#was watching some memes and came across this one

[stargrillzz]

Even the silence screams

summary: He couln't allow himself to feel something after everything he's done. It was like a punishment, but you coming around, made it even worst.

Note: nothing to say except the usual, I LOVE THIS MAN GOD DAMN. xoxo

Ever since Bucky Barnes stepped foot into Stark Tower, he felt like walking ice.

He didn’t speak to anyone but Steve, and even then, his voice was quiet, subdued, heavy with a weight no one could see but everyone could feel. His eyes carried shadows, and his presence seemed to suck the warmth out of every room he entered.

The rest of the Avengers tried to be friendly… at first. But Bucky’s coldness was a wall too high to climb. Tony didn’t help, of course. And Natasha just observed him in silence, as if she understood something none of you did.

You, though, decided to try something different.

It started with coffee. You’d see him some mornings, lingering at the edge of the kitchen like he was waiting for it to clear out. So you left a second mug beside yours and didn’t say anything.

Three days in, he took it.

“You always drink it black?” you asked, casual, not looking at him directly as you stirred sugar into your own.

He seemed caught off guard that you were speaking. His voice was low, cautious. “Yeah.”

You nodded, offering the faintest smile. “Strong choice. Bit intense, though.”

A pause. Then, with a hint of dry humor: “Fits the mood.”

You glanced over. Was that—did he almost smile?

From then on, mornings became a thing. Not every day, but enough. He didn’t always speak, but he stayed. Sat nearby. Drank the coffee you made.

It was the smallest crack in the ice, but it was something.

One morning, you found him sitting alone in the lounge, staring at the TV but not really watching it. You sat beside him without saying anything. Minutes passed. Then you felt his gaze on you. You looked over. He looked away.

But the next day, when you sat down, there was a second coffee already waiting on the table.

It was a small gesture. One that made you smile all day.

From then on, things started to take shape.

He’d invite you to go running with him and Steve. Sometimes you joined, sometimes you didn’t. But when you did, he always ran at your pace. Never said anything about it. He just did it. —“Don’t want you getting left behind,” he muttered once. That was the first day he spoke to you without you initiating.

Weeks passed. Then months. And somehow, it became a routine.

You and Bucky had breakfast together. You and Bucky watched movies together. He listened to your stories. You listened to his — though his were harder to tell. He didn’t always talk, but when he did, with you, it was like the rest of the world disappeared.

The shift was subtle, but it was there. The way he’d scowl when you laughed too long at one of Clint’s dumb jokes. Or how his posture changed when you were around other guys on the team—shoulders stiff, jaw set, eyes hard.

It all came to a head one evening during movie night.

You were sitting on the floor with Peter, both of you laughing over something dumb and animated—some inside joke, some meme he’d shown you. Bucky was behind you on the couch, watching.

Or rather, staring.

When you looked back at him, his expression was unreadable. But he didn’t say a word.

Later that night, as you were cleaning up in the kitchen, you felt him walk in. He hovered by the door, arms crossed.

“You and Peter,” he said, voice low. “You close?”

You looked over your shoulder, caught the tension in his stance. “We joke around. He’s like… a kid brother.”

He nodded slowly. Still not looking at you.

“Why?”

He hesitated. Then, after a beat: “Didn’t like the way he touched you.”

You blinked. “Touched me?”

“Your waist. Earlier.”

You leaned against the counter, folding your arms. “Are you jealous, Barnes?”

His eyes finally met yours. Tension flickered across his face. “Maybe.”

You weren’t expecting the honesty.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, just like that, he turned and walked out—leaving your heart beating too fast.

After that night, something shifted.

The kitchen felt emptier in the mornings. His coffee mug sat untouched where you always left it—like a placeholder for someone who didn’t plan on coming back. You sat at the counter longer than usual, hoping he’d walk in late. He never did.

Days passed, each one a quiet confirmation that he was pulling away.

He started disappearing from shared spaces. Left the room if you walked in, kept his head down during briefings, drifted through conversations without ever meeting your gaze. If it hurt, he didn’t show it. If he missed you, he buried it.

You tried to play it cool, texting once, then again. You okay? Did I do something? Talk to me.

Nothing. No read receipts. No response.

Eventually, you gave in and cornered Steve in the gym, catching him between sets, frustration laced into every word.

“He’s shutting me out. I didn’t do anything, Steve.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then let out a breath and shook his head slowly.

“It’s not you,” he said. “It’s him.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“He thinks he’s protecting you.”

You stared. “From what? Me?”

“From him,” Steve said gently. “From how much he cares.”

The words didn’t make sense until much later. But they stayed with you, settled heavy in your chest—until the weight of it pushed you into action.

You found him in the sparring room that night, alone with the bag. No music. No lights except for the dim overheads. The rhythmic thud of fists landing echoed in the still air, steady and relentless. He was soaked through, breathing hard, lost in whatever he was trying to outrun.

You didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, letting the silence sit.

When it became clear he had no intention of acknowledging you, your voice broke the stillness.

“Are we really doing this?”

The hits didn’t stop.

“I mean, fine,” you continued, stepping further into the room. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Just keep pretending like the last few months didn’t happen.”

His pace faltered, then picked up again—harder, sharper.

You stopped a few feet away. “Is this your thing now? Run before anyone gets too close?”

Finally, the bag stilled. He stood still with both hands resting against the leather, his back rising and falling in uneven breaths. For a moment, you thought he might walk away again.

Then, quietly: “I told myself it wasn’t real.”

You blinked. “What?”

“This,” he said, turning toward you, eyes unreadable in the low light. “Us. Whatever we were becoming. I kept telling myself it wasn’t real because if it was... it’d be too much.”

Your voice softened. “Too much for who?”

His hands flexed at his sides, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “For me. For you. You shouldn’t have to deal with everything that comes with me.”

“You think I don’t know what I’m dealing with?” you asked, stepping closer. “You think I just stumbled into this by accident? I chose to be close to you.”

His eyes finally met yours, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“I can’t lose you,” he said, barely above a whisper. “If I let this happen—if I let myself have this—and something goes wrong…”

“You’ll survive,” you said gently. “And so will I.”

He shook his head. “You don’t get it.”

“I do,” you said, and now you were right in front of him.

"I’m falling in love with you. And I can’t handle feeling something for someone who deserves so much better. I’m not good, Y/N. Not for you.”

Your heart stopped. For a second, you couldn’t breathe.

Then, without thinking, you stepped forward. “Who the hell are you to decide what I deserve?”

He blinked, thrown off.

“I… I didn’t—”

“I’m in love with you too, you idiot.”

Silence fell.

The only sound was the swinging of a punching bag and the rapid pounding of both your hearts.

Then he moved.

One step. Then another. He raised a trembling hand, hesitant, like he was scared to touch you. You took it gently, guiding it to your cheek. He swallowed hard, eyes wide.

And then he kissed you.

His lips were clumsy at first, unsure. But you leaned in, slow and warm, molding yourself to him. His hands gripped your waist, desperate and grounding. Your fingers tangled in his shirt. It was like all the tension, all the months of longing and fear, exploded into that moment.

When you finally pulled apart, breathless, you rested your forehead against his.

“Don’t you ever ignore me again,” you whispered, voice shaking.

He smiled. Small. Honest. “Never again.”

[inkieun]

Pretty Little Thing — Geum Seong-Je x F!Reader (hyun-tak's sister)

His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—slow, crooked. The kind that said he wasn’t seeing a person. Just… something he could get his hands on. “Well, well,” he said, voice smooth like oil over something sharp. “Didn’t know you came with accessories, Hyun-Tak.”

tw: mean!seongje, dark!seongje, noncon, hairpulling, degradation, exhibitionism, someone getting hit with a belt and lots of dirty talk and blood mentioned as well

wc: 4.6k words

This was requested, and I loved every second of bringing it to life. Keep the requests coming!!

“Hey. You heard anything from Baku?”

Sieun’s voice cut through the air like a dull blade. He didn’t look at Hyun-Tak when he asked. Just stared out at the road, where the light was dying slow against the concrete. The orange glow of early evening stretched long across the ground.

Hyun-Tak exhaled. “No. I haven’t.”

That silence after — fuck, it was loud. It wasn’t the kind you filled with small talk or jokes. It was the kind that dragged its nails down your back, whispering he should’ve called by now.

They stood in a loose circle near the edge of the station. Just the three of them. Waiting. Not for some unspoken tension or invisible weight hanging in the air — just for Hyun-Tak’s sister. The one who always showed up late, always with a smile, always ready to stir the stillness like it bored her. They waited because she made them wait.

The crowd moved past them in a quiet blur — office workers heading home, a girl with a rolling suitcase bumping over the pavement, an old man tossing crumbs to pigeons on the curb. 

They hadn’t heard from Baku in days.

No messages. No sarcastic memes. Not even the usual late-night rants about bad customers and fried chicken grease.

Not since the incident.

A group of teenagers had come into Baku’s dad’s fried chicken shop. They were loud, joking around, flashing fake IDs to buy alcohol. They looked old enough. Baku’s dad didn’t question it. It was a busy Friday night. Orders were piling up. He was tired, distracted. So he sold them the drinks. That should’ve been the end of it. Then someone snitched. And most people had a good guess who it was. The boys who bought the alcohol weren’t just random teenagers—they were part of The Union, a gang known around town for stirring up shit and getting away with it. The police showed up a hours later. Started asking questions. Things escalated fast. Baku’s dad lost his temper—tried to go after one of the boys. No one was hurt, but it was enough. Enough for the cops to arrest him.

The whole thing felt too perfect. Like a setup.

And all signs pointed to Seong-Je.

He’s been trying to get Baku to join the gang for months. Dropping hints. Making quiet threats. Letting him know that saying no wasn’t something The Union took lightly.

But Baku had said no anyway. And he’d meant it.

So when the police suddenly showed up and everything came crashing down, it didn’t feel like bad luck.

It felt like revenge.

Hyun-Tak shifted his weight, hands in his jacket pockets, jaw clenched. “I’m worried about him,” he muttered, eyes fixed on nothing. “Tomorrow after school… maybe we should check in.”

The moment held — just long enough to ache.

And then—

“BOO!”

