. "Oh shit, this one's got little hearts drawn all over it. Fucking sap."

"Shut up," You laugh, shoving his shoulder playfully. "I was heavily medicated and missing your stupid face." You pull out another letter, this one covered in doodles of waves and surfboards. "Oh god, my therapy art phase. We don't talk about this one."

JJ snatches it before you can hide it, his eyes scanning the page with growing amusement. "Holy fuck, is that supposed to be me?" He points to a stick figure with spiky hair riding a wave. "My hair does not look like that!"

"It absolutely does when you first wake up," you argue, reaching for the letter. JJ holds it above his head, laughing as you try to grab it. "JJ Maybank, give that back!"

"Make me," he challenges, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. It feels like old times - him in your room, playfully arguing about nothing important, the weight of your earlier conversation temporarily lifted.

You lunge for the letter, causing you both to tumble backward onto your bed, letters scattering around you. JJ's still holding the drawing above his head, grinning as you try to reach it. "You're such an ass," you complain, but you're laughing too.

"Yeah, but you missed this ass," he quips, then freezes slightly, worried he's pushed too far. But You just roll your eyes, finally managing to snatch the letter back.

"Unfortunately," you sigh dramatically, settling beside him among the scattered letters. "Though I'm starting to question my judgment."

JJ clutches his chest in mock hurt. "Wow, three years and you're already tired of me? That's cold, Y/N. Ice cold." He picks up another letter, this one dated from about a year ago. "Oh look, more hearts. And are those little JJs surfing?"

"I'm going to murder you," you threaten, but there's no heat in it. You're watching him with soft eyes, taking in how the fairy lights cast shadows across his face, how his smile reaches his eyes for the first time since you’ve been back.

"Nah, you love me too much," he says automatically, then stills as he realizes what he's said. The playful atmosphere wavers for a moment, the weight of your history threatening to crash back in.

But you just smile, reaching out to fix his messy hair. "Yeah," you say softly. "I do."

The admission is simple, honest, lacking the heavy emotion of your beach conversation. JJ looks at you, really looks at you, surrounded by three years worth of letters you wrote to him, wearing his necklace, smiling at him like nothing's changed and everything's changed all at once.

"Well, shit," he says finally, a grin tugging at his lips. "That's convenient. 'Cause I might still love you too."

The moment stretches between you, charged with three years of unspoken feelings until JJ finally closes the distance. His lips meet yours softly at first, hesitant, like he's afraid you might disappear if he pushes too hard. His hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing across your cheekbone as letters crinkle beneath you.

You respond immediately, your fingers threading through his hair as you pull him closer. The kiss deepens, three years of longing and regret and love pouring into it. JJ tastes like ocean and bonfire smoke, exactly how you remember.

"Fuck," JJ breathes against your lips, pulling back slightly. His blue eyes are dark with emotion as he looks at you, his thumb still tracing patterns on your skin. "I've missed this. Missed you." His voice is rough, and vulnerable in a way he rarely allows himself to be.

You smile, tugging gently at his hair. "Yeah?" You tease, though your voice trembles slightly. "Even with my shit handwriting?"

JJ laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest where it's pressed against yours. "Especially with your shit handwriting," he murmurs, before capturing your lips again. This kiss is different - deeper, more urgent. His hand slides from your face to your neck, fingers brushing against the shell necklace.

You shift on the bed, letters scattering to the floor forgotten as you pull JJ closer. His weight settles over you naturally, like you never spent time apart. The fairy lights cast a soft glow over them, creating shadows that dance across your skin.

"Is this okay?" JJ asks between kisses, his forehead resting against yours. Despite his usual confidence, there's uncertainty in his voice. "We don't have to..."

You cut him off with another kiss, your hands sliding under his t-shirt to trace the familiar planes of his back. "JJ," you whisper against his lips. "Shut up."

He grins against your mouth, some of his usual cockiness returning. "Make me," he challenges, echoing your earlier playful banter. But there's heat in his voice now, promise in the way his fingers trail down your sides tracing the curve of your waist through the thin fabric of your white dress. His touch is familiar and electric, leaving trails of heat in its wake. The fairy lights cast a soft glow over them as he captures your lips again, deeper this time, more urgent.

"Fuck, Y/N," he breathes against your mouth, his voice rough with want. His fingers find the hem of your dress, playing with the fabric as he kisses down your neck. "Tell me if you want me to stop."

"Don't you dare," you whisper, tugging at his hair the way you know he likes, The action draws a low groan from him, his hips pressing instinctively against yours. JJ pulls back slightly, his blue eyes dark with desire as he looks down at you. The shell necklace gleams against your skin, making his chest tight with emotion. He leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, following the path of the necklace.

"You're wearing too many clothes," he murmurs against your skin, his hands sliding higher under your dress. His touch is reverent, relearning every curve and dip of your body. When his fingers brush against the lace of your underwear, you both inhale sharply.

You tug at his shirt impatiently. "So are you," you breathe, helping him pull it over his head your hands immediately explore his chest. "God, I've missed touching you."

JJ's response is to kiss you again, hard and deep, as his hands work to dress up your body. "Lift up," he instructs softly, and you arch your back so he can pull the fabric over your head. The sight of you in just your underwear, his necklace resting between your breasts, makes him pause.

"What?" You ask, suddenly self-conscious under his intense gaze. But JJ just shakes his head, leaning down to press kisses across your chest.

"Just..." he murmurs between kisses, "trying to memorize everything." His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your bra. "In case this is a dream."

You reach up to touch JJ's face tenderly, your thumb tracing his bottom lip. "Not a dream," you whisper, pulling him down for another deep kiss. Your legs wrap around his waist, drawing him closer as his hands explore your body with increasing urgency.

JJ's fingers trace the edge of your bra, his touch teasing yet reverent. "Can I...?" he asks against your lips, and you nod, arching your back so he can reach the clasp. His hands are slightly shaky as he unhooks it like he still can't quite believe this is real.

"Fuck," he breathes as the garment falls away, revealing your breasts. The shell necklace rests between them, catching the fairy lights. JJ leans down, pressing open-mouthed kisses across your chest. His tongue traces patterns on your skin, remembering exactly how to make you gasp.

Your hands tangle in his hair as he takes a nipple into his mouth, your back arching off the bed. "JJ," you moan softly, mindful of the quiet house. His free hand palms your other breast, thumb circling the sensitive peak until you're squirming beneath him.

"Missed these sounds," JJ murmurs against your skin, switching his attention to your other breast. "Missed making you fall apart." His hand slides down your stomach, fingers playing with the waistband of your underwear. "Can still remember every spot that makes you shake."

To prove his point, he kisses down your ribs to that sensitive spot just below your left breast - the one that always makes you gasp. Sure enough, your breath hitches, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Still so responsive," he grins against your skin, nipping gently.

"Shut up," you breathe, but there's no heat in it. Your hands slide down his back, nails dragging lightly across his skin in the way you know drives him crazy. JJ groans, his hips pressing against yours instinctively.

"Make me," he challenges, echoing your earlier banter as he kisses lower, across your stomach. His fingers hook into your underwear, but he pauses, looking up at you with dark eyes. "Tell me you want this, Y/N/N. Tell me you want me."

You prop yourself up on your elbows, looking down at him with eyes full of love and desire. The fairy lights cast shadows across his face, highlighting the intensity of his gaze. "I want you, JJ," you whisper. "Always have, always will."

When you reach the waistband of his shorts, he groans softly against your neck. "Can I?" You ask, fingers playing with the button of his shorts. JJ nods against your skin, his breath hot on your neck as you work the button free. The sound of his zipper seems loud in the quiet room.

JJ helps you slide his shorts down his legs, his breath catching as your fingers trace the waistband of his boxers. The fairy lights cast a soft glow over his skin, highlighting the muscles that flex under your touch. "Fuck, Y/N," he breathes as your hand palms him through the thin fabric. His hips buck involuntarily, seeking more friction. "You're gonna kill me."

You smirk up at him, enjoying the way his breath hitches as you hook your fingers in his boxers. "That's the plan," you tease, slowly pulling the fabric down. JJ kicks them off impatiently, leaving him completely bare above you.

His hands slide up your thighs, fingers playing with the edge of your underwear. "These need to go," he murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your hip bone. "Want to taste you again."

You lift your hips, letting him slide the lace down your legs. The shell necklace gleams against your skin as you move, drawing JJ's attention. He leans down, pressing kisses along the chain until he reaches the shell pendant resting between your breasts.

"Still can't believe you kept it," he whispers against your skin, his hands exploring your now-bare body with increasing urgency. "Kept wearing it all this time."

"Never took it off," you breathe, arching into his touch as his fingers trace patterns on your inner thighs. "It was like keeping a piece of you with me."

JJ groans at your words, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. His hand slides higher, fingers teasing where you want him most. "Tell me what you need," he murmurs against your mouth. "Want to make you feel good."

Your response is cut off by a gasp as his fingers find where you need him. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, "You," you manage to say. "Just you, JJ. Always you."

JJ's fingers trace slow, teasing circles against your sensitive flesh, watching with dark eyes as you arch beneath his touch. His other hand explores your body with reverent familiarity, relearning every curve and dip that he's missed for three long years. The fairy lights cast shifting shadows across your bare skin as you move together on your bed. "Fuck, you're so wet already," JJ breathes against your neck, his voice rough with desire. His fingers slide lower, teasing your entrance as his thumb continues its maddening circles. "Always so responsive for me, Y/N."

JJ can't resist leaning down to trace the chain of the necklace with his tongue, following its path down to where it rests against your sternum. "Please," you gasp as he slides one finger inside you, your legs spreading wider to accommodate him. "JJ, I need..."

"Tell me," he murmurs against your skin, adding a second finger and curling them just right. "Want to hear you say it, baby. Tell me what you need." Your response is cut off by a moan as his thumb presses harder, his fingers finding that spot inside you that makes you see stars. JJ watches your face intently, memorizing every expression of pleasure that crosses your features. His cock throbs insistently against your thigh, but he ignores it, focused entirely on making you fall apart.

"You," you finally manage, your voice breathy and desperate. "Need you inside me, JJ. Please."

JJ groans at your words, his control wavering. But he forces himself to maintain his slow pace, wanting to draw this out, to make it last. His fingers continue their steady rhythm as he kisses down your body, paying special attention to each sensitive spot he remembers.

"Not yet," he whispers against your hip bone, nipping gently at the skin there. "Want to taste you first. Been dreaming about this for three years, Y/N. Gonna take my time."

JJ settles between your thighs, his hot breath teasing your sensitive flesh as he presses open-mouthed kisses along your inner thighs. His fingers maintain their steady rhythm inside you, curling just right. "Missed how you taste," he murmurs against your thigh, nipping gently at the sensitive skin. "Missed making you fall apart like this." His free hand slides up your body to palm your breast, thumb circling your nipple as he finally presses his tongue against your clit.

Your back arches off the bed, one hand tangling in his salt-stiffened hair while the other grips your sheets. The shell necklace catches the light as you move, a constant reminder of your shared history. "JJ," you gasp, trying to keep your voice down despite the pleasure coursing through you.

JJ hums against you, the vibration making your thighs tremble. His tongue traces patterns around your clit as his fingers continue their steady thrusting, finding that perfect spot inside you that makes you see stars. He watches your face intently, memorizing every expression of pleasure that crosses your features.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, pulling back slightly to blow cool air against your heated flesh. "Want to see you come apart for me. Been too fucking long." His words are punctuated by another curl of his fingers, another swipe of his tongue.

Your hips buck against his face as he sucks your clit into his mouth, your breathing becoming more ragged. JJ's free hand slides down to hold your hips steady, his grip firm but gentle. "Close," you manage to gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. "JJ, I'm so close..."

JJ doubles his efforts, his tongue moving faster as his fingers maintain their perfect rhythm. He can feel your walls beginning to flutter around his fingers and can taste how close you are. "Come for me, Y/N, Want to feel you fall apart on my tongue."

The combination of his words, his fingers, and his tongue finally pushes you over the edge. Tour back arches sharply, your thighs trembling as waves of pleasure crash over you. JJ works you through it, his movements becoming gentler as you come down from your high.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are glistening and his eyes are dark with desire. He presses soft kisses up your body as you catch your breath, paying special attention to the shell necklace that rests between your breasts. His cock presses insistently against your thigh, but he makes no move to rush things.

"Beautiful," he murmurs against your neck, nipping gently at your pulse point. "Fucking beautiful, Y/N. Missed watching you come undone like that."

Your hands slide down his back, nails dragging lightly across his skin in a way that makes him shiver. "Need you," you whisper, pulling him up for a deep kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue, making you moan softly. "Please, JJ. Need you inside me."

JJ positions himself between your thighs, his cock pressing teasingly against your entrance. The fairy lights cast shadows across your sweat-slicked bodies as he captures your lips in a deep, passionate kiss. "Need you to be sure," he murmurs against your lips, his voice rough with desire and emotion. "Tell me this is what you want, Y/N." His cock slides against your wetness, making you both gasp at the sensation.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "I'm sure, JJ," you breathe, your hands sliding up his back to tangle in his hair. "Been sure since the day I left. Want you, need you, love you."

JJ groans at your words, capturing your lips again as he slowly pushes inside you. You both freeze at the sensation, overwhelmed by the feeling of being connected again after so long. "Fuck," he breathes against your neck, his arms trembling as he holds himself still. "You feel fucking perfect, baby."

Your nails dig into his shoulders as you adjust to his size, your breath coming in short gasps. The fairy lights dance across your skin as you start to move together, finding your rhythm like you’ve never spent a day apart. JJ's movements are slow, and deliberate, wanting to savor every moment.

"Missed this," he murmurs, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your neck. "Missed you, missed us." His words are punctuated by slow, deep thrusts that make you gasp and arch beneath him. One hand slides down to grip your hip, angling you just right.

The shell necklace moves with each thrust, catching the light and drawing JJ's attention. He leans down to trace it with his tongue, following its path between your breasts. The action makes you moan softly, your walls clenching around him.

"JJ," you gasp as he hits that perfect spot inside you. "Please, need more." Your hands slide down his back, nails leaving light scratches that make him groan and thrust harder.

He continues his slow, deliberate pace, savoring every gasp and moan that escapes your lips. His hands explore your body with increasing urgency, one sliding down to grip your thigh as he adjusts the angle of his thrusts. "Fuck," he groans against your neck, nipping gently at your pulse point. "Feel so good around me, so fucking perfect." His words are punctuated by deep, measured thrusts that make your walls clench around him. The shell necklace gleams between your breasts, moving with each roll of his hips.

Your hands slide up his back, nails leaving light scratches that make him shudder. "Please, JJ," you gasp, your legs tightening around his waist. "Need more, need you harder." Your voice is breathy, and desperate, making his control waver.

But JJ maintains his torturously slow pace, wanting to draw out every moment. His free hand slides between them to circle your clit, making your back arch sharply off the bed. "Not yet, baby," he murmurs, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. "Want to feel every inch of you, want to make this last."

JJ's thumb continues its maddening circles on your clit as he thrusts deeper, hitting that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "JJ," You moan, your walls fluttering around him as you get closer to the edge. "I'm close, so close..."

His thrusts become slightly harder, and deeper, but still maintain that measured pace that's driving you both crazy. JJ's free hand slides up to palm your breast, thumb circling your nipple as he continues to work you higher. The combination of sensations has you gasping his name, your body trembling beneath him.

JJ grins against your lips, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. "Want to try something?" he asks, his voice rough with desire. Without waiting for an answer, he suddenly rolls you over, keeping himself buried deep inside you as you end up straddling his lap.

"Fuck," You gasp at the new angle, your hands braced against his chest as you adjust. The shell necklace swings between you, catching the fairy lights as you move. JJ's hands slide up your thighs, gripping your hips as he guides you into a slow rhythm.