The scream ripped through the air, shooting straight up Hyun-Tak’s spine. All three of them jolted as if a gun had gone off right next to them. 

“What the actual fuck?” he snapped, whipping around.

I laughed—loud and sharp. Maybe a little cruel. “You should’ve seen your faces,” I said, still catching my breath. “Absolutely priceless.” 

Jun-tae cracked this little smile, all quiet and reluctant. sieun? same neutral face, like always. unreadable. but i caught that twitch in his jaw — he was trying not to laugh. i saw it.

“this guy…” i thought, watching him from the corner of my eye. the way he stood — slouched a little, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, like he’d been carrying a weight around all day and was too tired to hide it anymore.

Hyun-Tak shoved a hand through his hair, scowling. “Why the hell would you do that? I nearly had a heart attack!”

“Because it’s fun,” I shrugged, already turning on my heel. “Let’s go. Before Mom starts blowing up our phones.”

I didn’t wait for them to follow. The sky was shifting now — soft pink bleeding into indigo, the clouds stretched thin like bruises across the horizon. Streetlights flickered but didn’t fully turn on, like the city was stuck between inhale and exhale.

Their footsteps trailed behind me.

Three shadows walking quiet through golden light and the ghosts of words we hadn’t said yet.

The laughter hadn’t even faded when we heard it—a sharp whistle, quick footsteps, something off behind us. Then—“Shit,” Hyun-Tak muttered. “Don’t look back. Just walk.”

I looked back. Of course I did. And there they were. 

Ten of them at first, cutting through the crowd with that slow, deliberate kind of walk that said they didn’t need to run to catch you.

The Union. Not all of them. But enough.

“Why now?” Jun-tae whispered, voice barely holding together. “We didn’t even do anything—”

“They don’t need a reason,” Sieun said quietly. “They just need a mood.”

That was when we broke into a run. We didn’t scream or shout or call for help. We just moved, fast and quiet, like instinct had finally taken over.

People didn’t stop us. City noise swallowed everything. We weaved through people, past honking cars and blinking crosswalks.

Hyun-Tak shouted over his shoulder, “Cut through here!” and then we were off the main road, darting into the side alley we thought we knew. We’d taken this shortcut a hundred times. But this time, it didn’t feel familiar. This time, it felt like we were walking into a trap. We didn’t stop until the alley swallowed us. Breathless. Hearts pounding.

And then—footsteps behind us, slower now, confident—and when we turned, they were already there; ten shrinking to seven, blocking the exit, blocking the light. 

Seong-Je stepped forward from the center like he’d been waiting for this moment since forever. His jacket was clean, his smile cleaner. But his eyes? Dead cold.

“Well,” he said, voice low and almost amused. “Look who ran straight into our arms.”

Jun-tae tensed. Sieun didn’t move. Hyun-Tak dropped his backpack slowly, like preparing for something he didn’t want to do. Me? I couldn’t stop staring at Seong-Je. 

Seong-Je took another, hands in his pockets like this was just another night, like we were just another problem he could stretch into something fun.

His gaze flicked over us one by one—Jun-tae, Sieun, Hyun-Tak—and then landed on me and stayed. Something in the air shifted. His smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—slow, crooked. The kind that said he wasn’t seeing a person. Just… something he could get his hands on.

“Well, well,” he said, voice smooth like oil over something sharp. “Didn’t know you came with accessories, Hyun-Tak.” 

No one moved.

“I mean—” he looked me over like I was a new toy, “You always this quiet, sweetheart? Or just shy around guys like me?” My heart was hammering, but I didn’t flinch. I wasn’t going to give him that. Still, I felt Hyun-Tak shift beside me. He knew. I knew. We all knew what this was. “She doesn’t talk to rats,” Hyun-Tak snapped. Seong-Je ignored him. “Pretty thing,” he murmured. “Bet you’d look real cute scared. Wonder what you sound like when you cry.”

My stomach turned. I tasted metal. Hyun-Tak moved. Fast. I barely caught the blur of him lunging before one of Seong-Je’s guys slammed him into the wall with enough force to shake the ground. Jun-tae shouted. Sieun looked ready to swing. And I—I couldn’t breathe because I was scared. He looked at me like I was a prize. A thing. 

But Seong-Je just raised a hand, like he was done playing. Like none of this had been real to him.

“No fun if she’s not screaming,” he said with a shrug, turning his back. “Don’t worry, Hyun-Tak. We’ll talk again soon.” He looked at me one last time. Slow. He didn’t walk away. Seong-Je turned back around, that same sick grin tugging at his mouth. “You know,” he said, voice too casual, “we could make this interesting.”

I froze.

His eyes found Hyun-Tak’s. “Let’s settle this old-school. Just you and me.” Hyun-Tak didn’t say anything. Just stared him down, chest heaving from the adrenaline. “If I win…” Seong-Je dragged the words out like he was tasting them, “I get a little time alone with your sister.” My blood turned to ice. “The fuck you just say?” Hyun-Tak growled.

Seong-Je shrugged. “Just a taste. I won’t even leave a mark.”

Jun-tae swore under his breath. Sieun’s fists were already clenched.  Hyun-Tak was already stepping forward. “No deal,” he said, voice like gravel. “But I’m still gonna knock your fucking teeth out.” Seong-Je’s smirk widened. “That’s the spirit.” And then it started.

It wasn’t a street fight. It was vicious. Fast. Brutal. Seong-Je was all precision and spite—every punch a punishment, every hit like he was trying to prove something.

Hyun-Tak landed a few, sure. But the Union boys flanked close—laughing, taunting. One of them tripped him. Another grabbed his hoodie long enough to slow him down.

Seong-Je didn’t fight fair. He never did.

A punch to the stomach. A knee to the ribs.

Then an elbow that cracked across Hyun-Tak’s jaw and dropped him to the ground like a shot deer.

“Stay down,” Seong-Je hissed, standing over him. “Or I’ll go ahead and collect my prize.”

And that—That was it. I stepped forward. Jun-tae grabbed my arm. “Don’t,” he whispered.

I shook him off. Seong-Je turned to me, smug and stupid. I spat. Right at his feet. “Touch me,” I said, voice steady. “And you’ll wake up choking on your own dick.”

Something in his smirk faltered. I dropped beside Hyun-Tak, hands shaking, barely aware of the blood on his face or the way his breath rasped in and out. I just needed to make sure he was still breathing.

“Hey,” I whispered, my voice tight. “Stay with me, okay?” But then—Something yanked me back. Hard. The strap of my bag wrenched against my shoulder and I lost balance, falling backward with a sharp gasp. My palms scraped the pavement as I hit the ground.

I barely had time to turn before I saw him. Seong-Je. Towering over me like a shadow pulled loose from the wall. His hand still clenched around my bag. His eyes locked on mine.

And the way he was looking at me—Like I was something small. Something his. He leaned in, letting go of my bag strap, his fingers sliding up to grip my chin instead—firm, possessive. His smile was slow, deliberate. “Wow,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “You look so pretty beneath me.” My stomach twisted. I froze. My throat clenched tight as my mind screamed move, fight, run—but my body refused.

I wanted to scream. To shove him away. To do something. But my limbs felt heavy. Useless. My heartbeat thundered in my ears, drowning out the world, drowning out me. And in that moment, I felt small. Powerless. And he was so close.

I hated the fear crawling up my spine, hated how real it felt. Tears stung my eyes as Seong-Je's brutal grip tightened on my chin, forcing me to meet his cold, manic stare. The sickening grin twisting his handsome features sent icy tendrils of pure terror snaking through my veins. I was trapped, helpless, as he dragged me up to my knees, my body betraying me by refusing to fight back.

"Fuck, look at you," Seong-Je purred, voice dripping with cruel amusement. "Such a pretty little thing, all scared and trembling. It's fucking beautiful." He turned to the others, barking orders. "Dong-Ha, Seong-Mok, get the cameras rolling. I want every fucking second of this recorded." Without hesitation, Seong-Mok pulled out his phone, already flipping it to video mode and started recording.

Seeing the phone pointed straight at me made something in my chest collapse. Cold panic surged through me. My breath hitched. I turned my face slightly, instinctively trying to hide, even though I knew there was nowhere to go. The light from the screen glared like a spotlight, unblinking and cruel. And then Seong-Je laughed.

“Aww,” he said, voice dripping with mock pity. “Getting all shy now that the camera’s rolling?” He leaned in close again, his breath brushing my ear. “What’s wrong? You were making such pretty noises a second ago. Don’t tell me you’re camera-shy.” His words hit like acid—slow-burning and meant to leave scars. I clenched my teeth, blinking fast, my hands fists at my sides. Shame and fear tangled in my chest until I didn’t know which would break me first.

My heart jackhammered against my ribs, blood roaring in my ears. Panic clawed at my throat, choking me, as I watched Jun-tae struggle against the union thugs holding him back. No one could save me. No one was coming.

Seong-Je’s fingers clamped around my cheeks, digging in hard enough to bruise as he wrenched my face side to side—examining me like I was nothing more than meat. His eyes glinted with something unhinged, something wrong. That same look villains wore in horror films, right before they stopped pretending to be human. “Stop fucking around,” he growled, voice rough and full of heat. Spit hit my skin as he yanked my jaw back, grip punishing. “Be a good little slut and hold still.” The words struck like a slap—sharp, humiliating, meant to shatter. I squeezed my eyes shut, a broken whimper slipping from my throat before I could stop it. He leaned in closer, his breath brushing my cheek, thick with heat and cruelty.

“You like this,” he hissed. “Don’t pretend you don’t.”

I didn’t answer.

He stared at me for a moment, breath ragged, chest rising like he was barely keeping himself contained.

And then—he let go.

His hand dropped from my face fast and rough, like even touching me disgusted him now.

My jaw throbbed. My pulse raced.

And all I could do was sit there, shaking, heart slamming against my ribs. God, please make it stop. Please, someone help me. 

There was no help coming. Only the echo of cruel laughter bouncing off brick and the sharp bite of cold air against my skin.

He stood in front of me, eyes locked on mine—glinting with something violent. Something wrong. But it wasn’t just the danger that made my breath hitch. It was the way he looked at me.

He licked his lips, head tilted, gaze sliding down my body like he was cataloging every breath I took. “You look real pretty like this,” he murmured. “Scared.”