"That's it, baby," he groans, watching as you start to move above him. Your breasts bounce slightly with each movement, making his mouth water. "Ride my cock just like that." His hands explore your body freely from this new position, one sliding up to palm your breast while the other keeps a steady grip on your hip.

You set a torturously slow pace, rolling your hips in a way that has JJ cursing under his breath. Your walls clench around him with each movement, drawing low groans from deep in his chest. "Missed watching you like this," JJ breathes, his hands roaming your body possessively. He sits up slightly, capturing a nipple in his mouth as you continue to ride him.

His hands guide your movements, helping you maintain that slow, deep pace that's driving you both crazy.

"JJ," You moan as he hits that perfect spot inside you. Your nails drag down his chest, leaving light scratches that make him buck up into you harder.

JJ's control starts to slip as he watches you move above him, your head thrown back in pleasure. "Fuck, Y/N," he groans, his hands tightening on your hips. "You look so fucking good riding my cock like this."

He watches in awe as you continue to ride him, your movements becoming more confident with each roll of your hips. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as you move above him. "Fuck, just like that," he groans, bucking up to meet your movements. His hands grip your hips tighter, guiding you into a rhythm that has you both gasping.

You brace your hands on his chest, using the leverage to grind down harder. Your walls clench around him with each movement, drawing curses from his lips. "JJ," you moan, your head falling back as he hits that perfect spot inside you. "So deep like this..."

JJ works faster on your clit as he continues to thrust up into you, hitting that spot that makes you see stars. You gasp, and your movements become more desperate. He suddenly pulls out of you, making you whimper at the loss. His chest heaves with heavy breaths as he tries to regain some control, his cock throbbing painfully between you.

"Need to slow down," he groans against your lips, his hands sliding up your sides. "Don't want this to end yet." His fingers trace patterns on your skin as you straddle his thighs. Your hands slide down his chest, nails dragging lightly across his skin in a way that makes him shiver. "JJ," you whimper, trying to move closer. Your pussy is dripping wet, clenching around nothing as you seek friction.

"Fuck, you're so wet for me," his fingers slid between your legs to tease your entrance. He watches as you gasp and arches into his touch, your walls fluttering around his fingers. "Could stay here all night, just watching you fall apart."

You rock against his hand, seeking more friction. JJ's free hand slides up to palm your breast, thumb circling your nipple as he continues to tease you with shallow thrusts of his fingers. "Please," you moan, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. "Need you back inside me, JJ. Been too long without you."

You shift in JJ's lap, deliberately grinding against his thigh. The friction makes you gasp, your wetness coating his skin as you rock your hips. His hands gripping your hips to guide your movements. "Fuck, Y/N," he groans, feeling your pussy slide against his thigh. "You're so fucking wet." His fingers dig into your flesh, leaving marks that will be visible tomorrow.

Your hands brace against his chest for leverage as you grind harder, chasing the friction you need. The shell necklace swings between you with each movement, occasionally brushing against his heated skin. "JJ," you moan, your head falling back as pleasure builds.

JJ's free hand slides between them, thumb finding your clit as you continue to grind against him. "Please, more, need you inside me again." Your words are punctuated by the roll of your hips, your pussy sliding against his thigh with increasing urgency.

His thumb works faster on your clit as you ride his thigh, drawing you closer to release. "Come like this first," he commands roughly. You continue grinding against JJ's thigh, your movements becoming more desperate as pleasure builds. Your wetness coats his skin, making each slide of your pussy against him smoother, more intense. JJ's hands grip your hips tighter, guiding your movements as he watches you chase your release.

"Want to feel you soak my thigh before I fuck you properly." JJ’s words, combined with the pressure on your clit and the friction against his thigh, finally push you over the edge. Your body trembles as waves of pleasure crash over you, your pussy pulsing against JJ's thigh as you come. Your wetness coats his skin, making everything slick and hot between you.

"Fuck, that's it," His cock throbs painfully between you, demanding attention. "So fucking beautiful when you come." His thumb continues to circle your clit, drawing out your pleasure until your gasping and squirming.

Without warning, JJ flips them over, pinning you beneath him on the bed. His cock slides through your wetness, teasing your sensitive flesh. "Need to be inside you again," he groans, capturing your lips in a deep, passionate kiss. "Been too fucking long without this."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Please, JJ," you whimper, still sensitive from your orgasm. Your walls clench around nothing, seeking the fullness of his cock. "Need you inside me."

JJ lines himself up with your entrance, watching your face as he slowly pushes back inside. You both groan at the sensation, your walls stretching to accommodate him again. "Fuck, still so tight," JJ breathes, setting a slow, deep pace. His hands explore your body possessively as he thrusts into you, memorizing every curve and dip. "Feel so good."

Your hands slide up his back, nails leaving light scratches that make him shudder. Your pussy pulses around him with each thrust, drawing low groans from deep in his chest. JJ maintains his deep, steady rhythm as he thrusts into you, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force. "I’m close," you gasp, your hands clutching at his shoulders for support. "So close, JJ. Please don't stop."

His hand slides between them to circle your clit as he maintains his punishing pace. "Come for me again," he commands. His thrusts become more erratic as he feels his release approaching, his grip on your hips tightening with bruising force. The fairy lights cast dancing shadows across their sweat-slicked bodies as they move together with increasing urgency. Without warning, he suddenly pulls out, his cock throbbing painfully between you.

"Fuck," he groans, his hand wrapping around his length as he strokes himself. "Where do you want it, baby?" His eyes are dark with desire as he watches you beneath him, your chest heaving with heavy breaths.

Your hands slide up his chest, nails dragging lightly across his skin. "On me," you gasp, still trembling from your release.

JJ's control finally snaps at your words. With a low groan, he comes hard, painting thick stripes across your stomach and breasts. The shell necklace gleams in the fairy lights, covered in drops of his release.

You collapse together on the bed, breathing heavily as you come down from your high. JJ reaches for his discarded t-shirt, gently cleaning his release from your skin. "Stay," you whisper, curling into his side. Your fingers trace patterns on his chest as your breathing slowly returns to normal. "Please stay this time."

JJ pulls you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Not going anywhere," he murmurs against your skin. "Never again." The fairy lights continue to cast their soft glow over the room as you drift off to sleep, tangled together like they never spent a day apart.

His phone buzzes on the nightstand, the screen illuminating the dim room with a soft blue glow. He groans softly, careful not to wake you who's curled against his chest, your breathing deep and even.

The group chat notification shows several messages from John B and Pope:

John B: yo where tf did you and y/n disappear to??? 👀

Pope: they definitely left together bro

John B: fucking FINALLY

Pope: 20 bucks says they're at her place

John B: nah man, bet they're at the chateau

JJ can't help but grin at his friends' messages, his free hand absently playing with your hair as you sleep.

His phone buzzes again:

John B: JJ we know you're reading these messages asshole

Pope: let him live, he's probably busy 😏

John B: BUSY WITH WHAT POPE??? 🤔😂

JJ rolls his eyes, typing out a quick response with one hand:

"fuck off both of you”

The response is immediate:

John B: HE LIVES!!!

Pope: told you they were together

John B: you better not fuck this up again maybank

JJ's jaw tenses at John B's last message, his arm tightening slightly around your sleeping form. The fairy lights cast soft shadows across your peaceful face as he looks down at you, remembering everything you’ve been through to get here. The shell necklace rests between you, a constant reminder of your shared past and the promise of your future but for now, in this room with its fairy lights and scattered memories, nothing exists beyond the two of you.

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lilianne-tarot · 3 months ago

Text

Pick-A-Card: If They Could Speak to you, This Is What They’d Say…‎✧˚₊‧

I know many of you are carrying unanswered questions from someone who disappeared, whether they ghosted, blocked, or drifted away. Just because they’re silent doesn’t mean they don’t feel something. This reading will reveal what they feel now, what they wish they could say, and the truth behind their silence. If you’ve been searching for closure, this might be exactly what your heart needs. This is a timeless reading.

How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images above. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you, go ahead and read both!

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જ⁀➴PILE I

Cards pulled: 10 of wands, the chariot, knight of pentacles, 9 of wands, 5 of cups.

Omg, lovely, I can already feel the weight of this situation. Your person is literally carrying the weight of regret on their back. I wouldn’t be surprised if they go about their day pretending everything is fine, but the moment they’re alone? Boom. The reality of what happened between you two slams them like a truck. This disconnection is heavy for them. There’s guilt, sadness, and this exhausting feeling of, “Did I seriously let this go? Did I mess this up beyond repair?” They’re haunted by what went down, but instead of dealing with it, they’re burying themselves in responsibilities, work, distractions, ANYTHING to avoid facing their own emotions.

And can we talk about the 9 of Wands real quick? Because this is telling me that even though they feel all this, they are STUBBORN AF about actually doing something about it. Like, they’re standing behind this emotional wall, peeking out every now and then like, “Should I reach out? Should I say something?” And then immediately retreating like, “Nah, can’t risk getting hurt again.” It’s this push-and-pull energy where they miss you like hell but are too scared to face what reconnecting would mean. It’s frustrating because I can FEEL their emotions bubbling under the surface, but their pride, fear, or past pain is making them act like they don’t care. They care. A LOT.

Are They Still Thinking About You? Oh, 1000%. This person might be hyper-fixating on work, hobbies, or even other people as a way to convince themselves they’re “over it,” but the gag is… they are NOT. This was a lesson in emotional growth, resilience, and learning to let go of what isn’t serving you. This wasn’t just a random breakup or separation, this was divinely orchestrated to push you BOTH into a new phase of life. Whether that’s healing, self-worth, or realizing that love isn’t meant to be this exhausting, this situation was meant to wake you up. The universe was like, “Okay, I’m gonna rip this band-aid off because y’all clearly aren’t doing it yourselves.” For them, this disconnection was supposed to teach them how to actually process emotions instead of avoiding them. For you? This was a test in knowing your own worth and not waiting around for someone to figure out theirs. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’ve already outgrown this situation in some ways. Like, you’re looking back and realizing that this person’s emotional immaturity, avoidance, or inability to take action was something you deserved better than.

Because right now, you’re The Chariot. You’re the one being pushed forward by the universe, stepping into your power, and realizing that you don’t have to keep carrying the emotional weight for someone who won’t even acknowledge theirs. I feel like if there’s a reconciliation, it’ll be one of those moments where they show up out of nowhere, suddenly ready to talk, but you’re already at peace with how things played out.

At the end of the day, bestie, the choice is yours. Do you want to wait and see if they finally grow up emotionally? Or do you want to fully step into your Chariot era and say, “If they wanted to, they would.” Whatever you choose, just know you are NOT the one who lost here. they are. The universe didn’t remove this person from your life to punish you, it did it because you deserve someone who isn’t emotionally constipated. Whether this person ever steps up or not, you’re already on the path to something bigger and better. Don’t let their slowness keep you stuck when you’re meant to soar. Period.

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જ⁀➴PILE II

Cards pulled: 2 of cups, empress, 4 of cups, 3 of wands, 8 of wands

Let’s start with the 2 of Cups + 4 of Cups because, this is a whole messy situationship in their heart. On one hand, they KNOW what you two had was special. Like, deep down, this person still feels so connected to you, there’s love, attraction, and this magnetic pull they can’t explain. BUT, instead of embracing it, they’re in a situation which is like, “Ugh, I don’t know what to do with these feelings, so I’ll just pretend I don’t have them.” Make it make sense. This person is giving emotional avoidance at its finest. They’re sitting there thinking about you CONSTANTLY, yet they’re also refusing to act on it. Why? Pride? Fear? Stubbornness? Check, check, and check. This person is SO in their feelings, but they’d rather stare at their phone in silent suffering than send that “I miss you” text.

If you ever doubted your impact on this person, let me tell you right now—you are THE standard. The Empress energy is giving “no one else compares”, and trust me, they feel that. You weren’t just another person in their life; you were a whole universe, comfort, love, beauty, growth. They looked up to you, even if they never said it. And now? Now they’re sitting in that misery like, “Wait… did I actually fumble them? Did I just ruin the best thing I ever had?” And babe, the answer? Yes. Yes, they did. Instead of owning their feelings and reaching out like a normal person, they’re watching from the sidelines probably lurking your social media, let’s be real. It’s like they’re waiting for you to make the move, but at the same time, their ego is screaming, “No, don’t do it! Stay mysterious and suffer in silence!” The duality is strong.

Do they still think about you? LOL. the cards said said, “Let me be so serious right now.” YES, bestie, they think about you ALL THE TIME.

The 3 of Wands tells me they’re waiting, but for what?? A sign? Divine intervention? A carrier pigeon with your message? SERIOUSLY, this person has a very princess energy ( i mean it sarcastically🫠) It’s like they’re standing at the edge of a cliff, looking out into the distance, wondering if you’ll come back, BUT THEY WON’T MAKE THE MOVE. They’re definitely thinking about reaching out, but they’re terrified of rejection, of things not going how they want, of you realizing you deserve better (which you do, btw). This person is itching to talk to you. Like, the urge to break the silence is REAL, but their fear of vulnerability is holding them hostage. They want that fast, passionate, “let’s fix this” conversation, but at the same time, they don’t know how to start it. So instead, they overthink, procrastinate,

For you, this was about realizing your worth, stepping into your Empress energy and knowing that you don’t have to chase love or beg for emotional availability. You’re learning that if someone isn’t showing up fully and completely, they aren’t worth your energy. For them? This was a harsh lesson in what happens when you take something beautiful for granted. They had the 2 of Cups connection in their hands, and instead of nurturing it, they let their own fears, ego, and hesitation sabotage it. Now, they’re left staring at their phone, wondering why it feels like something’s missing. (Spoiler: It’s you.)

It depends on them. The 8 of Wands is the biggest clue here, IF they find the courage to reach out, this could move FAST. Like, once the dam breaks, expect texts, calls, maybe even some dramatic love confession energy. BUT, and this is a huge but, are they actually ready to show up for you the way you deserve? Because if they come back with the same inconsistent, emotionally avoidant energy, then babe… NEXT.

The universe didn’t make you go through this pain just for you to settle for half-assed love. If they step up, if they come back genuinely ready to make this work, then cool. But if they’re just coming back because they’re lonely and miss your warmth? You already know the answer.

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જ⁀➴PILE III .

Cards pulled: temperance, queen of swords, 3 of swords, death, lovers

Omg, buckle up, bestie, because this reading is major. Three out of five cards are Major Arcana? Yeah, this isn’t some casual, “Oh, we drifted apart” situation. And I’m already getting chills.

First off, yes, this person still thinks about you. Like, a lot. But here’s the twist: their thoughts are a mix of regret, self-defense, and straight-up emotional exhaustion. I’m seeing someone who’s torn between wanting to reach out and knowing that doing so might just reopen wounds they aren’t ready to face. This is giving heavy "I messed up but I don’t know how to fix it" energy, mixed with a sprinkle of "but also, am I even ready to?" vibes.

Let’s talk about the situation here, because ouch. This was not a simple falling-out. This was heartbreak in its purest form. Whether it was betrayal, a painful truth, or just the gut-wrenching realization that you two couldn’t continue as you were, this was an ending that HURT. The kind that still lingers, even if you try to act like it doesn’t. And the thing is? This connection had to break apart. The universe literally forced this transformation on both of you. Death isn’t just about loss, it’s about endings that lead to major rebirth. Whether you wanted to or not, this separation changed you both. This person sees you as someone who’s balanced, mature, and, dare I say it, lowkey intimidating. Like, you’re in your healed era (or at least you seem like you are), and they don’t even know how to approach you anymore. There’s a sense of, “Would they even give me the time of day?” but also, “I know I need to be on my best behavior if I even think about coming back.” It’s like they know they can’t play the same games or bring the same energy they did before.