He reached for his belt. Slowly. Deliberately.

The leather whispered through the loops, one soft, ominous pull at a time. The sound was almost too loud in the quiet. Like a countdown.

I watched, heart pounding wildly, as he rolled the belt between his fingertips, the black leather glinting darkly in the harsh sunlight. His eyes never left mine, boring into me with a predatory intensity that made my blood run cold.

He folded the belt in half, the two ends dangling menacingly as he took a step closer, backing me up against the rough brick wall. The heat of the sun, the unyielding cold of the bricks, and the sheer, icy menace radiating from Seong-Je created a terrifying juxtaposition of sensations.

"Such a pretty little thing," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "So soft and helpless. I can't wait to mark up this delicate skin." He reached out, trailing the folded edge of the belt lightly down my cheek, the leather cool and smooth against the feverish heat of my skin.

I flinched, a choked whimper catching in my throat, but I remained frozen, paralyzed by the dark promise in his eyes and the cold, unyielding pressure of the belt. The world seemed to slow, every movement deliberate and laden with threat.

Seong-Je's hand slid lower, the belt dragging across the racing pulse in my neck, making me shudder. The air between us was thick with anticipation, the heavy silence broken only by the distant, muffled sounds of the city that seemed a world away.

He paused, belt poised just above my collarbone, his gaze locked with mine. In that moment, I saw the monster lurking beneath the handsome exterior, the cruel sadist who would take twisted pleasure in my pain and degradation.

Then, with a sinister smile, he raised the belt, and everything changed. The first crack of leather against skin shattered the tense silence, and my screams echoed off the alleyway walls as my nightmare truly began.

The belt came down hard across my breasts my shirt doing noting to protect me from the sharp sting of the leather biting into my soft flesh. I cried out, arching away from the brutal impact, but there was no escape from Seong-Je's relentless assault. He followed me, crowding into my space, pinning me against the rough brick wall with his body as he raised the belt again.

"Fuck, listen to those pretty screams," he growled, dark eyes glinting with sadistic amusement. "I knew you'd have a nice set of lungs on you." I looked up at him, terrified, breath catching in my throat. I could hear Hyun-Tak beside us, shouting—his voice raw, panicked, and cracking under the weight of it all.

“Please,” he begged. “Please, leave her alone! She didn’t do anything! I’m the one you want—take it out on me, not her, please—”

The sound of him begging shattered something in me.

“I’m the one you want,” he repeated, choked and broken now. “She’s my sister. Please, Seong-Je, I’m begging you!”

Seong-Je turned his head slowly, his jaw tight with something colder than rage.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped. The words hit like a gunshot, slicing through Hyun-Tak’s pleas like a knife. The look he shot Hyun-Tak could’ve killed. Cold. Merciless. Like a loaded gun aimed straight at his soul, then his attention was back on me, his fingers brushing my face with mock-gentleness that made my skin crawl.

“He’s so fucking annoying,” Seong-Je muttered with a smirk, like Hyun-Tak’s begging was nothing more than background noise. “Now… where was I?” Hyun-Tak’s voice cracked again in the background—still begging, still dragging himself forward on trembling limbs—until Dong-Ha stepped in and slammed a boot into his side, knocking the breath out of him with a brutal thud. 

Seong-Je tugged my shirt open with slow, deliberate hands, exposing the bruises and welts blooming across my skin—his marks.

“Look at you,” Seong-Je murmured, voice low and dangerous, like velvet soaked in sin. “Marked up so fucking pretty.”

The leather strap in his grip dragged across my chest, cold and smooth, tracing the line of one welt like a signature.

“I knew you’d have perfect tits,” he said, almost reverent. “Can’t wait to feel them in my hands—see how they respond when I take my time.”

He dropped the belt, the sound of it hitting the ground a dark promise. His hands replaced it immediately, gripping my breasts hard enough to bruise, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. He squeezed and kneaded, his touch rough and demanding, bordering on painful.

I whimpered, trying to pull away, but he pulled me up fast from my knee, his hips pinning mine to the wall. I could feel his dick pressing against me through his pants, grinding against my stomach. Revulsion churned in my gut, but I was trapped, helpless to stop his exploration.

"Such a fucking tease," Seong-Je snarled, twisting my nipples hard. "Flashing your tits, flaunting this sexy little body. You knew what you were doing, didn't you?"

“Seong-Mok!” Seong-Je barked, voice cutting through the air like a whip. “Get over here.” Seong-Mok shoved Jun-Tae to the ground without hesitation, knowing he was too shaken to fight back.

“I want this on camera,” Seong-Je said, eyes never leaving me. “Every fucking second.”

Fear gripped me as Seong-Je fumbled with his pants, freeing his cock. Before I could react, he grabbed my thigh, hiking my leg up to wrap around his hip. I was forced to balance on one foot, the position leaving me vulnerable and exposed.

"Fuck, look at you," Seong-Je growled, rubbing the swollen head of his cock along my clothed slit, teasing, tormenting. "Such a pretty little thing, all scared and shaking. You want this, don't you? Want me to fill this tight pussy with my cock?"

I shook my head frantically, fresh tears spilling down my cheeks. "No, please don't-"

"Shut up," he snapped, hand fisting in my hair, wrenching my head back. "Don't fucking lie to me. I can feel how wet you are."

He punctuated his words by shoving my panties aside and driving forward, splitting me open on his thick shaft. I screamed, the sudden intrusion burning, stretching me past the point of comfort. He was so big, so hard, filling me completely.

"Fuck, so goddamn tight," Seong-Je grunted, starting to move. He set a brutal pace, pounding into me, the obscene slap of skin on skin echoing in the alleyway. "Gonna ruin this pussy, make it mine, right baby."

I tried to turn my face away from his intense stare, overwhelmed, degraded, but he grabbed my chin, forcing me to hold eye contact. His thumb pressed hard against my bottom lip, pushing into my mouth.

"Look at me when I fuck you, baby," he demanded, voice rough and ragged. "I want to see those pretty eyes when you come."

I whimpered, squeezing my eyes shut, but he just swore

"No, no, no. Look. At. Me," Seong-Je snarled each word, punctuating them with sharp thrusts that punished my cervix. His fingers dug into the flesh of my thigh hard enough to leave bruises, holding me in place as he railed into me.

Even with Seong-Je towering over me, every breath shallow and sharp, I could still hear Hyun-Tak—his voice breaking with panic.

“Please,” he begged, again and again. “Please, stop it!”

The sound of his voice tore straight through me.

It was desperate like something had cracked wide open inside him and all that was left was fear.

But Seong-Je didn’t even glance back.

“Shut the fuck up,” he yelled back still looking at me with that nasty smile on his face. But Hyun-Tak didn’t stop. He was still trying to crawl toward me, coughing, one hand dragging along the concrete as Dong-Ha moved to block him again. Behind him, Jun-Tae pushed himself up from the ground, shaking. “You’re sick,” he spat, voice cracking. “You’re fucking sick, Seong-Je—” He didn’t get to finish. Seong-Mok backhanded him hard enough to knock him into the wall, where he slid down, dazed but still conscious. And then Sieun. Still standing. Still silent. But his hands were clenched into fists so tight they were bleeding at the knuckles. His eyes locked on Seong-Je like he was memorizing every inch of him—planning something, but he couldn’t move.

"Fucking hell, you're gripping me so nicely," he groaned, hips slapping lewdly against mine. "Such a perfect little cock sleeve."

His other hand slid up my body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He wrapped his fingers around my throat, squeezing just enough to make my heart stutter. I gasped for air, dizzy from the lack of oxygen and the brutal pace of his fucking.

"Please," I choked out, voice raspy and weak. "It hurts... you're hurting me..."

"Hurts so good though, doesn't it?" he purred darkly, thumb pressing into my windpipe. "I can feel how much you love it. Your greedy little pussy is sucking me in, begging for more."

Seong-Je leaned in close, breath hot and ragged against my ear. "I'm going to fuck this pussy until it's molded to the shape of my cock," he promised viciously. "Until you forget your own name and only remember mine. I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."

His words sent a chill down my spine, a terrifying mix of fear and a perverse, unwanted thrill. I knew he meant every dark, depraved promise. He was going to break me and remake me into his twisted plaything, filming every brutal second of my defilement. The camera lenses felt like a thousand accusing eyes, immortalizing my shame.

Seong-Je's hips stuttered, his cock swelling impossibly thicker inside me. I knew he was close, knew what was coming. With a guttural growl, he pulled out abruptly, leaving me feeling hollow and violated.

"On your knees, babe," he barked, shoving me down hard onto the filthy alleyway. My knees scraped against the rough concrete, but I had no time to register the pain before Seong-Je grabbed my hair, yanking my head back. "Open up," he demanded, stroking his thick, angry red cock. "I want to see my cum dripping down your pretty face."

I whimpered, trying to turn away, but his grip was unforgiving. The first hot spurt of his release splattered across my cheek. I choked on a sob as he painted my face with his seed, each pulse of his cock leaving me more degraded than the last.

"Fuck, look at that," Seong-Je groaned, his other hand guiding Seong-Mok's camera to capture every humiliating detail. "Such a perfect little cum dumpster. You love this, don't you? Love being my personal slut?"

I shook my head frantically, but the words died in my throat as another stream of cum hit my parted lips. The bitter taste filled my mouth, making me gag.

Seong-Je finally released his grip on my hair, tucking himself back into his pants with practiced ease. He straightened his clothes, fixing the disheveled appearance, while I remained on my knees, his cum dripping down my chin and onto my heaving chest.

He turned to Hyun-Tak, his earlier frenzied state replaced by a cold, calculated demeanor. "Tell Baku," Seong-Je said, voice smooth and menacing, "that if he doesn't agree to join the union, this will be a daily occurrence. I'll make sure of it."

His eyes glinted with a cruel, twisted promise. "And if that's not enough motivation..." He paused, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. "I could always make your sister my new plaything. Let the union boys have a go at her too. Wouldn't that be fun?"

Hyun-Tak froze. The blood drained from his face, horror blooming wide in his eyes. Seong-Je turned away like he hadn’t just shattered the ground beneath us. “Let’s go,” he muttered to the union guys. And just like that, they disappeared into the alley’s shadows, taking their laughter and threats with them.