And The Lovers? Whew. This is deep. On a soul level, this connection was REAL. Like, cosmic contract, past-life, meant-to-be-a-lesson kind of real. Whether that means “meant to be together” or “meant to change each other’s lives” is another question, but the bond? Unbreakable. Even in separation, you two are still energetically linked.

So, what’s the truth they’re not saying? I’m getting that they regret something big, possibly a choice they made, something they said, or maybe just how they handled the situation as a whole. But their pride (or fear) is stopping them from admitting it. There’s also a level of stubbornness here. Like, they don’t want to come back unless they’re sure they’ll be received well. They don’t want to be vulnerable unless they know it’s safe. Why did this happen from a higher perspective? Because, bestie, you needed to step into your power. The Queen of Swords isn’t here by accident. This situation forced you to set boundaries, demand better, and step into your own clarity. You’re wiser now, sharper, and honestly? You won’t tolerate the same nonsense anymore. The universe was like, “Let me remove this person so you can actually step into the next version of yourself.” And whether they realize it or not, they were also meant to learn something from you. They may not have grown as much as you (yet), but your impact on them? Unforgettable.

So… reconciliation? Here’s the thing: It’s possible, but it wouldn’t be the same. If they were to come back, they’d have to be a whole new version of themselves, and honestly? You might not even want them anymore once you fully step into your power. This isn’t about waiting around for them, it’s about knowing that you’re on a completely new path, and if they can’t meet you at your level? That’s their loss.

Final advice? Trust this transformation. Even if it hurts, even if you miss them, know that this ending was a divine redirection towards something so much better. Whether that means a renewed version of this relationship or a completely new chapter, either way, you’re leveling up, and that’s the real takeaway here.

Sending you all the love, bestie. And remember, you’re THAT person. Don’t let anyone make you forget it. ✨

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Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not fixedly predict the future. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

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twistedsistas-stuff · 1 month ago

Text

R&B Breakups

Sammie Moore x Reader Modern Au

Warnings :Makeup smex- uh angst cause it’s me. Reconciliation? (I’m bad at warnings yall please bear with me) messy stack

You’d heard Sammie’s name before — mostly ‘cause of his cousins, them wild-ass Moore twins and that baby record label they got. Folks said he was church-bred, sang in the choir ‘fore he dipped out with his cousins to chase the dream. That’s where that name came from. Preacher Boy. Fit a little too well, considering the way he sang like salvation and rapped like sin.

He had a voice, though. No doubt. Those old clips on his socials? Whew. He ain't sing like his cousins, and they damn sure ain’t rap like him. You remember thinkin’ it was wild — a PK talkin’ nasty on a track like that. But then again, he a Moore. So.

You was up first — body gliding across that stage like smoke on glass. That other dude was rappin’ next to you, but Sammie ain’t hear a word. He was watchin’ you. The way you moved. The way you smiled mid-note and locked eyes with him like, Yeah, I see you too. Left the stage with a little wave like it was just another Tuesday.

Headed to the back where the Moores were posted up like royalty in a hallway too tight for all that ego. And then one of the twins stepped dead in your path.

“Whoa there, pretty thing. Where you rushin’ off to?”

You blinked hard. Couldn’t tell which one it was — Stack or Smoke. Identical and your high ass wasn’t helpin’ either.

“Uhhh... Smo–Stack... which one are you?”

He laughed loud, hand hittin’ his chest like you told the funniest joke of the year. “This Stack, baby. The cute one.”

You smirked, eyes rollin’ like dice. “Well, Stack... I don’t think we got any business, do we?”

You tried to slide past but he eased in your way again.

“Nah, but I ain’t here for me.”

That made you pause. You tilted your head, brows up. “Tell Smoke the same thing.”

Stack gave you that look. That girl, come on now look.

“What do you want, Stack?” you asked, dead in his face.

His grin widened like he had a secret. “Sammie wanna talk to you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Well, just like you found me, Sammie can too. Hmmm?”

You patted his cheek and kept walkin’, hips talkin’ louder than your mouth. But truth be told? You damn near sprinted to the dressing room. Checked your face, fixed your hair, heart doin’ a whole beat set in your chest.

Knock knock.

You froze, whispered “shit” to yourself, then pulled the door open.

There he was. Preacher Boy Moore.

Tall, golden-brown with them locs pulled back just enough to see that smooth-ass hairline. He had a guitar slung on his back, biceps flexin’ like he meant to remind you he could hold more than notes.

You blinked. “Huh?”

He chuckled low. “I said... you told me to come find you. So I did.”

Took a second to process that. Took longer to accept this man was real and talkin’ to you and not one of them thirsty lil girls he sang about.

“That’s ‘cause you sent a walkin’ STD to find me,” you said, turning back toward the couch.

Door shut behind him. He leaned on it like it was part of his act.

“My cousin clean,” he said, laughin’ through it. “Y’all just don’t like his lyrics.”

You smirked. “I don’t like that he got lyrics about every woman in three zip codes.”

He stepped closer. “I ain’t like them dudes, you know.”

You tilted your chin. “Coulda fooled me.”

Didn’t say nothin’ else — just stared like he was seein’ through your whole outfit. That made you shift in your seat.

“What, Preacher Boy?”

He grinned. “Come watch me perform, baby.”

“Boy, I ain’t your baby.”

“You could be.” He stepped in, hand hittin’ your waist real gentle. ��I’d treat you reaaaall good... if you let me.”

His fingers rose to your chin, all slow and tender like he was tryna ease you into a spell.

You was already caught. He knew it. He planned it.

“Come on,” he said, slidin’ his fingers through yours.

You wasn’t gonna go, at first.

Was gon’ head home, roll up, forget the way he smelled. That clean-sweat cologne and old incense aura. The way his voice dipped when he called you baby like he meant it. But by the time you hit the sidewalk, you was already textin’ your homegirl like:

"bitch... I think I just met my husband lol"

She texted back:

"U BETTA GET HIS FINE CHOIR-BOY LOOKIN ASS PREGNANT THEN 💅🏾"

Fifteen minutes later, you was back inside, leanin’ in a booth near the stage, and Sammie was up there talkin’ ‘bout, “This next one’s for somebody real special.”

You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly popped out.

Stack caught you doin’ it and laughed from across the room.

But when Sammie sang?

Shit.

You ain’t roll nothin’ after that. Just sat there quiet, chin in your hand like a teenager with a crush, watchin’ his mouth shape every damn word like it was yours to memorize.

He didn’t look at nobody else. Not once. Not the girls screamin’ his name. Not the aunties blowin’ kisses from the back. Just you. Like the whole room fell away.

That night, he ain’t ask for your number.

He gave you his. Told you to hit him when you was ready for the real thing.

You waited three days. On purpose. Then you hit him up with just a 👀 emoji.

His response?

“Bout damn time.”

When y’all linked up it wasn’t even supposed to happen.

You was on FaceTime. Choppin’ it up ‘bout old music, ghosts, exes, the church. He was on the road — some baby tour in Little Rock or Baton Rouge. You was laid across your bed in a tank top, bonnet half-on, half-slid to the side.

He was shirtless. Gold chain catchin’ the motel lamplight, locs loose around his shoulders. He started talkin’ low, voice scratchy, like he been smokin’ or singin’ all day.

“Whatchu wearin’?” he asked, already smirkin’.

You looked dead at the screen. “Boy, you see what I got on.”

“Yeah, but what’s under it?”

You tilted your phone just enough to give him somethin’.

Not everything. Just enough.

His eyes dropped. Lips parted like he was gon’ pray. Or sin. Maybe both.

“Come here,” he said.

You laughed. “I’m three states away.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

That man sent a Lyft, a Cash App, and his hotel room number within five minutes.

And you? Packed a weekend bag like your name wasn’t nowhere on that lease.

Yall got close REALLL close so after that night you thought maybe — just maybe — this could be it.

Sammie walked different after y’all hooked up. Spoke softer, texted quicker. You weren’t somebody he was entertaining. You were it. Least, that’s how it felt when he pulled you into his arms at baggage claim, when he posted you with no caption like he ain’t have to explain shit to nobody.

And you ain’t press him about the DMs. About the whispers, the girls with they side eyes and slick tweets. You let it go. 'Cause he looked at you like you mattered. 'Cause you wanted to believe he was different from his cousins.

Different from the Moore boys who treated love like a punchline in a verse.

Stack noticed it first.

“Damn,” he said, grinning, twisted blunt between his fingers. “You really cuffed, huh?”

Sammie just smirked, focused on tunin’ his guitar.

Stack laughed again. “You ain’t been out with us since Houston. You in love or somethin’?”

“I’m chillin’, bro.”

“You actin’ like you scared to slip up.”

“I don’t wanna slip up.”

Stack rolled his eyes. “You actin’ like we back in church.”

That got Sammie’s attention. He looked up. Eyes darker.

“I ain’t no saint,” he said, “but I ain’t stupid either. I know what I got.”

Stack shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Cool. Just don’t let her turn you soft. Bitches love soft n***as... until they don’t.”

Sammie ain’t respond. Just shook his head, focused back on his strings.

But the words stuck. That’s how Stack worked. He ain’t push hard — just enough to leave a crack.

You flew home two days later. Left him with that kiss that lingered, that “I love you” whispered half-sleep into his chest.

You went back to your place. Lit your sage. Put on some Erykah. Started back recording, hummin’ little verses into your phone like maybe this time, love was gon’ be the one to hold you.

He texted. He FaceTimed. Called you “mama” in that lazy, slow drawl that made your knees twitch. Sent you pics from soundcheck. Some nights he was too tired to talk, but he’d still text, "I miss you next to me.”

And for a moment, you felt safe.

Until Saturday.

You were laid up on your couch, bonnet on, roller on the floor, your comfort playlist goin’ when your phone buzzed so hard it slid off the armrest.

Dozens of notifications. Your homegirl texted:

“bitch get off the internet now 💔”

Then:

“I’m so sorry I ain’t wanna be the one”

Your stomach dropped. Cold spread slow.

You opened Instagram.

Right there. Big, bold letters:

@theshaderoom “Preacher Boy or Player? 👀 Sammie Moore seen in ATL last night gettin’ real cozy with someone who def ain’t his ‘main thang’ 👇🏾”

You clicked.

There he was.

In the club.

Sweat glistening on his neck. Lips at some girl’s ear. Hands on her hips. Rockin’ with her from behind like he was keepin’ rhythm with her heartbeat.

Her dress was red. Her smile smug.

You paused the video. Just stared.

Your whole body went still.

You ain’t call him. Not at first.

You waited. An hour. Then two. Then six.

He finally texted at 3:12 AM:

“I’m sorry.”

That’s it.

No explanation. No lie. No voice memo. Just those two damn words. Like sorry could wipe the image of his hands off another woman’s waist.

Like sorry could shut your DMs up, stop your mama from texting asking if “everything okay between y’all.”

You typed a long message. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that one too.

Finally you wrote:

“Don’t worry about it.”

And turned your phone over.

Two weeks passed. Fourteen whole days of silence — but not peace. Not when every app still knew his name. Not when every scroll felt like salt.

Sammie had been calling. Texting. Emailing even. Sent voice notes through people you ain’t even follow no more. You blocked him on Instagram, Twitter, TikTok. You turned off read receipts. You turned off your feelings.

You ain’t owe him a response, and he knew that. But he kept trying anyway. Then it happened again.

Not from TheShadeRoom this time. Nah — one of them side accounts. ShaderoomTeens. Petty, messy, loud as hell.

Your homegirl tagged you before you even saw the post.

@shaderoomteens Artist Sammie Moore spotted with mystery woman in new video 👀

Being a PK, gotta know that he sinning right now, right? Right? He’s known to be in a relationship, even have a few cute collabs. #DoBetter #CheatingRoomies #WhatSheGonDo

You just stared.

No way this was happening to you. Not again.

Hand trembling, you tapped the comments. Shouldn’t have. But you did.

They tore you up.

“What she expect messin’ with a Moore lol “His whole bloodline allergic to loyalty” “Girl just sing and move on 🙄” “He was too fine to keep anyway, sorry not sorry”

Some took pity. Said they felt for you. That made you angrier.

You weren’t a damn victim. You knew who you were dealing with. But you let your guard down. Let him kiss away the doubt. Let him hold your face and promise he wasn’t like them. Swipe.

Next slide?

A still from your first video together. You and Sammie, forehead to forehead, laughing between takes. He had you by the waist. You looked so happy.

Your chest cracked open.

Not a little.

Not manageable.

That deep, whole-body kind. The kind that live in your bones. The kind your mama warned you about when she said “don’t love no man more than you love your damn self.”

Your phone rang. Him.

That same picture flashing up as his contact photo — it made you sick now. You declined.

Then it was Stack. Then Smoke.

Like clockwork. Every hour. Every day.

You ignored them all.

You weren’t bitter. You were hurt. That was the thing. You weren’t even mad at first. You were just gutted. And when that hurt started to rot in your chest, it grew teeth. Turned to something mean.

You wanted him to hurt, too. Just like you did.

That’s when your group chat rang. FaceTime. The real ones.

You stared at the green button. Then pressed it.

Your face hit the screen.

Blank. Skin dull. Eye bags deep and designer.

“Hey girl... we just checkin’ on you, how are you?”

“Yeah, that nigga ain’t shit.”

“What you wanna do?”

They all talked at once, like they’d been waiting to catch you before you fell too far.

You swallowed. Voice small.

“I’m still hurt, y’all... I really wanna beat his ass but I can’t bring myself to fight over a man.”

“You better than me,” one said.

“HELLO?!” another yelled. “Ass woulda been BEAT.”

You cracked a smile. Then a laugh. Shook your head slow.

“I know, y’all. I know.” You looked down, then up.

“Right now... I just wanna be distracted. Not by a nigga. Just wanna have fun.”

They waited. Let you say it.

You leaned closer.

“Shots and studio time?” Head tilting.

“OH BITCH YESS.”

“We makin’ a diss. Yep. Let’s gooo!”

You laughed loud — loud enough to rattle the stillness in your chest.

This was why you answered. They knew how to scoop you off the floor without making it feel like rescue.

“Aight. I’m finna get cute and get ready. Y’all do the same. I’ll send the address.”

You hung up. Headed for the shower.

Steam filled the room slow, thick as your thoughts. You stood under the water long. Let it drip from your lashes. Let it drown the ache.

Music. That was your safe place. Your weapon. Your church.

You thought about him — not just the man but the moment. What he could’ve been thinking. What made him fold.

Was it the club? The women? The spotlight? Or was it just him?

You weren’t stupid. You weren’t naïve. You knew what came with fame. With fine niggas raised in families that never taught 'em how to love without hurting somebody first.

You dried off. Got dressed.

Sat at your vanity. Lip gloss, lashes, liner. Your armor.

Just as you were about to press play on your playlist—

Your phone lit up again.

No Caller ID.

It swirled around your screen like a warning.

Your breath caught. What if someone leaked your number? People were crazy these days. You froze for a beat. Then exhaled.

You answered.

You put the phone to your ear. Didn’t say nothin’ at first.

But then—his voice.

“…Hey.”

Quiet. Raspy. Like it hadn’t been used right in days. Like he ain’t slept either.

You closed your eyes. That tone—it didn’t make you feel bad for him. But it did make your chest tighten. ‘Cause no matter how mad you was, it still hurt to hear him sound like that.

You didn’t say nothin’, just waited.

“I ain’t even gon’ lie to you… I fucked up,” he breathed. “I know what it look like, I do. I just…”

His voice cracked just a little.

“I was drunk. Stack was hypin’ me up, talkin’ ‘bout ‘one dance ain’t gon’ kill nothin.’ Then Smoke started pushin it too, sayin’ I needed to ‘remind the crowd who I was’ or some dumb shit…”

You opened your mouth and closed it again. Your stomach churned. “So you did all that... for them?”

He went quiet.

You leaned forward in your chair, voice cold and clipped. “You mean to tell me you disrespected me—embarrassed me—for some damn cousin validation?”

He exhaled, frustrated. “It ain’t like that—”

“Oh, it ain’t?” you snapped. “You the same man who had me scared to even post you ‘cause I didn’t want the internet in our business. Now you all up in the club tryna be seen, tongue damn near down some girl throat—for what? To look like Smoke?”

“She ain’t even kiss me—”

“Boy, don’t play with me,” you said, voice cracking. “You already played in my face enough.”

Sammie sighed heavy, like he didn’t even have the strength to fight. “I ain’t tryna argue. I just… I miss you, baby. I ain’t slept right since you stopped answerin’.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror, makeup half-done, your gloss untouched. You shook your head.

“You wanna act like them niggas, go be with them niggas,” you muttered, trying to stay calm. “I loved you for you, Sammie. Not for who you was tryna impress.”

“I ain’t mean to hurt you,” he whispered.

“But you did.”

Silence. The kind that says everything.

You checked the clock. “I gotta go.”

“Wait—”

Click.

You let the phone fall on the vanity and stared at your reflection.

This niggas really had you thinking he was different.

But a Moore gon’ Moore.

The studio was already buzzing by the time y’all got there—neon lights low, incense burning in the corner, and bass leaking out the booth like it had a mind of its own.

Your girls followed behind you, all heels and hair and ready-for-war energy.

Soon as y’all walked in, Dre, your producer, spun around in his chair, noddin’ like he already knew the vibe. “Got somethin’ dark cued up. I heard the rumors. Figured you’d want blood on the track tonight.”

You smirked. No lies detected.

Y’all got settled—liquor got poured, joints got lit—and the girls crowded around the couch while you kicked off your shoes and leaned back.

“So,” one of them asked, her eyes sharp, lashes thick. “Did he call?”

You nodded slow, licking your lips before answering. “Yeah.” They all leaned in.

“What he say?” “Chile what?” “I know he ain’t try play victim—”

You sighed nodding , pushing your hair back. “Said it was Stack and Smoke. That they got in his head. Said he was drunk and just tryna prove somethin’.”

They all looked at each other, then back at you, faces twisted like somebody farted.

“Nahhh, see, now I’m mad all over again,” your best friend snapped. “He risked all this—” she gestured at you like you were plated gold, “—for some cousin clout?”

Another girl scoffed, twisting the top off the Casamigos. “And that lil girl in the video? I know she know who you are. Y’all been hella public.”

“For real,” someone else chimed in.

“Y’all did that couple interview for Level Up, had folks screamin’ ‘#RelationshipGoals’ and all that. How she actin’ brand new?”

You shook your head, lips pressed tight.

Then the beat dropped.

It was dark. Angry. Heavy bass, low piano, something sinister underneath like a heartbeat turnin’ sour. You stopped talking.

“Dre…” you said, standing up slow. “Run that back.” He looped it, and the speakers trembled like they were mad too.

You walked toward the mic, paused with your hand on the booth door. “Y’all remember when I first said I loved him?”

They nodded, quiet now.

“Right here,” you said. “In this studio. he pulled me close, said, ‘Damn, I love you girl. I hope you know that.’ And I said it back. Just like that. Whole room smelled like weed him looking at me with them damn eyes.” “That was the first time.” Your voice cracked a little.

“I really thought…” You trailed off. Then shook your head. “Nah. Fuck that.”

You turned back around, picked up a shot glass from the console.

“To dumb bitches,” you said. “May we never be her again.” They all cheered. Glasses clinked. You threw it back. It burned, but not worse than this heartbreak.

Then you stepped into the booth, pulled the headphones on, and closed your eyes.

The beat kicked in again, your voice slid out raw.

All that hurt, rage, betrayal—it spilled into the mic like venom dressed in velvet.

And by the time the track ended… history was made.A hit. A warning. A reminder.

He played in the wrong girl’s face.

Sammie’s sprawled across the couch, scrolling through his phone with dead eyes and clenched teeth. That green bubble on your story stays glowing. Every loop of the video hits him harder.

Stack lounges nearby, dipping room service wings in ranch, TV humming low with a muted basketball game. Smoke’s in the corner on FaceTime with Annie, cracking up about something unrelated, but every so often his eyes slide back to Sammie, watching him stew.

Sammie spoke first voice laced with disbelief. “She made the whole damn thing about me.”

Stack laughed throwing his head back with a lil snort“She made a Billboard hit about your ass. Congrats, heartbreak muse of the year.”

Smoke leaned forward, FaceTime forgotten “What she say again? ‘You gone be with tupac when I come blow up that studio…’ somethin’ like that?”

Sammie shook his head muttering ‘Yeah. That’s about me fasho”

Smoke spoke through a laugh  “She in the booth talkin’ like she the Don, bro. That energy hit different when it’s personal.”

Stack spoke mouthfull with his greedy ass “She out-rappin’ you and outsellin’ you. How’s it feel to get dissed on beat and make her rich?”

Sammie looks at him fast as fuck  “You think this funny?”

 Stack shrugged “A lil’ bit. - “But nah. I get it. She got her lick back. You was in love and fumbled. Ain’t nothin’ new.”

Smoke nodded towards Stack “Like he can talk. Every time he catch feelings, he ghost like he doin’ a magic trick. That girl from Baton Rouge still lightin’ candles for him.

Stack pointed at his twin smirk on his face “Difference is, I ain’t lie to nobody face about bein’ solid. I told her I was no good.”

 “I didn’t lie. I just... I listened to y’all. Let myself get stupid. Tried to play it like I didn’t care when I did.” Sammie spoke looking between the two.

Stack just shrugged his shoulders “You grown, bro. Don’t blame us.”

Sammie swipes again. Next slide.

It’s a video. Your laugh, low and breathy. A flash of your legs, draped over someone else’s lap. A hand—light-skinned, casual, resting on your thigh like it belonged there.

Sammie sat up so fast he almost got vertigo.

“ Them ain’t my hands”

Stack grabbed the phone squinting “That’s not any of our hands.”

Smoke laughed “She out here living soft life. Passenger princess with a new driver.”

One thing sammie hated about these niggas they always had jokes for the wrong occasions. “Nah. That’s my -

Smoke spoke fast cutting him off “Was. She was your girl. Now you just the beat behind a Billboard single.”

Sammie stands, grabbing his keys off the side table. No hesitation.

He speaks low “Fuck this.”

This catches Stacks eye

“Where you goin’?”

Sammie snapped voice angry and sharp

“To my girl nigga”

He slams the door behind him. Silence.

Smoke pops a fry in his mouth, eyes still on the door. “Look what you did.”

Stack just shrugs, licking sauce off his fingers. “If every clover had four leaves they wouldn’t be lucky now would it”

You and your girls are splayed across couches, floor pillows, and a fuzzy throw rug—glasses half-full of rosé from brunch still sweating in your hands. Laughter fills the space, soft R&B spinning low from the speaker.

Someone’s talking about their sneaky link, someone else is scrolling through TikTok showing funny edits of your song. You’re halfway paying attention… until your phone buzzes again.

Your friends speak up hearing it too “Girl, who is blowin’ you up like that?”

You flip the screen toward them. “Sammie. Again. I been ignoring him all week and now he wanna be consistent?”

They lean in. Another buzz. A message pops up

Peekay : Answer or I’m comin’ right in that mf house.

You hold the phone up, jaw dropped. They scream.

 “Oh he real bold—he must really miss you.”

 “Or he real crazy. Ain’t nobody told him we deep in here?”

Just then, another call. FaceTime. His name lit up bold. Your thumb hesitates.

 “Y’all shut up.”

You answer. His face fills the screen—eyes red, jaw tight, lips pressed in that pout you used to kiss when he got like this.

He spoke serious, voice low “Sit the phone up.” 

“…Why?

He sat up readjusting in his seat. “Just sit it up. Let me see.”

You sigh, propping it on a candle jar. Your girls dip out of frame fast like trained soldiers.

He waited his eyes flicking around the background looking for something , you don’t know what “So… ain't no light-skin dude in there imma have to beat the fuck out of right?

You blinked hard

“What?”

He looked at you plainly “You heard me.”

You glance behind the phone—your girls looking shook, mouths open, frozen in place.

You spoke slow, annoyed “There’s nobody here. And even if there was, you don’t get to ask that. I don’t question the girls you been with, apparently.”

Sammie spoke instantly, eyes hard “I ain’t been with nobody but you. Don’t play with me.”

You tilted your head, voice sharp “Play with you? Oh you mean like how you played with me when you let Smoke and Stack gas your ego till you blew up everything we had?”

Silence. His throat works like he wants to say something but can’t.

You spoke final, icy “Don’t FaceTime me with that jealous boyfriend energy when you wasn’t You hang up.

The room’s quiet for a second, the air thick with disbelief soft  “…Did he say light-skin with tats?” “He remembered the hand! This man really clockin’ your stories like it’s his job.”

Sammie’s parked a few houses down, low in the seat, window cracked. His phone’s still glowing in his lap from where you hung up. His jaw ticks. His chest rises, falls. He don’t move at first. Just stares at your contact. Then his fingers move.

Leave it open.

He tosses the phone onto the passenger seat, flips the radio up loud—some old Boosie track—and sparks the blunt he’d rolled on the drive over. Leaning back in the seat, smoke curling from his lips, he watches the house like it’s breathing.

You and your girls are still downstairs, hollering. “Nah, that nigga is unhinged. You really broke him!”

You laughed , mocking him “‘Ain’t no light-skin dude in there with no tats?’ Boy, worry about your own tattoos.”

Y’all fall out laughing again. Then ping. You glance down. It’s him

Leave it open.

Your friends all look at you eyes wide “Oh my God.” “He outside. I know that energy.”

 “Bitch, what do I say?!” You say looking back and forth between them

They all start talking at once, pure chaos: “Say your man just pulled up.” “Tell him the door already open—let him come see!” “Ooooh text something spicy! You know he hate that.”

You nod, fingers flying across the screen.

It’s unlocked anyway. My man will be here soon. Send.

You toss the phone on the couch and throw your head back. “Amen.” “Amen!!”

They scream and cheer, clutching their chests like it’s church.

 “You gon’ die. But you gon’ die legendary.” “Upstairs, now! We gotta get you ready. Just in case he come in here on demon time.”

They usher you up the stairs like you headed to war, grabbing gloss, edge control, and a fresh hoodie from your closet. Your heart beats wild behind your ribs—not

scared, just… alive.

Your bestie speaks smiling while doing your edges. “Smile if you bout to ruin a man’s whole ego tonight.”

You smirk in the mirror. Below the window, a familiar engine cuts.

He’s coming in. You can feel it in your bones.

You’re fresh, feeling like a whole mood with your girls beside you—hair laid, gloss popping, outfit on point. You unlock the door and swing it open.

Sammie is already there, standing firm, hands down by his sides. No anger in the way he raises them, just presence. His eyes lock on you first—hard, serious, and something else you can’t name right away. Then he shifts his gaze to your girls. 

“Wassup y’all.”

Your girls nod respectfully, eyes flicking back to you, silently saying, What now?

You just stand there, taking him in. Mad as hell, yeah. But damn… the way he looks—head to toe in black, gold chains catching the streetlight, that little flash of grill shining when he parts his lips—it’s hard not to soften.

You know he fucked up. But maybe… just maybe, there’s a fix here.

Suddenly, one of your friends clears her throat sharply. You blink, shaking off the moment, and glance at them. “Bye, y’all. Be safe.”

They nod and slip quietly down the steps, leaving you and Sammie alone.

He looks past you, eyes scanning the house like sizing it up “Come on.”

He nods toward the door.

You hesitate—then step inside before your brain can catch up.

He closes the door behind you with a soft click and locks it.

Your heart skips. 

Yo, man would be here soon ? Nah. His ass here now.

Sammie gestures toward the couch.

“Come sit with me.”

You walk over first, careful. He watches every step like he’s memorizing you. You settle on the edge of the couch, keeping space between you—safe distance.

He scoots closer, voice low but commanding. “Quit actin’ scary. Come here.”

You shift, inching your leg closer—now touching his. Your heart skips. It’s been a minute, and that tiny buzz starts crawling up your spine. He pulls his hood off, revealing that sharp, tired look in his eyes. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, eyes heavy-lidded but steady on you.

 “I know I messed up, baby. I did everything you told me not to.”

His hand moves slowly, settling on your leg. You tense for a second, then relax as he straightens his back a little. “I did that shit... bein’ childish. Tryna get approval from two lonely mfs.”

You let out a quiet laugh—half disbelief, half relief.

 “I won’t ever do no shit like that again, baby. I can promise you. I’m sorry.”

He opens his arms slightly, inviting but vulnerable

You meet his eyes, voice steady but serious. “I believe you... but don’t make me have to get outta character, Samuel.”

Your fingers twitch, lightly grabbing his gold chain hanging around his neck. The weight of it feels real—like a reminder. Sammie catches the movement, a flicker of both surprise and respect crossing his face.

He tightens his grip on your leg just a bit, his jaw clenched but his eyes soft. “I ain’t gonna make you do nothin’ you don’t want, baby. I’m here... real this time.”

You don’t pull your hand away from his chain. Instead, you let your fingers linger, a silent test — how much does he really mean it? The room feels smaller somehow, just the two of you and the hum of the city outside.

Sammie leans in a little, voice dropping even lower. “ I done been stupid, but I’m tryin’ to be better — for us, for me. Ain’t just words this time. I’m done lettin’ other people mess with what we had.”

You study him, the weight in his eyes pulling at something inside you. A soft part you’d been trying to guard. “That part of me? When I say ‘get outta character,’ I mean it. don’t want that.”

He smiles then — not the cocky grin, but the kind that reaches his eyes. “Good. ‘Cause I ain’t tryin’ to fight you. Just wanna be right where I belong.”

You shuffle closer, legs brushing, breaths mingling.

You narrow your eyes, the tension thick now. “If you ever — and I mean ever — pull some dumb shit like that again? I’ma beat your ass, then Smoke’s, then Stack’s for hyping you up.”

He throws his head back, laughing. “Damn, all three of us? You on a mission.”

But that smile fades fast.

His eyes lock onto yours, voice low and solid now.”So who’s the nigga?”

Your breath catches. “What?”

He leans in slightly “Don’t play with me. Who. Is. The. Nigga?”

You hesitate. Your girls’ plan echoing in your mind. A distraction. A game. But the heat in his gaze ain’t playful — it’s boiling.

 “Just… some dude.”

He tilts his head slow, like he can see straight through you.”Some dude?”

You nod, swallowing.

He leans back now, arms stretched wide across the couch, legs open, looking fine as hell and dangerous with it. You wish he didn’t look that good — this would be easier.  “So how long you known this dude?”

You look away, nerves buzzing. You answer low, a whisper really. “A year.”

Before you can breathe again, his hand’s on your chin — not rough, but firm. He tilts your face to his, eyes burning through yours. “Say it like you mean it. All that muttering and guessing shit? Pissing me off.”

Your cheeks heat beneath his touch. Your heart races.

 “That girl in the club? A mistake. Drunk. Ain’t even mean nothin’. But you? You doing stupid shit with a clear head. And that’s different.”

You pull back a little, voice rising with your anger. “A mistake? Boy, fuck you. I was hurt! I ain’t no damn robot, Sammie.”

He lets go of your face, rubbing both hands down his own, exhaling like he’s trying not to snap.  “I know that, baby… but come on now. That dude been all up under your posts, sending you eyes, hearts… You ain’t say nothin’?”

You rolled your eyes “I don’t have to, Sammie. You not my daddy. Go worry about your mystery bitch. Don’t come in here tryna check me like you been loyal. I should beat your ass my damn self.”

You shoot to your feet, voice raised, hand on your hip, heat rolling off you in waves.

He stands up slow, towering, unbothered, staring at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

 “Come on then. You bad? Beat my ass.”