For a second, no one moved. The silence was deafening.

Then Hyun-Tak stumbled forward, faster than I could react, falling to his knees in front of me. His hands trembled as he reached for me—fixing my shirt, gently pulling the torn fabric over my chest, his eyes flicking up to mine with a thousand things he wanted to say but couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so—are you okay? Are you hurt?” I shook my head, but the words were stuck in my throat.

Jun-Tae hovered behind him, scraped up and stunned, eyes wide like he couldn’t process what just happened. Sieun stood a few steps back, fists still clenched, breathing uneven. His gaze was locked on where Seong-Je had disappeared. Focused. Like something in him had just shifted. None of us spoke. Because there was nothing left to say.

fin

© 2025 mymelllllinda

[burrowlvrr]

— MORTGAGE MISCHIEF, joe burrow.

PAIRING: Joe Burrow 𝔁 Black!Wife!Reader

GENRE: Husband & Dad Joe

SUMMARY: In which — Y/N caves in and makes a TikTok account, and it doesn't take long for her to try to prank her unserious husband.

NOTE: I love this trend on TikTok so freaking much, bro, I just couldn't help myself. I wish there was more pranks going around TikTok so I could write another one lol! Feel free to send me more ideas and suggestions, enjoy!

UNIVERSE: Tenderhearts & Touchdowns!

Y/N had never been the kind of person to keep up with social media trends. Her Instagram was mostly filled with family snapshots, vacation photos, and the occasional throwback post from her college days. TikTok, though? That was a whole different ballgame.

She’d heard the buzz about it, of course—the dances, the memes, the endless rabbit hole of videos that could steal hours of your day—but it wasn’t really her thing.

That is, until some of Joe’s fans started flooding her DMs.

It wasn’t unusual for her to get messages from fans, most of them kind and supportive, occasionally sprinkled with the usual social media chaos. But after a family photo Joe posted went viral—a candid shot of the two of them laughing while their kids played in the background—her inbox blew up.

Several people had suggested she start a TikTok account, saying things like, “Your family is so cute, we’d love to see more of you guys!” and “Please post more videos of Joe being a dad; it’s the content we all need!”

At first, she brushed it off. The idea of putting her family out there in such a public way made her hesitant. Their life was private, cozy, and real—did she really want to open that up to the internet? But the messages kept coming, and her curiosity eventually got the better of her. One evening, after the kids were asleep and Joe was watching game highlights, she downloaded the app.

It didn’t take long for TikTok to reel her in. The first few days, she lurked quietly, scrolling through endless videos of clever pranks, hilarious parenting fails, and, of course, a whole section of TikToks dedicated to football wives and girlfriends. It was the pranks that hooked her.

Women were pulling the funniest, most creative stunts on their unsuspecting husbands—pretending to be mad over made-up arguments, mispronouncing their favorite athletes’ names, and her personal favorite, casually dropping bombshell “confessions” to see how their partners would react.

She couldn’t resist.

“This would be perfect for Joe,” she’d said to herself one night, already grinning at the thought. He was so even-keeled most of the time, but his sass came out when he was caught off guard, and she couldn’t wait to see what he’d say.

So, Y/N started posting. At first, it was just lighthearted videos of their kids, like Hudson and Elijah racing each other in the backyard or Sawyer trying to crawl after their dog, who always managed to stay just out of reach. The comments poured in, full of love and laughter, and she started to feel less nervous about sharing these little moments. And then came the pranks.

She eased into them, starting small—things like pretending to forget what day of the week it was or asking Joe if she could switch his game-day hoodie with one of hers. His reactions were gold, and her videos started gaining traction. She didn’t know how many people would find it so funny, but apparently, the internet loved Joe Burrow getting pranked as much as she did.

Which is how she found herself, phone in hand, ready to execute her latest and possibly best trend yet: the “I can’t pay the mortgage this month” prank.

The living room buzzed with the quiet hum of family life. Hudson and Elijah were seated cross-legged on the rug, their faces scrunched in concentration as they connected Lego pieces, the colorful blocks scattered across the coffee table like a mini construction zone. Sawyer, their youngest, was on the floor nearby, rolling lazily on her playmat while holding her bottle with both hands, occasionally babbling nonsense to herself.

Joe was stretched out on the couch, the epitome of relaxation in his gray hoodie and sweatpants, his wife’s legs comfortably draped over his thighs. His focus was glued to the MMA fight playing on the TV, and he absently stirred his spoon around a bowl of cereal balanced in his hand.

Every so often, he’d let out a low, “Oof,” reacting to a particularly hard punch or takedown, his body slightly tensing with the action on screen.

Y/N sat beside him, phone in hand, scrolling through TikTok. She stumbled across the trend a few hours ago, and decided that now was too good an opportunity to pass up.

Glancing sideways at Joe, she smirked to herself. This will be fun.

She adjusted her phone subtly, angling it to record, and cleared her throat dramatically. “Joe?”

“Hmm?” he murmured, not taking his eyes off the screen as he scooped another bite of cereal.

“I need to tell you something,” she said softly, injecting a hint of nervousness into her tone.

Joe didn’t look up. “What’s up, baby?”

“Don’t get mad at me, okay?” she added, biting her bottom lip to suppress a grin.

That got his attention. Joe’s hand froze midair, his spoon hovering over the bowl, and he turned his head toward her, squinting slightly.

“What? Why would I get mad?” His sharp gaze shifted to the phone in her lap. “Wait… why’re you recording? You pregnant again?”

Y/N burst out laughing at his assumption, unable to keep up her serious facade. “What? No!”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause that’s how you told me about Sawyer,” he replied with a smirk, leaning back on the couch and rubbing his free hand over his face.

“You just pulled out your phone, started recording, and bam—‘Congratulations, you’re gonna be a dad again!’” Y/N rolled her eyes but couldn’t help giggling. “I’m serious, Joe. This is important.”

“Alright, alright,” he said, setting his cereal down on the side table and shifting so he was facing her fully. “What’s going on? And why are you being all dramatic about it?”

Y/N took a deep breath, steadying herself before delivering her line. “I, uh… I won’t be able to pay the mortgage this month.”

Joe blinked at her, his brows knitting together in confusion. “Girl, what are you talking about?” His tone was casual but tinged with disbelief.

She tried to keep her composure, clasping her hands together as if pleading. “The school’s on winter break, so my paycheck isn’t going to be enough. I just—ugh, I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Joe stared at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Okay, wait. How much is the mortgage?”

Y/N’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “Uh… like… $2,000?” she guessed, feigning confidence.

Joe’s mouth twitched, and he let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Babe. You don’t even know how much it is, do you?”

“Well…” she stalled, trying to recover.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, leaning back against the couch and crossing his arms. “You’ve never paid the mortgage.”

“I know!” Y/N blurted, throwing her hands up dramatically. “I was going to as your Christmas present, but my paycheck won’t be enough now!”

Joe’s brow furrowed again, but this time his lips quirked upward, unable to hide his amusement. “So let me get this straight. You don’t know how much the mortgage is. You’ve never paid it before. And now you’re stressed because your Christmas present was gonna be paying it, but you can’t?”

“Exactly!” she said, doubling down.

For a moment, Joe just stared at her, then he broke into a deep laugh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You’re crazy,” he muttered, shaking his head. Grabbing his cereal bowl, he leaned back against the couch.

“Don’t worry about it, babe. I got it.” He scooped another spoonful and took a bite like it was the most casual thing in the world.

Y/N couldn’t hold it in any longer. She burst into laughter, clutching her stomach as she nearly dropped her phone.

Joe raised an eyebrow at her, still chewing. “What’s so funny now?”

“It was a TikTok prank!” she wheezed, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes.

Joe’s smirk deepened as he shook his head. “Yeah, I figured. There’s no way you were being serious.”

“You were so calm about it, though!” she said, still laughing. “I really thought I’d get a bigger reaction out of you!”

“Nah,” Joe replied, reaching over to pinch her ankle playfully. “You’re too bad at lying, babe. Next time, at least Google how much the mortgage is first.”

From the floor, Hudson looked up from the Lego set with a curious expression. “What’s a mortgage?”

Joe snorted, pointing his spoon at his son. “Something you don’t gotta worry about, buddy.”

Elijah chimed in without looking up from his Legos. “Mommy’s bad at pranks.”

Sawyer let out a happy babble from her playmat, almost as if she agreed.

Joe laughed, pulling Y/N closer with one arm. “Looks like the jury’s unanimous, babe. Better luck next time.”

[duvetchico]

can i request for a jealous karina?😶‍🌫️😶‍🌫️

i hate them. not you.

summary jimin gets jealous over you talking to a backup dancer and starts acting like a dramatic little kid

genre fluff / crack / jealous!jimin /established relationship,

pairing yu jimin x fem!reader

masterlist.

you were talking to some backup dancer. some backup dancer. that was already crime enough in jimin’s book.

you didn’t think anything of it—just a casual convo between schedules. he asked if you liked the lunch catering and you, being a decent human being, said “yeah it was pretty good, actually.” that was all. that was it.

and yet from the other side of the room, karina—aespa’s karina, your girlfriend, your lovely, gorgeous, currently pouty of a girlfriend—was watching like she was about to kill you, him, and the rice cooker in one breath.

you came back over to where she was sitting, legs crossed, phone in hand but clearly not paying attention to whatever the screen was showing. “you good?”

“i’m great,” she replied. oh that tone. that tone.

you squint at her. “you mad?”

“no. i’m chilling. actually. never better. in fact, i think i’m the definition of inner peace right now.”

“…you’re mad.”

“i’m not mad, i’m just saying. interesting how you never talk that long to me about catering.”

you blink. “what—babe, i literally asked you if you wanted my last spring roll this morning.”

“yeah. and you ate it anyway.”

“YOU SAID YOU DIDN’T WANT IT.”

“yeah but it’s the principle, y/n!”

you stare. she stares harder.

-

later that day, she’s still being passive-aggressive. she pretends she doesn’t know where your water bottle is. she sends you memes with captions like “when ur girl flirts with another man in front of u 😍💔” and says she “found them randomly.” she tells you she’s busy when you ask her to help curl the ends of your hair—only to be found exactly 2 minutes later curled up on the couch watching tiktoks with ningning.