You was yellin' now, voice climbin’ with every breath.

“You think just ‘cause you showed up, I’m s’posed to forget all that shit? You think I don’t feel none of this? That I don’t dream 'bout you, cry 'bout you, bleed for you, Sammie?”

He took it. Standin’ there in all black like the funeral you never got to have for what y’all used to be. You stepped forward and pushed at his chest with an open palm. He ain’t move. You did it again—harder this time. Then again. His gold chain swayed with each shove.

“Fuck you, Sammie,” you spit, eyes full and wild.

He caught your wrist the moment your hand flew up toward his face. You watched his jaw lock, tongue pokin’ into his cheek, breath pullin’ heavy through his nose like he was tryna stop from blackin’ out. That look alone could’ve burned your clothes off, but you was too mad to care.

“Fuck me?” he said low, still holdin’ your wrist. His voice ain’t rise—but the heat in it made you pause.

“Yeah,” you said louder, chest heavin’. “Fuck you.”

He nodded slow, grip loosening as he let your arm fall.

“You better watch how you fuckin talkin’ to me,” he said, voice steel-hard. “And if you bold enough to say it, you better be bold enough to make good on it.”

You turned, walkin’ fast toward the bedroom. You ain’t know if you wanted to scream into a pillow or tear the sheets up. You ain’t even hear his footsteps, but you felt him right behind you—tall shadow heat pressin’ close.

“Sammie, fuck you. I hate you nigga deadass. You ain’t shit. Just like the rest of ‘em. Dirty. A liar. I don’t know why I thought you was different. Why I thought you’d love me for real.”

That stopped him cold in the hallway.

You could feel it—the shift.

Then you felt him.

A hand closin’ ‘round your wrist, pullin’ you back, pressin’ you up against the wall in one smooth motion. His palm came up, firm ‘round your throat—not squeezin’ too tight, just holdin’ you in place.

You looked up into eyes that was all storm and no light.

“I know I fucked up,” he said, voice rough. “I been sayin’ that like a broke damn record. But don’t you ever stand here and act like I ain’t never loved you.”

His grip tightened just a little. A soft gasp left your lips. Your smaller hand came up, fingers restin’ over his.

“I love you more than anybody ever could. But you think that give you the right to hit me, disrespect me, throw my name in the dirt like I ain’t bled for you too?”

You swallowed hard, breath catchin’.

“I’m gon’ show you,” he murmured, voice low but heavy. “By the time I’m done, you gon’ feel all the shit I been carryin’. All of it.”

Then he stepped back, hand slidin’ away slow, lettin’ you breathe again. You stayed there, chest risin’ and fallin’, vision blurry—but not from tears this time. From how hot the air between y’all had gotten.

He tilted his head toward the bedroom door.

You was still breathin’ hard when he locked that bedroom door, slow and sure. Always did that. Said it made his nerves settle knowin’ he was closed in with just you.

“Sit down,” he said again, voice low but thick now, dark like syrup.

You ain’t move right away. You just stood there, lips still tinglin’, chest tight, still hearin’ him say he loved you like it was a vow and a warning all at once.

“I said,” he took two steps forward, slow and solid, “sit down, baby.”

You ain’t know if it was the way his gold caught the low light, or the way his drawl wrapped around that word “baby” like he’d never stopped sayin’ it, but your knees moved on their own. You sank onto the edge of the bed, hands in your lap, eyes trackin’ him like prey.

He came closer, pulled his hoodie off, chain swingin’, his whole chest breathin’ deep like he was tryin’ to hold back somethin’ fierce. He stood in front of you, thumb and two fingers slid under your chin, tilted your face up.

“ you hate me,” he murmured, brows pullin’ together just a little. “Say it again.”

You opened your mouth, but nothin’ came. Your lips quivered, jaw tight. He looked down at you, real slow, takin’ you in. His hand moved—thumb draggin’ across your bottom lip, just enough pressure to make you tremble.

“That what we on now?” he asked, voice even. “Hatin’ each other?”

You shook your head slow, breath catchin’.

“Nah,” he said, lettin’ go and standin’ tall again, lookin’ down at you like he already knew. “You mad, yeah. Hurt. But hate? That ain’t in you, not for me.”

You couldn’t deny that. Didn’t want to. He leaned down, mouth close to your ear now, lips just brushin’.

“Gone lay back, baby. Let me make it right.”

You hesitated. He waited. Then you did it, breath shaky as your spine hit the sheets.

He peeled his shirt off slow, belt next, every movement deliberate. He wasn’t in no rush. You watched him like a storm was comin’. And it was.

He climbed over you, arms on either side of your head, breath fannin’ across your neck. His voice was lower now, Southern syrup and smoke.

“You gon’ feel me,” he whispered. “Feel every word I couldn’t say right. Feel every time I shoulda chose you louder.”

His hand slid under your shirt, and you gasped—‘cause this wasn’t soft. This wasn’t sorry. This was claimin’. This was a man tryna repent with his whole body.

And baby, you let him.

He slid down slow, mouth still on yours ‘til the last second. His hand pushed your thigh open again, wider this time, and he looked at you—dead in your eyes, like this wasn’t just lust. It was penance. Worship. He kissed the inside of your knee first, then lower, taking his time.

“You been actin’ like I forgot how to treat you,” he muttered, voice thick as molasses. “Let me remind you what it feel like to be taken care of.”

You barely had time to gasp when he pressed his mouth to you. That first pass of his tongue had you archin’ off the couch. He gripped your hips tight, keepin’ you down.

“Nah, don’t run now,” he said low, lips glistening. “You was talkin’ all that shit a minute ago. You gone take this.”

And you did.

He licked slow at first—broad, hungry strokes that made your breath catch. Then faster, tongue focused right where it needed to be, two fingers slid in easy, curling just right. You cried out, and he smiled against you, tongue never leavin’ you.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled, voice damn near feral now. “Let me hear that shit. Don’t hold back, not with me.”

Your hands were in his hair, pullin’—not tryna stop him, just needin’ something to hold on to.

He brought you to the edge and over with no hesitation. He wanted you there. Needed to feel it. You shook under him, legs tremblin’, but he didn’t let up, even when you tried to push his head away.

“Sammie—baby I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” he said, voice thick with hunger. “You gon’ come again. Open back up for me.”

He spread you with both hands, dove in again like he couldn’t breathe without you on his tongue. This time, he kept his eyes on yours the whole time.

“Don’t look away,” he said, breathin’ against you. “Wanna see your face when you fall apart.”

And you did—again, harder this time, back archin’, his name fallin’ from your lips in broken, breathless moans.

When he came back up, his mouth was wet, and so were his eyes—just a lil’ bit.

“Tell me right now,” he said, leanin’ in close, lips ghostin’ yours, “that you ain’t mine. Say it with a straight face.”

You didn’t say a word. You just pulled him in, kissin’ him deep like you ain’t need no damn words at all.

He lined himself up, slow and steady, slid in deep on the first stroke, and stayed there.

You gasped, grippin’ his shoulders.

He didn’t move at first. Just let you feel it. All of it.

“You feel that?” he whispered against your mouth. “That’s me. I been here. Ain’t never left you, baby. Not really.”

You nodded, eyes damn near rollin’ back.

He started movin’ deep, slow strokes that filled you up and made your toes curl. One hand on your thigh, the other flat on the bed keepin’ him grounded. But his eyes never left your face.

“You still mad?” he asked, voice shaky with restraint.

You shook your head.

“You still hate me?”

“No,” you whispered.

He kissed you again, harder now, hips pickin’ up pace. The couch creaked under y’all but neither of you cared.

“Say you mine.”

“I’m yours, Sammie. Always was.”

“That’s right,” he said, buryin’ his face in your neck. “That’s right, baby.”

And when y’all finally came, it wasn’t just heat—it was every ounce of anger, pain, love, and regret burnin’ out at once. Both of y’all shakin’, holdin’ on like the world might end if you let go.

He didn’t move for a while. Just stayed there, buried deep, head on your chest, heart beatin’ fast against yours.

“I love you,” he said again, voice hoarse.

You kissed his temple, stroked his hair.

“I know, Sammie. You looked at him laughing a little. This made him look at you now “what”. He spoke laughing a little too. “Nothing you just barely made it out PK”. He ain’t say a word just say up looked at you real slow.

Your body was folded under him now—face in the pillow, back arched just right, his weight pressed firm and familiar behind you. Sammie’s hand gripped your hip like he owned it, other one flat on your lower back, steadyin’ you as he moved inside you slow… deep… like he meant every stroke.

“That shit you said…” he muttered, breath hot against your shoulder, “'bout me barely makin’ it out…”

You gasped when he pushed in harder, hittin’ that spot like he been rememberin’ where it was.

“Say some slick shit like that again,” he growled low, “and I’ma show you just how bad I can not make it out.”

He gave a rougher thrust that had you grabbing at the sheets, teeth bitin’ the pillow to keep from cryin’ out too loud. His hand slid up your back, fingers spread, keepin’ you grounded.

“This what you wanted, huh?” he grunted. “Actin’ like you ain’t need me, like you could just walk off and forget—nah. You mine, baby.”

You tried to speak but the rhythm—slow but mean—had you breathless, body trembling under him.

“I’m not gon’ leave you,” he said softer this time, voice thrummin’ deep in your ear. “Don’t care how mad you get, how loud you yell, how many times you hang up on me. I’m not leavin’. I’m here.”

His lips brushed the side of your neck, teeth grazin’, breath hot.

“It’s just us. Always been just us. Can’t no clout, no bitch, no dumb shit change that.”

His strokes slowed down but sank in deeper, hips grindin’ like he was tryna leave pieces of himself inside you.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, kissin’ your spine. “Sorry if I made you feel like it wasn’t you. Like you wasn’t enough. You everything to me.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. The way he was movin’, talkin’, lovin’—it was too much and not enough all at once.

“You feel that?” he asked, voice husky.

You nodded into the pillow.

“That’s all me. And I’m yours too.”

He stayed buried deep, arms wrapping ‘round your waist, chest to your back now, lettin’ y’all melt into each other.

“I ain’t lettin’ go,” he whispered again. “So don’t run no more. Ain’t nowhere to go that I won’t follow.”

A month later, everything had shifted. You were back together—solid this time. Sammie had taken you on the most beautiful date, the Delta sky lit up behind him as he dropped to one knee with a band you damn near cried over.

Of course, the messy-ass Shaderoom posted it too, caught the whole moment in 4K, and while everybody had something to say… you could care less.

It was just you, your man, and music now.

You sat across from each other in the studio, separate mics, hearts synced.

Stack and Smoke were on the other side of the glass, watching like it was a damn movie. Smoke nudged Stack, a smirk on his face.

“See that? That’s how you get your woman back,” Smoke said.

Stack shook his head slow, arms crossed. “Nah, bruh. That’s how you stay soft.”

Smoke laughed, “Yeah, but they soft in love.”

Stack rolled his eyes, leaned forward, and pressed the intercom.

“Aight,” he said, voice dry but eyes warm, “seein’ as this whole thing was kinda my fault… I figured y’all could take it out on the track, leave it in this booth.”

He let go of the button, nodding at Smoke to hit play.

The bass hit like it knew your name, low and dirty and full of space. You closed your eyes and let it pour through you, your voice slipping in smooth—raw, emotional, laced with love and pain. Smoke looked at Stack with a raised brow, Stack just nodded, lips curled up. Sammie watched you, head bobbing slow, admiring the way you moved with the beat, your sound—his favorite place.

Your eyes found his as you sang directly to him now. That verse hit different, full of everything you couldn’t say in the mess. He slid one headphone down, nodding with the beat, then walked up to his mic with that same locked-in look.

The beat dipped darker, slower. He didn’t even glance at the paper—just went in, voice low, controlled. That whole verse sounded like an apology without ever sayin’ the words. Just you and him, pain and promise, trading bars like vows. Music wrapped around y’all like smoke.

You joined in, harmonizing with him—two voices, one body of hurt, healing, and heat. It wasn’t just a song. It was y’all. A reckoning. A release. A hit.

Later that night, Shaderoom posted a snippet of the session:

🎤🔥 Y’ALL HEAR THIS??? That tension in the booth got me sweating. Sammie & his girl locked in again, for real this time. Engagement, a studio session, and now a collab? Whew 😮‍💨

Comments flooded in:

• “They arguing on the beat and I love it 😭”

• “You can HEAR the makeup sex in her vocals.”

• “He really said I’m sorry through a 16-bar verse 🥲”

• “Soft men winning 2025 fr.”

And somewhere under it all, a pinned comment from Sammie’s burner account:

“Only one mic I’m sharing like that. Forever.”

Hit. Made. Hearts mended.

—————————-

Hey yall omg this took a minute- so enjoy this from me on my way home from therapy😏 hopefully it’s all cohesive ngl Im a little high.

Thank yall for reading sexies😏🤞🏾🎀

#Spotify #sinners #black reader #elias moore #elijah moore #pearline #preacher boy #ryan coogler #smoke and stack #x reader #sammie moore #sammie sinners #x black fem reader #x black reader #smut

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velvetvisionsaurora · 10 days ago

Text

Pairing: Mafia Ateez OT8x Reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior,

Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.

18+ only- Minors do not enter

<<Previous Next>>

Masterlist

Chapter 2: The Wolves' Den

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed nine as you returned to the drawing room with Hongjoong. The conversation between the men paused, all eyes turning to assess your expressions, searching for signs of reconciliation or further hostility.

You kept your face carefully blank, taking your seat once more. If they were hoping for a miraculous change of heart during your garden chat, they were about to be sorely disappointed.

"Have you two reached an understanding?" your father asked, his tone suggesting he expected the answer to be yes.

"We understand each other perfectly," you replied coolly, not looking at Hongjoong. "We always have."

Mr. Kim cleared his throat. "Excellent. Then perhaps we can finalize the remaining details."

Your father nodded. "As we discussed, the wedding will take place at the Kim estate. Traditional ceremony, followed by a reception for our closest associates."

"And the honeymoon?" Mr. Kim inquired.

"Two weeks in Sicily," your father replied. "At the family villa."

You bit back a bitter laugh. Of course they'd already planned your honeymoon. Why not your entire future while they were at it?

"And in the meantime," your father continued, his eyes shifting to you, "Y/n will be staying at the Kim estate to become better acquainted with her future husband and his... organization."

The words hit you like a physical blow. "I beg your pardon?"

Your father's expression hardened slightly. "It's been decided, Y/n. You'll be moving to the Kim estate tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" You leaned forward, dropping all pretense of composure. "You're shipping me off to live with strangers for three months?"

"They're hardly strangers," your father countered. "You've known Hongjoong and his associates since childhood."

"Known and been abandoned by," you corrected sharply. "And you expect me to just... what? Pack up and move in with them? Like some sort of trial run before the main event?"

"It's a common practice for arranged marriages in our circles," Seonghwa interjected smoothly. "It allows the bride to acclimate to her new family and household before the wedding."

You turned your glare on him. "Thank you for the cultural lesson, Mr. Park. I'm well aware of our 'traditions.' I'm simply questioning why this particular one is necessary in my case."

"Because," your father said firmly, "the Ricci estate is no longer secure."

That stopped you cold. "What do you mean?"

A look passed between your father and Mr. Kim—a silent communication that sent a chill down your spine.

"The Russo family has been making moves," your father said finally. "We've intercepted information suggesting they may target you to get to me."

"So instead of increasing security here, you're sending me away?" you asked incredulously.

"The ATEEZ compound is the most secure location in the city," Hongjoong said, speaking up for the first time since you'd returned from the garden. "No one gets in or out without our knowledge."

You turned to him slowly. "ATEEZ?"

"Our organization," he replied, a hint of pride coloring his tone. "Separate from our family businesses, though allied. The eight of us formed it five years ago."

"How entrepreneurial of you," you said sarcastically. "And this compound—who exactly will be there?"

Hongjoong met your gaze steadily. "Myself. Seonghwa. Yunho. Yeosang. San. Mingi. Wooyoung. And Jongho."

You couldn't help the sound that escaped you—something between a laugh and a growl. "All eight of you. Together. How convenient."

"Each has their role," Hongjoong continued, undeterred by your reaction. "We've built something... significant."

"I'm sure you have," you said, your voice dripping venom. "One big happy family. And now you want to add me to your collection."

"Y/n," your father warned.

But you were beyond caring about decorum. "So I'm to be a prisoner in a house full of men who couldn't even be bothered to say goodbye seven years ago? Is that it?"

The words hung in the air, and for a split second, you caught something flash across Hongjoong's face—guilt, perhaps, or regret. Seonghwa's expression remained carefully neutral, but you noticed his hand tighten imperceptibly on the arm of his chair.

"You'll be a guest," Seonghwa corrected. "Protected and respected."

"Forgive me if I don't find that particularly reassuring coming from you," you said, Seonghwa's parting words from seven years ago echoing in your mind: "Find some nice civilian boy to marry, Y/n. Someone more... your speed."

"Enough," your father said sharply. "This isn't a negotiation, Y/n. It's been decided. You'll go with Hongjoong tomorrow and stay at the ATEEZ compound until the wedding. End of discussion."

The finality in his tone left no room for argument. You sat back in your chair, fury building inside you like a gathering storm. Trapped. You were going to be trapped with all eight of them, with nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from the memories and the pain they represented.

"If that's settled," Mr. Kim said, rising to his feet, "we should be going. We have much to prepare for Y/n's arrival."

Your father stood as well, extending his hand. "We'll speak tomorrow before she leaves."

As the men exchanged handshakes and platitudes, you remained seated, your mind racing. Three months in the lions' den—no, the wolves' den. Because that's what they were, weren't they? A pack of wolves who had once welcomed you as one of their own, only to turn on you when it suited them.

"Y/n," your father's voice broke through your thoughts. "Say goodbye to our guests."

You rose mechanically, your smile tight and false. "Mr. Kim, it was a pleasure. Mr. Park, always illuminating. Hongjoong... until tomorrow, I suppose."

Hongjoong inclined his head slightly. "I'll send a car at noon."

"How thoughtful," you replied. "I'll be sure to pack light. Wouldn't want to impose."

His eyes narrowed slightly at your tone, but he said nothing more. As they turned to leave, you caught Seonghwa watching you with an unreadable expression. For a moment, you thought you saw something like regret in his gaze, but it was gone so quickly you might have imagined it.

Once the door closed behind them, you rounded on your father. "How could you do this to me?"

"I'm protecting you," he said firmly. "The ATEEZ compound is a fortress. You'll be safer there than anywhere else."

"With the same men who abandoned me without a word? Who left me wondering for years what I'd done wrong? That's your idea of protection?"

"We felt sorry for you because your mom was sick, but she's gone now. Maybe it's time you learned to be alone." Wooyoung's last words to you floated through your mind, making your chest tighten with renewed pain.

Your father sighed heavily, suddenly looking older than his years. "There are things you don't understand, Y/n."

"Then explain them to me!" you demanded. "Tell me why my best friends disappeared from my life overnight. Tell me why you're suddenly so eager to marry me off to one of them."

A flicker of something—guilt? discomfort?—passed across your father's face before he carefully composed his features again.

He moved to the bar, pouring himself another drink. "Some secrets aren't mine to tell."

"Convenient excuse," you spat. "Everyone has secrets they can't share, decisions they can't explain. Am I the only one expected to accept everything blindly?"

Your father turned to face you, his expression grave. "In our world, ignorance can be a form of protection. Sometimes, not knowing is the safest position to be in."

"I stopped being safe the day I was born a Ricci," you countered. "At least give me the dignity of knowing what I'm walking into."

For a moment, something like indecision flickered across your father's face. Then he downed his drink in one swift motion. "Pack your things, Y/n. The decision is made."

You stared at him in disbelief, then turned on your heel and stormed out of the room. Your heels echoed against the marble floor as you climbed the stairs to your bedroom, each step fueled by rage and frustration.

Once inside, you slammed the door behind you with enough force to rattle the paintings on the walls. For a moment, you stood there, breathing heavily, fighting the urge to scream or break something—or everything.

Instead, you moved to your closet and yanked out a suitcase, throwing it onto the bed with unnecessary force. The thought of living under the same roof as all eight of them—eating breakfast across from Yunho's too-bright smile after he'd once told you to "Stop crying, it's embarrassing," passing San in the hallway who had called you a "lost puppy," hearing Wooyoung's distinctive laugh echoing through the rooms after he'd said you were "exhausting and needy"—it sent a confusing mix of emotions coursing through you. Anger, yes. Resentment, absolutely. But beneath that, something else—a dangerous flutter of anticipation that you refused to acknowledge.

You began throwing clothes into the suitcase haphazardly, muttering curses under your breath. "Stupid, arrogant, presumptuous men, thinking they can just—"

A knock at your door interrupted your tirade. "What?" you snapped.

Paolo's voice came through the door. "Miss Y/n, your father asked me to tell you that security protocols have been updated in light of tomorrow's move. No one leaves the house tonight without an escort."

"Fine," you called back. "Is that all?"

A pause. "He also said to remind you that the ATEEZ organization has a... reputation. They're not the boys you once knew."

You stilled, a silk blouse dangling from your fingers. "What kind of reputation?"

"They're effective," Paolo said simply. "Ruthless when necessary. But fair, by our standards."

Our standards. The standards of a world built on violence and power, where loyalty was currency and betrayal was punishable by death. A world where childhood friends could tell you that you were "not special" and that they'd been "just being polite all these years," then disappear without a trace.

"Thank you, Paolo," you said quietly. "Good night."

"Good night, Miss Y/n."

As his footsteps faded away, you sank onto the edge of your bed, the blouse forgotten in your lap. ATEEZ. You'd heard whispers of the name over the years—a new player in the city's underworld, methodical and disciplined in a way most organizations weren't. You'd never connected it to them, never imagined that the boys who had once sneaked you ice cream past your bedtime were now the men others in your world spoke of with wary respect.

You looked around your bedroom—the space that had been your sanctuary for years, the one place where you could pretend to be normal, where the weight of the Ricci name sometimes felt a little lighter. Tomorrow, you would leave it behind for a house full of ghosts from your past.

With renewed determination, you returned to your packing, this time with more care. If you were walking into the wolves' den, you'd be damned if you'd go unprepared.

As you folded a black evening dress—the kind that could double as armor in the right circumstances—you made yourself a promise. You wouldn't be the victim in this story. Not again. If they thought you were still that same trusting girl they'd left behind, they were about to learn how wrong they were.

The words that had haunted you for seven years—"You talk too much," "It's pathetic," "We've outgrown this phase of our lives," "Find your own life"—you would force them to eat every single one.

Hongjoong Kim might have agreed to marry you, and your father might have agreed to send you away, but that didn't mean you had to make it easy for any of them.

The game had changed, and this time, you would be the one setting the rules.

***

The morning arrived too quickly, sunlight streaming through windows you'd forgotten to close. You'd slept fitfully, dreams filled with shadows and fragments of memories—eight faces, eight voices, eight different kinds of betrayal.

By eleven, your bags were packed and waiting by the door. You'd chosen your outfit with deliberate care—black high-waisted trousers, a crimson silk blouse, and heels that added three dangerous inches to your height. Battle armor of a different kind.

A knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts.

"Come in," you called, expecting your father with one final lecture about behavior and duty.

Instead, Paolo entered, carrying a small wooden box. His weathered face was solemn as he approached, setting the box on your dressing table.

"Your father is on a call," he said. "He asked me to see you off."

You nodded, unsurprised but still disappointed. "Of course he did."

Paolo's gaze softened. "Before you go, I have something for you." He gestured to the box. "It was your mother's."

Curious, you approached the box, running your fingers over the polished wood before lifting the lid. Inside, nestled in dark velvet, lay a pearl-handled pistol and an ornate dagger with an engraved hilt. Your breath caught in your throat.

"My mother's..." you whispered.

Paolo nodded. "The Beretta was a gift from your father on their wedding day. The knife was her grandfather's—Sicilian, from the old country." He reached in, lifting the pistol with careful hands. "She called this her insurance policy. Said a woman in our world should never be without options."

You took the weapon, feeling its weight—surprisingly light, perfectly balanced. Despite its delicate appearance, you knew it was as deadly as any of the more modern firearms in your father's collection.

"It's loaded," Paolo said quietly. "And the knife is sharp enough to slice through silk."

You looked up at him, understanding the message beneath his words. "Thank you, Paolo."

He inclined his head. "Your mother was fierce. You remind me of her more each day." His eyes met yours. "The ATEEZ boys—they're dangerous men now. But they were good boys once. I remember."

"People change," you said, carefully replacing the pistol in the box and closing the lid. Mingi's words echoed in your mind: "We're not the same people we were as kids, and honestly? Neither are you."

"Yes," Paolo agreed. "But not always completely." He lifted the box, handing it to you. "Hide these well. And remember—"

"A woman in our world should never be without options," you finished for him, tucking the box into your handbag.

A sad smile crossed his face. "May God go with you, little one."

You reached up, pressing a kiss to his weathered cheek. "Thank you for everything, Paolo."

He nodded once more, then turned to leave. At the door, he paused. "Your father loves you, Y/n. In his way."

"I know," you said softly. "In his way."

After he was gone, you stood alone in your bedroom for the last time, mentally saying goodbye to the sanctuary it had been. Then, squaring your shoulders, you picked up your handbag—now considerably heavier with your mother's "insurance policy"—and headed downstairs to meet the car that would take you to your new life.

* * *

The ATEEZ estate loomed before you like something from a gothic novel—a sprawling modern mansion of stone and glass, set behind imposing gates and surrounded by meticulously landscaped grounds. Security cameras tracked your arrival, and armed guards stood at strategic points along the perimeter.

As the car pulled up the circular driveway, you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for what was to come. Your mother's pistol and knife, now hidden in strategic places on your person, gave you a small measure of comfort.

The driver—a stoic man who hadn't spoken a word during the thirty-minute drive—opened your door. "Miss Ricci," he said with a slight bow. "Welcome to the ATEEZ compound."

You stepped out, surveying the fortress that would be your home for the next three months. "Charming," you murmured. "Does it come with a dungeon, or is that extra?"

The driver's expression didn't change as he retrieved your luggage from the trunk. "Mr. Kim and the others are waiting for you inside."

Before you could respond, the massive front doors swung open, and there they were—all eight of them, lined up in the entrance hall like a receiving line from your nightmares.

For a moment, you couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think. Seven years collapsed into nothing as you took in their faces—so familiar yet so changed. Boys no longer, but men with edges hardened by whatever lives they'd led since leaving yours.

Hongjoong stood at the center, impeccably dressed in all black, his posture rigid. His last words to you hung in the air between you: "Did you really think this was real, Y/n? We have real futures to build now, and frankly... you don't fit into them."

Beside him, Seonghwa watched you with that same unreadable expression from the night before, the man who once told you to "find some nice civilian boy to marry."

Yunho, taller than you remembered, shifted his weight nervously, the same man who had once said, "Stop crying, Y/n. It's embarrassing."

Yeosang's face remained impassive, but his eyes never left yours—the quiet one who had cruelly told you that you "talk too much" and that they "used to draw straws to see who had to listen to you ramble."

San's lips curved in a half-smile that didn't reach his eyes, the charmer who had dismissed you as "pathetic" and compared you to a "lost puppy."

Mingi stood slightly apart, his gaze so intense it was almost physical—the gentle soul who had become harsh enough to call you "clingy" and "desperate."

Wooyoung fidgeted, barely containing whatever energy coursed through him, the one whose words had cut deepest when he called you "exhausting and needy" and said they only tolerated you because they "felt sorry for you."

And Jongho, the youngest but somehow looking the most formidable, stood with arms crossed—the protector who had told you that you were "embarrassing yourself and your family" and to "have some dignity."

Eight men. Eight ghosts. Eight pieces of your past, standing before you in the flesh.

The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words and buried memories.

Then, like a dam breaking, Wooyoung bounded forward with a cry of "Y/n!" before anyone could stop him. He swept you into a crushing hug, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around just as he had countless times when you were younger.

"You're finally here! I've been counting down the minutes! You look amazing—that red is totally your color—and your hair! I love what you've done with it!" His words tumbled out in a rush, his embrace warm and familiar, smelling of expensive cologne and something uniquely Wooyoung.

For one treacherous moment, you melted into the hug, your body remembering the comfort his arms had once provided. This was Wooyoung, your Wooyoung, who had once held you through the night after your mother's funeral, who had made you laugh even on your darkest days.

Then, just as quickly, another memory surfaced—Wooyoung's face, cold and distant, telling you that you were "exhausting" and that they "used to joke about how suffocating you were." The memory sent a chill through you, hardening your resolve.

You stiffened, planting your hands on his chest and shoving him away with enough force to make him stumble. "Touch me again without permission," you said icily, reaching into your jacket where the knife was hidden, "and I'll shoot you where you stand."

Rather than looking hurt or offended, Wooyoung's face split into a delighted grin. "There she is! Our fierce Y/n!" He turned to the others. "Didn't I tell you guys? Still the same spitfire!"

"Wooyoung," Hongjoong's voice cut through the air, sharp with warning. "Give her space."

Wooyoung pouted but stepped back, still grinning at you like you'd just shared an inside joke instead of threatening his life.

Your eyes swept over the rest of them, cataloging their reactions. Seonghwa's lips had thinned in disapproval—at Wooyoung's behavior or yours, you couldn't tell. Yunho looked caught between amusement and concern. Yeosang's expression hadn't changed, but something in his eyes had softened. San was openly smirking now. Jongho had unfolded his arms, his stance slightly more relaxed.

And Mingi... Mingi was looking at you with such naked longing that it felt like a physical blow. His eyes traced your face as if memorizing every detail, his expression so full of yearning and regret that for a moment, you felt your resolve waver. How could the same man who had called you "clingy" and "desperate" now look at you with such undisguised need?

You tore your gaze away, focusing instead on Hongjoong. "So, my dearly devoted fiancé," you said, your voice dripping with sarcasm, "please show me to my cell. And I'd also make sure either the guns or bullets are hidden because if I find both, it will be a long night."

A muscle twitched in Hongjoong's jaw, but his expression remained controlled. "Your room is upstairs. Follow me."

You moved toward the staircase, deliberately brushing past the others without acknowledgment. As you passed Mingi, you felt him inhale sharply, as if capturing your scent.

"I'll have your bags brought up," Seonghwa said, his voice perfectly composed.

"How hospitable," you replied without looking back.

As you ascended the stairs beside Hongjoong, you could hear the murmur of voices below.

"Holy shit," San's voice drifted up. "She's even more beautiful than before."

"And deadlier," came Yeosang's quiet observation.

"That mouth on her though," Yunho added with a low whistle. "She's got more spirit than I remember."

"More sad," Mingi's solemn voice cut through the others. "Didn't you see her eyes? She's carrying ghosts."

There was a pause, then Wooyoung's distinctive laugh. "If she keeps being that mean to me, I might fall in love all over again."

"All of you, shut up," Jongho's deep voice commanded. "She can probably hear you."

You allowed yourself a small, bitter smile as you continued climbing. Let them talk. Let them wonder. Let them feel a fraction of the confusion and pain they'd inflicted on you.

Hongjoong remained silent beside you, leading you down a long hallway lined with modern art and subtle security cameras. Finally, he stopped before a door at the end of the corridor, producing a key.

"This will be your room," he said, unlocking the door and pushing it open. "You have your own bathroom and a small sitting area. The balcony overlooks the garden."