“bro. are you for real right now,” you ask her.

“i’m literally always real,” she says without looking up.

-

but the peak, the absolute peak, is when she tries to flirt back with the same guy out of revenge.

it’s a disaster.

he compliments her outfit. she looks him dead in the eye and says, “thanks. it has pockets.”

silence.

you choke on your water from behind the camera.

-

later, when you’re finally back at the dorm, you corner her in the kitchen while she’s pretending to make tea.

“baby.”

“hm.”

“are you mad at me for real or are you just being a bitch for the aesthetic.”

she slams the tea packet down dramatically. “you flirted with him.”

“he said the kimchi stew was mid and i said ‘nah i liked it’—how is that flirting?!”

“you laughed.”

“because he made a joke!”

“you don’t laugh that hard at my jokes!”

“BECAUSE YOUR JOKES AREN’T FUNNY.”

silence.

you both freeze.

jimin blinks. slowly.

you take that back immediately. “wait—WAIT—I MEANT LIKE—YOU’RE FUNNY—IN A WAY—IN A WEIRD LITTLE WAY—I MEANT YOUR JOKES AREN’T FUNNY BUT LIKE THAT’S WHAT MAKES THEM FUNNY—”

she crosses her arms. “so i’m a joke.”

“no—”

“you think i’m a joke.”

“NO BABY—”

“a whole clown.”

“JIMIN.”

you sprint across the kitchen and grab her face gently. “listen. you’re so sexy when you’re mad but i cannot have you looking this sad over kimchi stew man. i am so far gone for you it’s not even funny. like i let you finish my fries yesterday without complaining. my fries, jimin.”

she narrows her eyes, but a smile is threatening to break out. “you did call me unfunny.”

“ok but you literally said ‘i’m cold’ yesterday and i said ‘hi cold i’m y/n’ and you left the room.”

she groans. “because that joke SUCKED.”

“AND YET I’M STILL THE BAD GUY!”

you’re both laughing now, leaning forehead to forehead as she finally lets you pull her in for a hug.

“you know i only care cause i like you, right?” she mumbles, arms tucked around your waist.

“like me?” you tease. “wow. scandalous.”

“shut up.”

“you like me? omg—”

“y/n.”

“i should tell that backup dancer—he’ll be devastated.”

she pinches your waist but doesn’t let go. “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

“you’re lucky i’m still giving you the other half of my banana milk.”

“…can we split fries again tomorrow?”

“you’re mine again now?”

“i was always yours,” she says, soft this time, cheek resting on your shoulder.

you feel your stomach do five flips and a somersault.

you’re never eating kimchi stew with anyone else again.

[mmochammoss]

Fan behavior

Izuku Midoriya had burner accounts. Plural.

Some were obvious, like the ones he used to scroll through hero discourse on Twitter or reply to fans anonymously. But some were…

more specific.

A private Instagram that followed pro-hero fanpages, analysis pages, and even a few shipping accounts. A Reddit username dedicated to lurking in threads like r/heroranks and r/candidproheroes. A TikTok profile with zero posts but a very suspiciously curated ‘likes’ tab.

He had always been like this. Always online. Always watching. Not in a creepy way, just in a lifelong fanboy kind of way. Most people assumed he didn’t have time for any of that anymore now that he was the number-four hero. But Deku made time.

Especially when it came to you.

You had taken the hero world by storm. All strength, grace, and confidence, with a quirk that could split pavement and a smile that could break the internet.

He remembered watching your first solo billboard debut while eating convenience store snacks on the rooftop of a building at two in the morning, freezing mid-bite because you looked that good.

You were always beautiful. Always capable. Always you. And he was always… just a little bit obsessed.

Not in a weird way, of course.

You were old classmates. Friends. You had trained together, cried together, fought alongside one another back in the U.A. days. You’d even defended him online after his first public interview when his voice cracked halfway through a sentence.

You’d always been sweet to him. Gentle. Supportive.

He used to chalk up his crush on you to proximity. Just another harmless high school thing. Everyone had one, right?

But his thoughts of you didn’t fade the way most high school crushes were supposed to.

They only grew.

And now, years later, every time your face popped up on the side of a building or in his timeline, he remembered just how thoroughly and hopelessly he had not grown out of it.

Especially when he saw the fan content. And there was always so, so, so much of it.

It made total sense to him though. You were internet gold.

There were memes. There were fancams. There were reaction edits, deep-dives, lore threads, shipping compilations, whole Discord servers dedicated to analyzing your every move and wondering which pro hero you might be dating (if any).

Izuku tried not to pay too much attention.

Until one night, curled up in bed after patrol, scrolling on one of his private burner accounts, when he saw it. A fan edit titled simply:

“She looks at him like that’s her favorite person alive.”

It was under some viral TikTok audio, something soft and emotional.

The clips were nothing special on their own. Moments pulled from interviews, red carpet footage, post-battle recaps.

But they were all of you and him.

You glancing at him across a press panel. Smiling at something he’d said in an old agency interview. A photo someone had taken where you had your hand on his shoulder after a tough mission, face full of quiet pride.

And his favorite:

A short clip where you’d been asked about what hero inspired you most these days.

You had smiled, eyes soft, and answered,

“Ouuuuu? Who inspires me the most?… Probably Deku! I look at all he’s done and all he’s gone through and it reminds me that I can always push harder, do more, be better, y’know?”

He watched it three times.

Then a fourth.

Smiling through every rewatch, until…

“Shit.”

He threw his phone onto the bed, face hot, heart racing. He stared up at the ceiling and groaned.

Because he knew. He finally, finally knew. This wasn’t just some crush anymore.

He’d liked you once, of course.

Back in school, it was simple. You were warm, kind, devastatingly beautiful, and you always treated him like he mattered, even when he barely believed it himself.

But this? This was different. It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t innocent. It was full-body want.

The kind that lived in his soul, tight and aching, every time your name lit up his feed. And God, he felt so guilty for it sometimes.

Because you were more than beautiful.

You were brilliant. Respected. One of the top heroes in the country. And a good person. And he admired you for that. He did.

But sometimes…

Sometimes he just wanted to imagine you whispering his name.

Not “Deku.” Not “Midoriya.” Izuku.

He wanted to hate himself for how his mind wandered. For how badly he wanted to touch you. To kiss you. To pull you into his lap and feel your fingers drag through his hair as he got drunk on your lips.

He wanted your body wrapped around him after long missions. Your thighs warm against his sides. Your mouth against his skin. Your voice soft with pleasure, telling him just how much you’d missed him.

And worse than all of that? He wanted you to want him back. Not as a coworker. Not as a friend. But as something real.

He rolled over onto his stomach, face burning as he buried it in the pillow and groaned. He shouldn’t think like this. He knew better. But it was too late.

Because it wasn’t just about how badly he wanted to kiss you anymore. It was about how deeply, desperately, helplessly he was in love with you. Not some idealized version of you. Not the you from glossy spreads or high-res fan edits.

You.

The way your nose scrunched when you laughed. The way you chewed on pen caps when thinking. The way you’d always text him congratulations after a good mission, even when he hadn’t spoken to you in weeks.

You were real.

And he wanted you in every way a person could be wanted. He felt ashamed of it. Guilty. Like he was crossing some unspoken line just for thinking it. But how could he not?

How could he not dream of kissing you until your knees gave out? Of holding you so close he’d feel your heartbeat match his? Of letting you ride the high of your shared victories straight into his arms, or his bed, into something so perfect it made his brain short-circuit?

He wanted you. He was so far gone.

Maybe, someday, if he could stop hiding behind burner accounts and start being brave again he’d tell you.

And if you let him, he’d love you for real. Not from a distance. Not through a screen. Not like a fan.

Like a man who wanted to be completely and totally yours.

[slytherinshua]

ᝰ　LOVE THINGS　( 엔시티 위시 )

      summary . . . little things they do in a relationship !

genre fluff , established relationship , headcanons , nct wish x reader   cw kissing , teasing , some food mention , not proofread    wc 887   request no   note ugh i'm going crazy i love wishies so bad. these were just little thoughts that came to me while i was watching some behind videos and lord i love these boys so much :( put on tears are falling and trust my tears WILL start to fall   net @kstrucknet @chrimatanet

OH SION ﾐ 오시온

needs hugs to recharge throughout the day. same with kisses. always begging you for affection even if you give him a lot, and will cling to you as well. he can just never get enough and will come up with excuses just to get an extra kiss out of you.

gets excited even for the little things like a surprise day off or an extra hour to spend with you. never lets you get bored and always has ideas of what to do together to make it a date. any time spent with your boyfriend is time well spent. 

definitely has a picture of you as his phone background. on long work days or overseas schedules he misses you too much and likes to still see your face when video calling isn’t an option. likes the idea of matching couple rings or a necklace to have when you’re apart and gets a pair for you at some point.

MAEDA RIKU ﾐ 前田 陸

wears tank tops or t-shirts that look really good on him and then pretends he doesn’t know why you’re staring at him or all over him. he can’t feign ignorance for too long, though, because he always ends up giggling at how cute you are. 

shares his food with you and always makes sure you eat well. would rather order something you like and share it than order something he’s personally craving, especially if you are slightly pickier with your food. he loves enjoying food together and seeing you satisfied. 

has to hold your hand if you’re ever walking somewhere. more of a comfort than function. he knows he won’t lose you, but he likes the feeling of having your hand in his. will also reach out to hold your hand if you’re sitting next to each other. he likes the feeling of your soft skin.

TOKUNO YUSHI ﾐ 得能勇志

eye contact from across the room leads to mini staring contests that end in giggles and laughter. he’ll stare at you like a little cat until he gets your attention just to smile or wink to see you blush or roll your eyes. 

appears out of nowhere sneaking behind you for hugs or planting kisses on your cheek or neck. you often hear him before you see him if he whispers his favourite nickname for you or a simple hey before his arms are wrapping around you.

lies on top of you whenever you’re sitting on the couch. loves when you play with his hair or kiss his forehead. but will also tease you by blocking any attempts to kiss his lips. until you push him onto the floor and then he’s coming back to you begging for a real kiss. 