You stepped inside, taking in the spacious room with its elegant furnishings and muted color palette. It was beautiful, tasteful, and completely impersonal—like an upscale hotel suite.

"The key," you said, holding out your hand.

Hongjoong hesitated. "We don't typically lock doors here. The compound itself is secure."

"The key, Hongjoong," you insisted, remembering how he'd once told you that you were just "convenient when we were bored."

After a moment, he placed it in your palm. "Dinner is at seven in the main dining room. Seonghwa will show you the way."

"How thoughtful," you said flatly, closing your fingers around the key. "Anything else I should know about my incarceration?"

His eyes narrowed slightly. "This isn't a prison, Y/n."

"No? Then I'm free to leave whenever I choose?"

"You know that's not possible," he said quietly. "Not with the Russo threat."

You laughed without humor. "Of course. Always some convenient reason why I have to do exactly as I'm told." You turned away from him, moving to the window. "You can go now."

You could feel him watching you, could almost hear the words he wasn't saying. Finally, he spoke.

"For what it's worth," he said softly, "this isn't how I imagined seeing you again."

You didn't turn around. "I'm sure it isn't. Your plans probably involved me being much more compliant and much less armed."

"Y/n—"

"Seven o'clock," you cut him off. "I'll be there. Now please leave."

The door closed quietly behind him. Only then did you allow your shoulders to sag, the weight of seeing all of them—of being seen by all of them—suddenly overwhelming.

You moved to the bed, sinking down onto its edge and pulling your mother's pistol from its hiding place. The pearl handle caught the light as you turned it in your hands, cool and solid and real when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

"Insurance policy," you whispered to yourself, echoing Paolo's words. Whatever game they were playing, whatever secrets they were keeping, you wouldn't be defenseless.

You thought of all the cruel words they had hurled at you seven years ago, words that had cut deeper than any knife could reach. Words like "pathetic," "embarrassing," "clingy," "exhausting," words that had made you question your worth, your place, your very self.

But now, sitting in the heart of their domain with your mother's pistol in your hand, you made yourself a new promise: they would never hurt you like that again.

Not this time.

Next>>

Taglist: @imagine-all-the-imagines @green-moon @thelordofshadows21 @yunyunrin @vinylphwoar @thuyting @mdurir @dachshunddame @ninjakitty15 @moonchild-stuff7 @stellmeiv @spenceatiny18 @herpoetryprincess @m00njinnie @starz-choisanii @ateezswonderland @mxnsxngie @purple-bell @awkward-fucking-thing @hecateslittlewitchling @pixie0627 @parkthothwa8 @hwa2tiny @s1ar4s @atinystay-xxx @moonxxlover @babymbbatinygirl @londonbridges01 @miracle-sol @killerwaifu @peachyplumsss

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no-144444 · 7 months ago

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ferrari masterlist!

lewis hamilton

married man Married? Maybe. But why does everyone else need to know?

mistake lewis fucks up

carpet confessions you surprise lewis on the red carpet, he surprises the world with some news

know it lewis is possessive. franco is a flirt. makes for one wild night. (18+)

i know love this is new... a different kind of new

who are you? lewis gets into a crash that changes everything.

charles leclerc

photograph a step into your life with charles

mistakes and miscalculations a fight and a mistake leads to something worse

persistent pestering Ferrari drivers are persistent. You’re not looking for love. Too bad he is.

wingman paul charles leclerc takes a liking to you at your brothers movie premiere... paul makes it happen!

a christmas prince When a young aspiring journalist is sent abroad to cover a a coronation, she hears rumours about the 'Prince of F1' and goes undercover to investigate them.

in sickness you get sicky...

don't dim your light you have a secret boyfriend and an album coming and you realise that hiding yourself and your life only makes you feel like shit.

swaddle the joys of being a father

accepting it charles has been a bit too distant during your pregnancy, and what max said about his own child brought some ugly truths to the surface, hurting you in the process. charles realises his mistake, but it's just too late for you to believe him. -> a little better charles puts a bit more effort in and it seems your bond is becoming stronger. -> the time is nigh imola is fast-approaching and a decision needs to be made

side street clubs aren't just for dancing, sometimes, it's for reconciliation too.

it's ok, i'm ok you really don't care

arthur leclerc

all grown up! you're back in monaco a a dog-sitter. the doorbell rings. oops.

caveman tendencies he's not a caveman... sometimes.. (18+)

zhou guanyu

listening ears on How come when you try to set Zhou up, it ends badly?

navigation for my blog :) (masterlist)

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orthodoxchristianity · 5 months ago

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God answers difficult questions

Where was God when this happened to me?: He was there—He sees everything (Prov. 15:3)

Didn't He care? Yes, He did and still does (Nah. 1:7; 1 Pet. 5:6, 7).

How could a loving God allow this to happen? God gave His creations freedom of choice. He did not make people like puppets (Deut. 30:15-20).

Does the Lord understand how I feel? Yes, more than anyone (Is. 53:3; Heb. 4:15).

Is recovery possible? With God all things are possible (Matt. 19:26). Yes, He wants to bring healing to you (Jer. 17:14).

How can I be healed? Trust God to be faithful to His Word (Ps. 18:25).

Where do I begin? God hears you— confess your hurt (Ps. 34:17, 18). Give your hurt to Him (1 Pet. 5:7). Forgive the one who has grieved you (Col. 3:13).

Isn't forgiveness difficult? Yes, but what God commands you to do, He will equip you to do (1 Thess. 5:24). Realize that God has forgiven you (Eph. 4:32). Recognize that forgiveness is not the same as reconciliation-the former is something you are called to do; the latter is something that requires the offender's repentance.

Then what do I do? Don't take revenge— God will deal with the violator (Rom. 12:19). Look ahead rather than being controlled by the past (Is. 43:18, 19). Look for the good that will come out of the bad (Rom. 8:28).

When will I heal? Healing of deep hurt takes time (Eccl. 3:3). It is a process of:

facing the harm (Ps. 51:6)

acknowledging your feelings (Eccl. 3:4-8)

applying God's truth from His Word (Ps. 107:20)

working with wise counselors and caring friends to deal with ongoing hurts

*all credit to the Woman’s Study Bible NKJV

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band--psycho · 18 days ago

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Poly141 x Reader - Stop The Wedding (Part 10)

I hope you all enjoy this part 💛

Please be kind, reblogs are always welcome and greatly appreciated! Thank you for all the continued support 💛

Requests are open so if you have any ideas/requests, you're more than welcome to send them over (thank you to everyone who's requested a story so far, I'm working my way through them!)

I do not give permission for any of my works to be copied or translated onto this site or other platforms!

Catch up on the previous part here: Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 /Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 11 / Part 12 / Part 13

Warnings: Angst, fear, worry, a panic attack, brief mention of torture

COD Modern Warfare Masterlist /Taskforce 141 Masterlist /Join My Taglist

“Here,” Kyle said, placing a cup of coffee in front of you.

“Thanks,” You replied quietly, smiling at him briefly as you wrapped your hands gently around the warm cup in front of you.

Then you turned your attention to John, the table between the two of you feeling like a chasm.

You weren’t entirely sure how to start the conversation; you weren’t here for small talk, or reconciliation.

You were here to understand why John thought someone was going to use you to hurt them.

And try to understand how that led to him breaking up with you, because in your mind, it made absolutely no sense.

If he thought your life was in danger, wouldn’t he want to stay close to you, to protect you.

“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” You asked; your eyes never leaving Johns.

His jaw tensed and his voice was low, “The less you knew, the safer you were,”

You shook your head at his answer,“I should’ve known,”

“I thought I was doing the right thing, we all did..” he continued, “needed to put as much distance between us and you as possible,”

“Then why show up at the coffee shop?” You countered; you weren’t angry, just confused.

If the whole point of breaking your heart was to protect, why risk coming back into your life now?

Was the threat they’d been protecting you from gone now?

“I shouldn’t have,”

“But you did, and then you all came to my house,”

“That was only when we found out who you were marrying,” Johnny spoke up before John could say anything, drawing your attention away from the Captain and to the Scotsman.

“Because of what happened in Mexico?” You questioned, watching as he shook his head a little.

“Not just that.”

“Graves wasn’t the only one who betrayed us back then,” Simon stated; his words only made you furrow your eyebrows in confusion.

“Who?” You asked, feeling another uneasy feeling in your gut.

“Shepherd,”

John’s answer made your breath hitch, “General Shepherd?”

He nodded grimly.

“He gave Graves the order,” You noticed how his hands tightened around his own coffee cup; you were surprised it wasn’t cracking with how tightly he was holding it, “When we got back I kept looking over my shoulder, waiting for something to happen. We didn’t know where Shepherd was but we knew he was still alive… ”

“He knew you, knew how much you meant to us…he could’ve used you to hurt us,” Kyle continued, on John’s behalf, before placing his hand on top of a John’s, knowing how difficult this was for him…for any of them, to talk about

“You were protecting me, from Shepherd?”

“Yes,” Simon responded instantly.

“And he’s been in hiding ever since?”

“We tried findin’ him,” Johnny added, “but every lead just ended up being a dead end,”.

You were quiet for a moment, processing what they’d just told you.

How was it possible to have more information and be even more confused than you were originally

Shepherd was the person they were protecting you from.

He was the reason they broke up with you…

But he was Phillips' boss.

You knew he was.

Phillip told you he was when you guys received a card from him for your engagement.

“Y/n?” Simon’s voice halted the spiral your mind was running down.

“He sent us a card for our engagement…” you breathed out; feeling everyone’s eyes on you.

“What?” It was John’s voice you heard now; when your eyes met his you saw something you’d never seen before.

Fear.

Right now, he wasn’t the soldier, the Captain, or the man who’d walked away from you.

He was just a person scared of losing something again.

Scared of losing you…

“Shepherd, he sent Phillip and I a card for our engagement…” you repeated; trying not to freak the fuck out.

The actions of the men around you only added to your fears.

John was still at your revelation.

Kyle’s brows were furrowed deeply, his confusion quickly turning to alarm.

Johnny was sitting forward in his chair, tense like he was preparing for a fight.

And Simon? His expression didn't change much at all, but his eyes sharpened, locking on to yours.

Your mind began spiralling again. .

Shepherd knew you.

Knew about your history with the men around this table.

Knew that you were with Phillip.

Knew that you two were getting engaged.

Knew where you lived….

“He knows where I live…” you whispered; hating how evident the fear was in your voice.

Another thought dawned on you; one that only fueled your doubt of Phillip’s words from the previous night.

You could believe that Y/f/n told Phillip about your exes; they hated them for what they did to you, and they were never one to hide their feelings about such things.

And as much as you wanted to believe that that was how Phillip knew who your exes were; you couldn’t quite believe it.

The more you thought about it the less believable it seemed; you just needed your friend to confirm what you were already beginning to believe.

But now there was a very clear answer on how Phillip knew about your exes…It was never Y/f/n who told him about them.

It was Shepherd.

There were too many thoughts racing through your mind for you to keep up with.

If Shepherd wanted to hurt you, he could’ve by now, so why hadn’t he?

Unless he didn’t need to…

You marrying Phillip would hurt John, Simon, Johnny and Kyle enough; and he wouldn’t even need to lay a hand on you.

But if you called off the wedding….

You glanced in front of you; your eyes landing on Kyle who’d been sitting next to you; he was leaning forward with a worried look on his face; that’s when you became aware of how fuzzy your vision was becoming.

“Y/n,” John knelt down next to you; his hand holding yours gently, worry evident in his eyes.

You couldn’t even remember him moving from his seat, let alone kneeling down next to you.

“Ye need to take deep breaths, Bon,” Johnny cooed softly, kneeling down on the opposite side of you, his thumb rubbing small circles on the back of your hand.

You hadn’t even realised how quick your breathing had been, nor how fast your heart was beating until he’d pointed it out to you.

You tried to do what he’d said, attempting to get your breathing under control.

Deep shaky breaths left your lips.

You weren’t just trying to calm your breathing down; but your mind too, because you knew you couldn’t calm down until you got those thoughts under control.

“You’re safe,” you heard Simon whisper in your ear; feeling his hands on your shoulders, massaging them softly, in an attempt to help calm you down.

He kept whispering those words as Johnny whispered his own words of reassurance whilst continuing to rub circles on to your hand.

John occasionally squeezed your hand, letting you know that he was still here.

You didn’t know how long you’d been sitting there, calming down, but eventually your breathing became slower, steadier, returning to normal.

“There ye are,” Johnny said with a faint smile on his lips; his eyes glancing up to Simon who was standing behind you.

“Drink this,” Kyle ordered softly, handing you a glass of water.

You did as you were told, not having the energy to argue with him, and began sipping the water in the glass before looking down at John.

“What do I do now?” You whispered; needing him to tell you what to do because right now, you had absolutely no idea how to handle any of this.

You thought Phillip loved you; but the more you seemed to find out…the more you seemed to realise that your relationship was built on nothing other than deceit and lies.

You didn’t want to go back to that home.

Not now.

Not knowing what you knew now.

But you also knew that you probably didn’t have much of a choice….

Before John had a chance to answer your question there was a knock at the door.

“Y/n are you there?”

Relief washed over not only you, but over the others in the room too as they heard the sound of Y/f/n voice shouting through the door.

Taglist:

@sunrise-willarive @imdeadontheinside786 @asterionex @pinkyyoshi @yaradigital @euriiverse @eternallyvenus @s-void @rivwritesiguess @lilyalone @salemlovespies @z-wantstowrite @maryrhodalouandted @uraeus56 @skipping-throughlife @backalleytimetravel @fruitymoonbeams-blog @alejandro-vargass-wife @moon-on-the-crest @dasphinxone @magicwriterinspo @lilylovesliterature @tabbslouuformer @disasterofastory @yearninglustfully @therapyneeds @beautifuleaglealpaca @mischievousprincess01 @rite-te-suli-kireysi-ite @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @ontopofthefridge @rosecastiello @bookworm1767 @harrys-ravioli @hypertail @hahaifolded @felinegaymerl0ver @little-mini-me-world @elita1 @noheadcanons-juststories @nocturnal-nyx @ilovesoapandnotthebar @myamazingnerdyness

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archivegyu · 1 month ago

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masterlist

part 1: midnight rain

under the bridge

May 25, 2025

The Han River flowed steadily beneath the Jamsu Bridge, its waters reflecting the warm glow of the evening sky as the sun began to set over Seoul. The concert had just ended, and the area beneath the bridge was still buzzing with the energy of departing fans, their voices carrying fragments of songs and memories across the water.

She walked slowly along the riverside path, letting the crowd thin out around her as people made their way back to the subway stations and bus stops scattered throughout the city. The echo of voices still rang in her ears. SEVENTEEN's 10th anniversary concert, held right here on the Jamsu Bridge. A decade of their journey, and she had been there to witness another milestone, just as she had been at Caratland a few months ago.

The anniversary concert had been everything she expected and nothing she was prepared for. Seeing them on that stage—members who had grown from teenagers with dreams into men who had achieved them—should have felt like closure. Instead, it felt like reopening a wound she thought had finally healed after attending Caratland in March.

"God of Music" had thundered through the open air, and for those four minutes, she had forgotten to breathe. Seungcheol commanded that stage like he was born for it, every movement precise, every note delivered with the confidence of someone who had never doubted his place in the world. The leader, the protector, the one who carried them all.

But in the quiet moments between songs, when the stage lights dimmed and he thought no one was looking, she saw something else. Something that looked remarkably like the boy who used to worry he wasn't good enough, who used to call her at three in the morning just to hear her voice tell him everything would be okay.

She had attended both concerts for the same reason—not out of hope for reconciliation, but because some connections run too deep to sever completely. Even when they should.

The evening air was getting cooler as the crowd continued to disperse around her. She should head to the subway station with everyone else, should go home and try to process what she'd just experienced. But something kept her lingering by the riverside, watching the last groups of fans taking photos and sharing their excitement about the show.

꧁༺ ❀ ༻꧂

Thirty minutes after the concert ended, Seungcheol sat in the back of the company car as they slowly made their way through the departing crowd around Jamsu Bridge. Fans were still gathered in clusters, taking photos and reluctant to leave the magic of the evening behind. The adrenaline from performing was still coursing through his veins—the rush of singing with a view of an open sky, of seeing thousands of faces lit up with joy.

"Hyung, you okay?" Chan asked from beside him, concern evident in his voice. "You've been quiet since we left the stage."

Seungcheol managed a smile. "Just tired. Ten years of this, and my body still needs time to come down from the high."

It wasn't entirely a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. The concert had been incredible—a celebration of everything they had built together, every struggle that had led them to this moment. Seeing the fans sing every word, watching his members shine under those lights, feeling the weight of a decade of dreams made real.

So why did he feel like something was missing?

The car crept forward through the crowd, fans occasionally recognizing their vehicle and waving excitedly. That's when he saw her.

Walking along the riverside path, moving slowly against the flow of departing concert-goers, she looked lost in thought. Even from this distance, even with all the people around, he would know the curve of her shoulders anywhere, the way she held herself when she was processing something emotional.

But then she turned slightly, and even from this distance, even after all these years, he knew.

"Stop the car," he said quietly.

The driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror. "Sir?"

"Stop the car. Now."

"Hyung, what's wrong?" Chan sat up straighter, following Seungcheol's gaze out the window.

But Seungcheol was already moving, already reaching for the door handle before the car had fully stopped. Distantly, he heard his name being called, heard the panic in his manager's voice, but it all faded to background noise.

Because there she was. After months of wondering if that glimpse from the car window at Caratland had been real, of catching glimpses of her in crowds that turned out to be strangers, of dreams that felt more real than his waking life—there she was.

And he was running.

The Jamsu Bridge area was still bustling with departing fans, but there were also regular evening strollers, couples enjoying the riverside, and groups of friends unwinding after the show. Any other time, he would have been more careful about being seen, more aware of the cameras and the consequences.

But some things were worth the risk.

His feet pounded against the pavement as he made his way through the dispersing crowd, his heart hammering against his ribs—not from exertion, but from something that felt dangerously close to hope. She was closer now, close enough that he could see she was wearing the same leather jacket she'd had years ago, the one with the tiny tear near the left elbow that she'd never bothered to fix.

Close enough to call her name.

"Wait!"

She turned, and the world tilted.

The months since Caratland had changed something in her face—not physically, but in the way she carried herself. There was a resignation there that hadn't been present even in their final days together years ago. As if seeing him again had settled something she'd been wrestling with.

For a heartbeat, they just stared at each other across the space that had once been measured in inches and was now an ocean of everything unsaid.

Then survival instinct kicked in.

She was alone on a riverside path in the evening, and a man was running toward her through the crowd. In the split second before recognition fully hit, her body reacted the way any woman's would. Her hand flew to her purse, her stance shifted, and when he got close enough to reach for her—

The slap echoed across the water.

"What the hell—" She spun around, her hand already raised for another strike, and then froze. "Seungcheol?"

He stood there, one hand pressed to his cheek, breathing hard and looking like he'd seen a ghost. Which, in a way, he had.

"Hi," he said, and somehow managed to make that single syllable contain too many emotions.

"You—" She looked around wildly, suddenly very aware of the people still milling about, the fans with their phones out, the possibility that someone might recognize him. "Are you insane? Running up on someone like that in the middle of all these people—I could have—" She stopped, her eyes widening as the full situation hit her. "Oh god, are there cameras? People are going to see—"

Without thinking, he grabbed her hand and pulled her toward a more secluded area beneath the bridge structure, away from the main walkway and the lingering crowds. She stumbled slightly, caught off guard, but followed him into the relative privacy.

"Okay, now I'm definitely calling the police," she muttered, but her voice lacked conviction.

"Please don't." He turned to face her, and in the dim light, she could see the exhaustion written across his features, the weight of ten years of carrying the world on his shoulders. "I just... I saw you, and I couldn't..."

"Couldn't what?" The words came out sharper than she intended, months of carefully buried confusion bleeding through since that moment at Caratland when she'd seen him and felt her carefully constructed peace shatter. "Couldn't let me walk away without completely losing your mind? Because that's what this is, Seungcheol. This is you losing your mind."

"Maybe." He ran a hand through his hair, messing up the careful styling that had survived an entire concert but couldn't withstand five minutes of panic. "Maybe I am losing my mind. But I saw you at Caratland in March—from the car, after the show—and then I saw you here, and I thought—"

"You saw me?" Her voice was barely a whisper, confusion flickering across her features. "At Caratland? But I was just... I was just in the crowd. I didn't think anyone would..."

"Never mind. Do you think you could just run up to me in the middle of the night like some kind of stalker?" She was getting louder, the stress and shock of the moment overriding her usual caution. "Do you have any idea how terrifying that was? I thought I was about to get mugged, or worse—"

"I'm sorry." The words came out rough, sincere. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking. I just... I've been wondering for months if that moment was real, if I really saw you there, and I—"

"You did," she said quietly, and something in her voice made him stop breathing. "I was there. But I didn't know you saw me."

The admission hung between them like a confession.

"Why?" he asked, and his voice cracked on the single word. "Why did you come? Either time?"

She looked away, and when she looked back, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Because some things you can't just walk away from, even when you should. Even when you've built a whole life around the fact that they're over."

"You didn't know I saw you," he said, more to himself than to her. "You went because..."

"Because it was Caratland. Because it was your anniversary. Because despite everything, I still..." She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"That's not—" he started, then stopped. Because even now, even after all this time, he couldn't promise her what she had needed then. He was still the leader, still the one who carried the weight of twelve lives, millions of fans, a legacy that demanded everything with him.

"See?" she said softly, reading his silence like she always had. "Nothing's changed. Not really."

"Everything's changed," he said desperately. "I'm different now. More sure of myself, more—"

"More successful," she finished. "More famous. More needed by more people. But still the same person who can't choose just one thing to love most."

The words stung because they were true.

"I loved you," she said, and the past tense was a knife between his ribs. "I loved you so much that I convinced myself I could be happy with whatever pieces of yourself you had left over. But you didn't even have that much space for me, did you?"

"That's not true." The words came out desperate, raw. "You were never—"

"Then why am I standing under a bridge at night, months after seeing you again and realizing that some wounds never really heal?" She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, angry at herself for crying. "Why aren't I home with someone who chooses me first? Why aren't you?"

The question hung between them like a challenge. Why wasn't he? Since their breakup, there had been opportunities. Beautiful, successful women who understood his lifestyle, who wouldn't ask for more than he could give. Women who made sense on paper, who fit into his world without requiring him to make space.

But none of them had been her. And after seeing her again at Caratland, he'd understood why.

"Because," he said, the words scraping his throat raw, "because seeing you again made me realize I'm still waiting for someone who doesn't exist anymore."

She stared at him, and for a moment, he could see the girl she used to be. The one who used to believe in his promises, who used to think love was enough.

"She doesn't," she said softly. "And neither does the boy I fell in love with."

A car door slammed somewhere nearby, followed by voices calling his name. His manager, probably. Maybe some of the members. The real world, intruding on this bubble of past and present that couldn't hold.

"I have to go," he said, but he didn't move.

"Yeah," she agreed. "You do."

Neither of them moved.

"The concert was incredible," she said finally. "SEVENTEEN's 10th anniversary... you've all become everything you dreamed of being."

"Have I?" He studied her face in the dim light, memorizing the changes time had made, the way months of thinking about that moment at Caratland had shifted something in her expression. "Sometimes I'm not sure the dream was worth what it cost."

She smiled then, sad and knowing and final. "It was. You know it was. You've touched millions of lives, made people happy, created something beautiful. That matters."

"So did you," he whispered.

"I know," she said. "But we can't go back."

"Seungcheol Hyung!" The voice was closer now, more urgent. Chan, maybe, or Seokmin.

"I should—" He gestured vaguely toward the sound of his name.

"You should."

He took a step back, then another. "Will I see you again?"

The question was pathetic, and they both knew it.

"Probably not," she said gently. "Not like this."

He nodded, because what else was there to do? "Take care of yourself."

"You too."

He made it three steps before turning back. "For what it's worth... I did love you. More than the world, more than anything. I just didn't know how to choose you and keep you safe at the same time."

She was quiet for so long he thought she wouldn't answer. Then: "I know. That's what made it so hard."

When he looked back one more time from where the car was waiting, she was gone, disappeared back into the dispersing crowd of concert-goers making their way home.

☾⋆｡‧˚ʚ♡ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Three weeks later

Seungcheol sat in the SEVENTEEN practice room, staring at his reflection in the mirrored wall. The space was empty except for him—the others were scattered across various schedules, interviews, and recovery time after their anniversary concert under Jamsu Bridge.

The bruise on his cheek had faded to a yellowish-green that makeup could easily cover. He'd told everyone he'd walked into a door, which was close enough to the truth if you considered emotional devastation a type of architectural feature.

But the real bruise was deeper, the one that came from finally understanding that some chapters of your life were meant to stay closed, no matter how much you wanted to reread them.

The door clicked open behind him, and he didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Mingyu's footsteps were distinctive—heavy but careful, like someone who'd learned to be aware of his size in small spaces.

"Hyung." Mingyu settled beside him on the floor, close enough to offer comfort but far enough away to give him space to retreat if needed. "You want to talk about it?"

"Talk about what?"

"About why you look like someone died, why you've been checking your phone every thirty seconds for three weeks, and why Chan said you literally jumped out of a moving car after the concert to chase someone who clearly didn't want to be chased."

Seungcheol closed his eyes. "It wasn't moving."

"That's what you're choosing to focus on?"

Before Seungcheol could answer, the door opened again. This time it was Seokmin, followed by Joshua, then Hansol, then suddenly the room was filling up with members who were supposed to be resting.

"Did you guys plan this?" Seungcheol asked, looking around at the concerned faces surrounding him.

"Maybe," Seokmin said, settling cross-legged on his other side. "We're worried about you."

"I'm fine."

"You're not," Jihoon said flatly. "You've been distracted for weeks. More than usual."

"The concert went perfectly—"

"This isn't about the concert." Soonyoung bounced on his toes, too anxious to sit still. "This is about what happened afterward, by the river. About whoever you saw."

Seungcheol's head snapped up. "How did you—"

"You ran," Jun said quietly. "Right after the concert, with fans and cameras everywhere, you ran toward something. Or someone."

The room fell silent. These were the people who knew him best, who had lived with him through every triumph and breakdown of the past decade. Of course they'd noticed his distraction since Caratland, the way he'd been scanning crowds more intently, the way he'd gone quiet during their anniversary preparations.

"Was it her?" Seokmin asked gently.

The question hung in the air like a confession waiting to be made.

"Yeah," Seungcheol said finally. "It was her."

More silence. They all remembered her, of course. The girl who used to bring them homemade meals during trainee days, who had celebrated with them when they'd gotten their first win, who had been there for everything until suddenly she wasn't.

"How is she?" Mingyu asked.

"Good. Different. Tired." Seungcheol scrubbed his hands over his face. "She slapped me."

"Good for her," Hansol said mildly, earning a few chuckles from the others.

"She was at Caratland too," Seungcheol continued. "I saw her in the crowd, and I've been wondering for months if it was real. Then she was at the anniversary concert, and then by the river... I couldn't just drive past. I had to know."

"You had to know," Joshua repeated. "If there was still something there."

"And?"

Seungcheol was quiet for a long moment, thinking about her words on the bridge, the way she'd looked at him like she was seeing a stranger wearing a familiar face.

"There was. But not the way I hoped. Not the way I remembered."

"What do you mean?" Soonyoung had finally settled, concern overriding his usual hyperactivity.

"She's not the same person. I'm not the same person. What we had... it belonged to who we used to be. And those people don't exist anymore."

"That doesn't mean it wasn't real," Seokmin said softly. "That doesn't mean it didn't matter."

"No," Seungcheol agreed. "It just means it's finally over."

The words felt like admitting defeat, like giving up on something he'd been holding onto since that moment at Caratland when he'd seen her again and felt his world tilt off its axis.

"Maybe that's okay," Jun said. "Maybe some things are supposed to end so other things can begin."

"Profound," Jihoon said dryly, but not unkindly.

"I'm serious," Jun continued. "You've been carrying this since Caratland, hyung. This weight of what if, what could have been. Maybe seeing her again, talking to her... maybe that's what you needed to finally put it down."

"It doesn't feel like putting it down," Seungcheol muttered. "It feels like losing her all over again."

"Because you are," Mingyu said bluntly. "You're losing the version of her that existed in your memory, the one that was frozen in time. But maybe that's good. Maybe now you can remember what you actually had instead of mourning what you thought you'd lost."

The wisdom in the statement surprised them all, coming from someone who usually expressed himself through food metaphors and gym schedules.

"When did you get so smart?" Hansol asked.

"I've always been smart," Mingyu protested. "You guys just don't listen."

The laughter that followed was gentle, familiar. The sound of family trying to heal one of their own.

"So what now?" Soonyoung asked when the moment settled.

Seungcheol looked around at their faces—these people who had chosen him as much as he had chosen them, who had built something beautiful and lasting together. His found family, his chosen brothers, his everything that had made letting go of her feel like betrayal.

"Now we keep going," he said. "We have that variety show recording tomorrow, and the festival next week, and a hundred other things that matter to a hundred thousand other people."

"And you're okay with that?" Seokmin asked.

Seungcheol considered the question. Was he okay with it? With choosing this life, this family, this version of love that looked different from what he'd once imagined but was no less real?

"Yeah," he said, and meant it. "I am."

"Good," Jihoon said, pushing himself to his feet. "Because we have choreography to review before tomorrow, and you know how Soonyoung gets when we're not synchronized."

"Hey!" Soonyoung protested, but he was already moving toward the sound system.

As the room filled with music and movement, as his members fell into the familiar patterns of practice and perfection, Seungcheol felt something shift inside his chest. Not healing, exactly, but the beginning of it. The acknowledgment that some loves were meant to last forever, and others were meant to teach you how to love forever.

He thought of her words by the river: You've become everything you dreamed of being.

Maybe she was right. Maybe this was enough. Maybe it had always been enough, and he'd just needed to see her one last time to believe it.

The music swelled, and his body remembered the choreography even as his mind wandered. This was his life. These people, this music, this strange and beautiful thing they'd built together out of dreams and determination and the kind of love that didn't need promises to endure.

It wasn't the life he'd imagined, standing under an umbrella in the rain with forever stretching out ahead of them.

But it was the life he'd chosen. The life he'd built. The life that mattered.

And maybe, finally, that was enough.

꧁༺ ❀ ༻꧂

One month later

She was walking home from work when she saw the news alert on her phone: SEVENTEEN's Seungcheol Spotted at Children's Hospital, Donating Time and Toys to Young Patients.

The attached photo showed him crouched down beside a little girl's wheelchair, his face soft with the same gentle attention she remembered from when he used to worry about injured stray cats. The caption mentioned it was part of an ongoing charity initiative he'd been quietly supporting for years.

She smiled without meaning to, the way you do when you discover that someone you once loved has grown into exactly who they were meant to be.

Some stories, she thought, don't end with reunions or reconciliation. Some stories end with the quiet satisfaction of knowing that the person who broke your heart is out there making the world a little better, a little brighter.

Some stories end with gratitude for having been part of the beginning, even if you couldn't stay for the middle or the end.

She put her phone away and kept walking home, where someone was waiting for her with dinner and questions about her day and the kind of ordinary, extraordinary love that fit into the life she'd built after learning that not all dreams are meant to come true.

Both of them were exactly where they belonged.

And maybe that was the most beautiful ending of all.

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