KIM DAEYOUNG ﾐ 김대영

always texts you throughout the day, sending memes or little updates. especially during practice when he’s surrounded by the other members’ antics. he sits on the side of the studio and finds his own peaceful quiet by messaging you. 

loves taking couple photos and practically has to take a new one each day. whether an ootd photo in the mirror or a cute pose where you’re kissing his cheek, he loves his little collection of them to remember each day with you. prints them out as polaroids and puts his favourite one in his phone case.

will sing any song you like and sends you little covers through voice messages throughout the day. he’ll include raw takes too when he messes up the lyrics or forgets the melody and you might just love when his giggles interrupt the cover even more than a perfect take.

HIROSE RYO ﾐ 廣瀬遼

shares all his clothes with you and even accessories too. his hoodies are practically your sweaters, and his necklaces end up on you more often than he wears them. he thinks it’s super cute, but you do have to compete with sakuya sometimes for dibs on ryo’s sweaters.

teases you with his kisses by pulling away too fast or kissing just beside your lips. only does it to get a reaction out of you and will of course give you a proper kiss eventually, but he lives for your grumpy face. 

is so patient with you and puts up with your cuteness aggression for him. perhaps he understands it because he feels the same urge to squish sakuya’s cheeks (and yours, too). doesn’t mind if his face is showered in kisses and he’s trapped in a tight hug for minutes. let’s you squeeze him like he’s your personal teddy bear. 

FUJINAGA SAKUYA ﾐ 藤永咲哉

the king of matching everything with you: shirts, nails, shoes, even hair ties. he always lets you play with his hair or put it up before he has dance practice. and if his nails aren’t matching with yours, he’s doing something wrong. 

he’s your best friend truly before being your boyfriend, and all the inside jokes you made as friends still make you giggle when they’re brought up. sakuya loves to recreate them whenever he can to make you giggle uncontrollably.

is still super shy with you at times, even though you’ve been dating for a while. if you kiss him by surprise his cheeks will tint pink and he might even stutter over his words. he’s used to being teased by the members for being the youngest and lovesick, and he may never grow out of his shyness towards you.

nct wish taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @lexeees,, @nyukyusnz,, @planetkiimchi,, @haecien,, @talkingsaxy,, @thesunsfullmoon,, @hursheys,, @mjupis,, @lilly-cherry7,, @kpopandbookschild,, @taroddori,, @lexeees,, @voikiraz,, @xikskrrrs,, @cupidslovearrows,, @yvshi,, @nicholasluvbot

[scoutofmymind]

Reader and Luigi basically being the old married couple of the group. A newcomer finds out that they aren’t actually together and it feels like breaking news because it’s basically assumed by most that they’re together. Maybe it isn’t until one of them starts getting actively pursued by someone else when it starts clicking why it makes them uncomfortable at the idea. Trying to leave this open ended for you.

The Jester’s Fucking the King — {Luigi x Reader }

Content: I’m gonna call this one NSFW— MDNI, friends to lovers, confusing feelings, Luigi has a physical touch fixation, you’re his fidget toy, fr tho, emotional manipulation lowkey, just a pinch (if you squint) of dirty talk, kinda love triangle

Wc: 3,458

Notes: yourself and Luigi have been Inseparable for six years, and the introduction of a new friend into the group throws a wrench into everything.

Before we start, I wanna make a quick note about the title, and where the hell it came from (lol). I was inspired by a tumblr post I came across awhile ago, and it stuck with me, I guess, because I randomly thought of it while I was writing this. That’s all. Enjoy xo

I took this and ran with it.

As usual.

"Who's this guy that she's bringing again?" you ask to the car at large, slumped in the backseat between your roommate Scarlett and the window. Your thumb swipes across your phone screen, watching Chloe’s location dot inch its way across the map while Luigi maneuvers through traffic and Ben fidgets with the radio from the passenger seat.

"I dunno, some guy she met in her new sculpture class this semester," Luigi mumbles through a barely-concealed grimace. The thought of adding another person to their carefully balanced social ecosystem clearly weighs on him. You know he's already mentally rehearsing his nice to meet you smile, the kind that takes more energy than he's willing to spend on a random Tuesday night.

"It'd better not be that kid Cole," you mutter, already dreading the possibility.

And because the universe has a cruel sense of humor, it was absolutely, undeniably, that kid Cole.

It hardly mattered what preconceived notions you’d had about him; they dissolved over time as Chloe started bringing him around more often.

The traits you once found annoying gradually morphed into something oddly endearing.

Still, he never quite seemed to understand the dynamic between you and Luigi.

On movie nights, when the six of you crammed into the living room, a messy sprawl of friends and blankets overtaking the couch and floor, you naturally claimed your usual spot; sprawled out across Luigi’s lap. Tonight was no different. You laid there with your back propped against the arm of the couch, scrolling through Instagram while your bottom half stretched longways over him, as if his lap had always been yours to occupy.

Every so often, you’d interrupt the movie to show him a meme or a video a mutual friend had sent. You’d lean in close, shoulders brushing, stifling your laughter together so as not to disturb the others watching John Wick. “That’s fucked up,” he muttered through a barely-contained chuckle, his eyes still on your phone screen.

Madison lives at home, her daily subway commute to campus a small price to pay for access to her parents' sprawling estate. Their backyard is a mediterranean dream, with a pool large enough to host the entire group of misfits, with room to spare.

You're draped over Luigi as he meanders around the pool's edge, both arms curved naturally around your waist beneath the waster. It's the kind of casual intimacy that comes from years of friendship, comfortable and worn-in. "Cole's actually pretty cool," he muses, tilting his head back expectantly.

You comply with the wordless request, holding the La Croix to his lips so he doesn't have to lift his hands from the water.

"Yeah," you agree, your eyes drifting across the pool to where Cole is pretending not to watch this whole exchange. His gaze darts away the moment yours meets his, like a kid caught stealing. "I really did think he was annoying at first, though."

Scarlett’s birthday party, your arms wrapped around Luigi’s waist, your head tucked beneath his arm as you swayed together and sang happy birthday. The whine as you shared a piece of cake, something about how “Luigi won’t even kiss me in public.” When someone said the two of you would have won prom king and queen if you went to the same high school.

Ben’s party followed just weeks later, the night still young and champagne bubbling through your veins. Luigi's hand clamped desperately over your mouth, but your eyes danced with mischief as you nodded enthusiastically at the circle gathered around you. "Yeah, Lu's got a PhD," you managed to say, and before he could stop you, the words tumbled out against his palm: "A pretty huge dick."

Cole watched.

"Did you know Cassie is seeing Dylan?" Cole asked, matching your frantic pace across campus. The morning fog swallowed your mumbled recitations as you mentally rehearsed your presentation for the hundredth time.

"Yeah, Cole, and I'm fucking Luigi.” you scoffed, the sarcasm dripping over every word like sticky molasses as you rolled your eyes. You yanked open the auditorium doors, disappearing behind them without a backward glance, mind already racing ahead to bullet points and transitions.

The very idea that Cole would believe such obvious campus gossip had you shaking your head as you slid into your seat.

But he did believe it.

He stood frozen in the hallway you'd left him in, staring at the closed doors like they might offer some explanation. "Yeah? I know.” he mumbled to your ghost, the words settling confused and heavy in the empty corridor.

The absolute certainty in his voice would have made you laugh, if you'd been there to hear it.

The seasons had shifted, and with them, Cole's hope had quietly ebbed away. After months of watching you, he'd finally accepted what everyone else seemed to know instinctively — even if Luigi wasn't in the picture, you were simply out of reach.

Saturday night found your usual crew at your claimed table in Madison’s backyard, the surface cluttered with emptied drinks and scattered Uno cards. Luigi absently twisted the rings on your fingers — a mindless habit he'd developed somewhere between freshman year and now — while chaos erupted around you.

The familiar symphony of shouted accusations about who was hiding the Draw Four cards mixed with the glow of phones being passed around, TikToks and screenshots sparking new waves of laughter.

Cole watched the way Luigi's fingers danced over yours, and for the first time, the sight didn't sting quite so much.

“I still can't believe Dylan and Cassie are dating," Cole mused through a cloud of smoke, beer bottle dangling precariously from his left hand while a joint was stuffed between the fingers on his right.

The table fell silent, five pairs of eyes fixing on him with varying degrees of confusion and amusement.

"Who told you that?" Scarlett's voice cut through the stunned silence and the resurrection of a dead and gone campus rumor, her phone screen illuminating her face as Dylan's name flashed across it. "Where did you even hear that?"

Cole's eyes pinballed around the table, finally landing on you and Luigi.

Your hand was caught in one of Luigi's absent-minded gestures, knuckles pressed against his lips while he listened — a habit so commonplace to everyone else that they'd stopped noticing years ago. "Uh— wait—" Cole fumbled, taking a desperate pull from the joint as if the answer might be hiding in the smoke. He passed it to his left and asked through a cough, "Are they not?"

“No, you idiot.” Scarlett threw a lighter at him, which he narrowly dodged.

"Well- why did- “Cole's words stumbled over each other as he locked eyes with you across the table. Your brows knitted together, genuinely bewildered by his desperation. "I- you said they were," he insisted, hand gesturing vaguely in your direction like a drowning man reaching for a life raft.

Scarlett's head whipped toward you so fast her earrings clinked, a new lighter in her hand that was suddenly transformed into a weapon of interrogation, the flame pointed in your direction. "You what?"

"I didn't say that!" Your hands flew up defensively, face flushing as you ransacked your memory for any conversation that could've led to this moment.

But your mind offered nothing but static.

"I asked you if you could believe they were- and-“Cole gestured helplessly at Luigi, who was studying your profile with the intense focus of someone who'd stopped processing verbal language three hits ago. His fingers hadn't stopped their absent dance with your rings once you lowered your hands again from your surrender to Scarlett’s mercy, muscle memory outlasting coherent thought.

Cole felt like he'd stumbled into an alternate dimension where everyone spoke a language he'd never learned while those same pairs of eyes dissected him with the kind of judgment only drunk twenty-somethings could muster, making him feel about two inches tall. "And you said 'yeah, and I'm fucking Luigi,'" he defended weakly, the words sounding more ridiculous with each passing second.

"Yeah!" You practically launched across the table, laughter threatening to bubble over as understanding finally dawned. "Because I'm not!" The force of your declaration nearly knocked over someone's beer, but you were too busy watching Cole's face transform as the shoe finally, finally dropped.

Luigi, for his part, just kept twisting your rings, lost somewhere between the fourth dimension and your knuckles.

Cole's jaw went slack, his eyes darting around the table again where this time everyone had suddenly developed an acute interest in hiding their smirks behind their hands — a masterclass in delayed politeness. "What?" He practically shoved the joint away when it circled back, as if too-late sobriety might make this make more sense. "But- but the dick size jokes and- and you tell everyone he won't kiss you in public."

"Oh, you poor thing." Chloe dabbed at her eyes, tears of mirth threatening to ruin her mascara. "She's always done that shit." The words came out half-strangled by suppressed laughter.

Months passed, and Cole transformed into your personal guardian angel. One desperate NEED SUGAR NOW OR DEATH text to the group chat, and he'd materialize with your favorite convenience store candy before anyone else had even read the message.

He collected details about you: the way your nose scrunched at certain perfumes, how you could quote every line from that one movie, the specific shade of purple that made your eyes light up. When he finally told you he liked you — really liked you, more than he'd ever liked anyone — you said you liked him too.

The gravitational shift was subtle at first — like planets realigning. Your usual perch in Luigi's lap gradually migrated to the chair beside Cole, a transition so natural that few noticed, not even you.

It came to a head one Saturday when Luigi texted his absence from movie night, claiming a sudden illness.

The excuse was paper-thin, and you both knew it.

You stood outside his building, jabbing the buzzer with the familiarity of someone who'd done this a thousand times before. "I know you're not sick, Luigi." Your voice crackled through the intercom, bouncing off the walls of his apartment where he lay curled into himself on the sofa, rigid as rigor mortis. "I can see your Oura ring stats." The betrayal of technology made him groan, and the offending ring went sailing across the room, a tiny meteor of exposed lies.

His father knows the developer.

That's the only reason he'd agreed to wear the damn thing — a circular shackle of obligations that now betrayed him from somewhere under his coffee table.

Your finger finds the buzzer again, gentler this time.

"C'mon, bub. I miss you." The sweetness in your voice hits him like a sucker punch, memories of simpler times wrapped in those words. "It can be me and you tonight. We can have a bestie night." The offer dangles like a Time Machine to the past — back when your world was just two planets in perfect orbit, before it expanded into a solar system of friends.

Before Cole ever came around.

Luigi appears in the doorway like a ghost, just as you're about to admit defeat. Your face splits into a grin, but it falters when you really look at him. "God." Your eyes track the sharp edges of his collarbones beneath his shirt. "Have you been eating?" The question trails behind you as you follow him up the familiar path to the second floor.

The apartment feels wrong — like walking into a black and white version of a color photograph you know by heart. Every blind drawn tight against the afternoon sun, as if he's been developing emotional negatives in the dark. "Hey, what's going on?" Your fingers find his forearm, anchoring him before he can drift away again. "This is kinda giving me flashbacks to when you failed your final."

He flinches like you've pressed on a bruise, eyes scanning his self-made darkness as if seeing it for the first time - the familiar choreography of his pain laid bare by your observation. "This definitely feels different from that." His voice comes out hollow, each word carefully chosen to dance around the real issue.

"Better, or worse?"

"I don't know."

He sinks back into his spot on the couch, the oversized blanket making him look smaller than you've ever seen him. His eyes fix on the half-finished Lego set on his coffee table — the Millennium Falcon he'd started weeks ago, now collecting dust mid-construction.

Three hundred pieces still sealed in their bags, waiting.

"Is it your mom?" you try, but Luigi shakes his head. "Is it school?" Another head shake. "Work?" No. "Was it your aunt Lisa again? That bitch—" He cuts you off with another shake. "Is it me?"

The question hangs there, and Luigi pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, refusing to meet your eyes.

He lets out a long breath, knowing he's trapped himself here — in this moment, in this conversation, in this truth he's been avoiding.

No way out.

"What?" You cross the room in three quick strides, dropping beside him and tugging at the blanket he's using as camouflage. "What do you mean, Lu? C'mon." Your hands search for any part of him that isn't wrapped in fleece, but he's determined to stay hidden. "What did I do?"

Luigi's eyes catch yours for a fraction of a second before darting away. "I really just want to sleep." The words come out muffled as he tries to fold himself smaller, but you're faster, yanking the blanket down before he can disappear completely. "Please."

"Luigi.” Your voice cracks, and you don't try to hide it. You've never had to beg him for anything before, not in all your years of friendship. "I can't leave knowing you're upset with me." It's the rawest truth you have, stripped down to its bare bones on the couch cushions between you. "Come on. Talk to me."

The silence grows so thick you could suffocate in it, until Luigi finally breaks it with a mumble. "How come you only make jokes about fucking me?" His throat works visibly before he adds, "And not anyone else?"

The question hits you like a slap. Your eyes drift across his coffee table, taking inventory — the joint still smoldering in the ashtray, his anti-anxiety meds beside it, a forgotten Gatorade from the night before.

Everything a testament to hours spent alone with his thoughts.

You drag in a deep breath, searching for words you've never had to examine before. "I mean — that's what we do, you know-"

"No," he cuts you off, voice sharpened. "It's what you do."

"Lu." Your spine straightens as confusion settles in. "Why is this suddenly an issue? I've always- I've always made those kind of jokes about us. How everyone thinks we're dating all the time." You stretch yourself forward, trying to catch his eye, but he keeps his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor. "I just lean into it, I guess. I didn't know it bothered you."

He sighs, the sound muffled as he drags his hands down his face. "It doesn't bother me."

"Then," frustration bleeds into your voice as you throw your hands up, lost in whatever conversation he's having three steps ahead of you. "What do you fucking mean?"

"I- I mean-" His tongue clicks against his teeth, each word coming slow like he's translating from another language. "It doesn't bother me in that way."

"In what way?"

"In the way that means you saying you'd fuck me bothers me."

"But you just said it bothers you."

"No,” he says, “I didn't."

Heat rises up your neck as your patience frays.

Your mind twists itself into knots trying to decode whatever puzzle he's laying out between you. "Look at me." The command comes out sharper than intended as you try to yank the blanket away from him. "Fucking look at me!"

The blanket rips from your hands with unexpected force, sending you sprawling onto his hardwood floor. Your oversized sweater is the only thing saving your tailbone from a bruising. "You fucking asshole." The words come out hot as you fumble for your boots to put over the socks that betrayed you in their slipperiness, and just as you manage to wrangle one on, Luigi emerges from his cocoon, fixing you with a look that stops you cold.

"I mean I guess-“ He clears his throat, looking down at you with that familiar steady gaze, but there's something different layered over it now, something raw. "I mean- Why wouldn't you fuck me?"

The question hits like a fist to the cheekbones.

You freeze, one boot half-laced, mouth hanging open as heat floods you to your temples.

Of all the directions this could have gone, you never expected this brand of brutal honesty, delivered while you're sprawled ungracefully on his living room floor and wrestling with your shoelaces.

Your eyes dart between the coffee table and his face, pieces clicking together with nauseating clarity. "What kind of question is that?" The words come out sharp as your fingers hook uselessly around your boot laces.

"Well, what kind of joke is it to go around telling everyone we fuck?" He throws your logic back at you with devastating precision. "What's so funny about that?"

You bury your face in your hands, a groan muffled against your palms. Every memory floods back at once — all those times he tried to stop you from making dick jokes, all those moments people assumed you were dating and you played it up while he went quiet.

Six years of friendship viewed through this new lens makes your stomach lurch, and another heavy sigh tears from your chest.

"Can you at least tell me?" Luigi's voice comes out barely above a whisper, watching you curled up on his floor like a wounded animal.

You finally lift your head, meeting his stare head-on. "Do you want me to say I'd fuck you?"

The silence wraps around you both like a physical thing, but his eyes stay locked on yours even as color floods his cheeks. "Huh?" You arch an eyebrow, challenging. "Want me to say how hard I'd do it?" Your discarded boot connects with his shin. "How I know you whimper."

As if on cue, a small sound escapes him — half whine, half breath. He's still staring at you like you've knocked all the air from his lungs, struck speechless while you press your newfound advantage.

You move closer, settling between his knees as the blanket slips from his shoulders. With gentle pressure, you ease him back against the couch. "Want me to tell you how none of it was ever really a joke?" Your hand rests against his chest, feeling his heartbeat race beneath your palm. "How every time that you felt me push my ass against your dick wasn’t just your imagination?”

Luigi reaches for you then, fingers trembling as they find your skin — reverent and careful. He's always been tactile with you, always finding excuses to be close. He knows the map of your hands better than you do, how your breathing changes when you drift to sleep, all the little things that make you who you are. "I knew it," he whispers as you settle against him, both of you finally exactly where you're meant to be.

You'd spent so long pushing these thoughts away, rationalizing every touch as just his nature — absent patterns traced on your skin during movies, fingers intertwined during conversations, gentle pressure points mapped across your arms during lengthy lectures.

Each gesture filed away as mindless habit.

But this was different. Every point of contact now carried weight, intention.

"I'd fuck you too," Luigi murmurs, drawing you closer, face pressed against your sweater. His hands spread warm and steady across your back, holding you like something precious, something he's afraid might slip away. “And I’d whine as much as you wanted.”

The next week comes floating by once again, Cole hurrying beside you as you rush to your next lecture, desperately trying to untangle your earbuds, hearing Luigi’s voice echo in your mind, laughing at you for your resistance toward Bluetooth devices. “I - I wanted to see if maybe you wanted to-“

“I’m fucking Luigi.” You turn to Cole, your expression deadpan but fixed, serious but not all that concerned before the doors of the auditorium are flung open, and once again, you vanish behind them.

Cole bursts into a fit of giggles at the thought, realizing now that believing such a thing would be mean he was naive — he’s since learned from his mistakes. “Yeah.” He murmurs to himself, “And Cassie and Dylan are still dating.”

[darnell-la]

𝗦𝗛𝗘 𝗪𝗔𝗡𝗧𝗦 𝗔 𝗕𝗜𝗚 𝗗𝗢𝗚

pairing: the worst!logan howlett x younger generation!reader

warnings: Logan easing into the new world and generation, mention of Wade trying to get roommate!reader and Logan together, making a TikTok, sniffing, smut, etc.

note: “she don’t want no puppy! She wanna BIG dawg!”

———

Logan had thought living with Wade would be a bad idea. He belonged in his last universe with what he’s done. He brought himself down for years, mentally and physically, hoping the pain would stop. Thankfully, it finally had.

It’s been almost a year since Logan has lived with Wade and his younger roommate. The match seemed off when he first met her, but after the first hour, she knew why she and Wade were close friends.

The girl was in college, young, pretty, had a small job at the campus, and loved parties, and things that Wade did daily.

Logan had a small argument with y/n a couple of weeks ago after she gifted him an iPhone. She said he needed it to keep in touch with her and Wade. She also said he needed a bit of humor.

He had no idea what that meant until she made a TikTok for the man. The videos that came up on his page didn’t make sense to him, he he still laughed at them.

He had no idea what happened to himself, but sending memes to y/n every hour was a habit.

After sending y/n a TikTok video, he swiped and came across a sound that confused him.

The man in the video was lip-syncing a song as she showed his muscles. Logan gave a disgusting look at his phone, thinking the man looked ridiculous until he read the title.

“When she chose you because you’re height starts with a six and your weight starts with a two”

Logan sent the video to y/n, asking her what he meant by that. He didn’t know being a muscle-tall man was a trend.

“Logan, I’m in the room next to you, just come here!” Y/n shouted in her room, making him sigh loudly as he got off of the couch for the first time in what felt like days.

“I just wanted to know what he meant? Like is being big and tall a trend? Like, if that’s the case, then I’d be viral,” Logan used words that y/n and Wade ran him by.

“God, Logan — Do people your age question everything?” Y/n checked her phone and noticed what trend he sent her. She’s thought about this trend but with Logan in it. He fits it perfectly, but Wade would tease her if she’d ever brought it up.

“I’m just askin', Bub. Seemed stupid to me,” Logan shrugged his shoulders. “Because you haven’t tried it,” y/n defended her generation. “So, you’re into that stuff? God, y/n — Never knew you’d be one of those kids,”

“I do like it, and since you’re so boring, we’re gonna have you do it, so c’mere,” y/n stood up from her bed and placed her phone down on her desk after clicking the sound.

“Gotta take your shirt off for it,” y/n lied, but she knew he’d do it, even if he complained. “No fuckin’ way, bub,” Logan laughed as he turned around to go back to his sofa until she grabbed his arm softly.

“Please! You never do TikTok’s with me,” y/n fake cried, annoying him in an instant. “Ain’t takin’ my shirt off for no little girls online. I’d get, what’s it called? Canceled?” Logan said, making her laugh.

“Logan, you sound stupid as fuck. Take off the shirt — Unless you’re jealous they look better than you,” y/n shrugged her shoulders as she went back to her bed to sit down, acting like she didn’t care to get a reaction out of him.

“Bub, you know I look better than them, so stop the lyin,” Logan felt a bit upset at her words. Y/n ignored him for what felt like hours, so he sighed and gave up. “Swear to god, I’d Wade say some shit about this, I’ll kill him,”

Logan and y/n worked on the TikTok for an half hour, trying to get the right angle since he kept saying he didn’t look good enough.

Y/n never complained. Watching him walk through her door repeatedly, then editing the video in slow motion, made her stomach tingle.

At first, Logan felt uncomfortable. She could smell the young lady, but he didn’t want to say anything. He’d be a pervert if he did, so he kept quiet, thinking it would go away, but he knew her spot grew bigger.

“So, you think I’m a big dog?” Logan genuinely asked as y/n began to edit the TikTok video. “What makes you think that?” She asked; thinking she nailed her scared response, but Logan saw the quick stutter in her fingers as she typed on her phone.

“Just askin, bub,” Logan said before taking a small sniff. He was leaning on her doorway as she sat on her bed. He was so far., yet she smelt so close.

He cussed himself out in his head, upset that Wade had won this “you’ll like her eventually” argument. Logan swore she was too young, and even made her feel a bit bad.

He had thought y/n had moved on, maybe got over the thought of her having a chance with Wade’s new friend, but the smell she had, is making him go insane.

All she’s doing is making a TikTok. That’s it, but he can’t stop thinking about the spot she’s soaking in her panties. He felt nasty, but in a good way after a while. The lust was taking him over.

“You happy you’ve got your little video?” Logan asked as he kicked off of her dorm frame and walked towards her bed to sit next to her.

“Yes, finally,” she smiled at him before continuing her edit. Logan scanned the girl's body slowly, watching how spotty her breathing was, seeing goosebumps form on her arms, and watching her leg shake a bit.

“Is that so?” He asked as he placed his hand on her thigh. She’s always been a sweet bean to him, but he ignored it. He tried his best to prove Wade wrong, but she was hard to ignore, and Wade knew that. Wade knew y/n would bring something out in the grumpy old man.

“Mhm hm,” Y/n mumbled as she pushed the post on her phone. “Think it’ll get a lot of likes,” she looked to the side at Logan who was now closer than she thought.

“And why is that? I look good?” He asked her, eyes on her soft and pretty lips. “Uh, yeah — Think the viewers will like it,” she awkwardly smiled, feeling her heart raise.

“Think you liked it more than the viewers will,” Logan almost whispered. Y/n just noticed how his shirt was still off. Why was his shirt still off?

“Seen you repost that video, y/n. You’re not slick,” Logan spoke about the video he had sent her. “Think you were thinkin’ about me when you did it,” the man smirked.

“I- I was just reposting,” Y/n stuttered as his hand slowly cupped her chin. “Guess I’m not the big dog you’re lookin’ for them,” Logan faked sighing as he pulled his hand back.

Before he could turn around to get up, y/n grabbed his face and pulled him into a short but long kiss, hoping to get the best out of this one-time thing.

“Told you last you, you ain’t for me, baby,” Logan said, making y/n look down in embarrassment. “I know,” she said. “I lied — Was just goin’ through a little somethin,” Logan admitted before pulling her back into a kiss, this time rough.

Y/n gasped as he breathed into her mouth, sucking on her lips like he’d starved for days. “Lo,” y/n moaned low at the feeling of his pulling her into his rough kisses.

Logan decided to push Y/n down on her bed and lean over her, keeping their lips together. Y/n instantly wrapped her legs around the man, pulling him closer as he moved his hips, grinding on her to feel the pressure.

“Oh, fuck,” Logan groaned in between their kiss, feeling his cock leak already. “If I fuck you, Wade wins,” Logan pulled back from the girl, taking a look into her eyes. She thought the man would leave, get off of her and never speak to her again, until he assured her, he was staying.

“Fuck it — Can’t resist you anymore, baby,” Logan smashed his lips back onto the young lady's lips, kissing her roughly as he tugged on his jeans. All y/n had to do was pull up the gown she wore almost every day she was off of work when she was too lazy to dress up.

“Wait- We need a condom,” y/n leaned up, but Logan pushed her back down. “Oh, no we don’t. Your cunts leaking too much for me to not feel her,” Logan said. She was confused, not knowing how he knew she was wet until she thought to herself.

He’s a mutant. His only powers can’t be regeneration and speed.

“Fuck, I-“ y/n cut herself off, embarrassed at her pervy actions. He probably smells her all the time. “Caught red-handed,” Logan chuckled as he put his cock in hand.

“Always wet around the house. Teasin’ me and basically beggin’ for me every day. Wished I took you to my room when I first met you. Maybe by now, we’d have our little family,”

Logan pushed into the girl, giving her no time to think about what he had just said about a family.

She’s never thought of a family with Logan. It’s not he wasn’t father material, it’s the fact she’s only been thinking about him pleasing her, and pleasing her only.

“Fuck, that’s it,”

[prythianpages]

and it's all in my head | eris x reader

Eris x Reader ft Azriel | Eris has a nightmare.

a/n: surprise surprise! *insert little shimmy dance from the meme* Double update to make up for not updating this in awhile. I said I was going to write some fluff after the last update but I couldn't help myself with this one. This takes place somewhere between pt 9 to 11 and is 911 words.

warnings: angst, reader is pregnant, Eris being jealous of Az & having a nightmare that you got together with him

A soft lullaby-like tune drifted through the night and Eris followed it like a man under a spell. It was the only sound he could hear. Everything else was still, too quiet.

 But as he followed the sound, he spotted you.

You stood at a balcony that overlooked the shining city below. There was a baby in your arms and you cradled it close as you gently swayed side to side, humming softly.  Though your back was to him, Eris could see the smile blooming across your face. When you leaned down to press a kiss to the baby’s head, his gaze followed. It was dim but there was no mistaking that red hair. It seemed to glow like embers in the night.

His breath caught.

That was his baby. 

Eris felt the world slow around him as he stepped forward, every instinct aching to reach you. But when you turned around and lifted your head, your gaze passed right through him.

You were looking at someone behind him.

He felt that unmistakable rush of cold air, that featherlight sweep brushing past his feet.

The shadowsinger.

Azriel moved past Eris like he wasn’t even there.

It was Azriel who crossed the distance, who came to your side, shadows curling protectively around the three of you like they belonged there. It was Azriel who made your face glow with a light so bright it rivaled the stars above.

He bowed his head and without hesitation, you leaned into Azriel’s kiss. His hand rose to cup your face, thumb brushing along your cheekbone before looking down at the baby in your arms.

Eris couldn’t move, feeling as if someone had a tight grip on his heart. He wasn't sure he was even breathing.

“I’m glad you came into my life,” you whispered, voice quiet so that you didn’t wake the baby.

But to Eris, the words roared, nearly unraveling him.

He could only stand there, frozen in place,  heart pounding in his ears. You handed the baby–his baby–to Azriel. The shadowsinger pressed a kiss atop the baby’s head, just as you did earlier.

Eris could only continue to watch as the baby stirred, letting out a small, contented sigh.

The sky darkened at the edges and suddenly, Eris was in a field full of blooming flowers.

A little girl was running, laughing in a sun-kissed meadow. She paused, head lifting up to the sky, as a gentle breeze blew by, her fiery red hair flowing behind her. Eris’s heart clenched at the sight of freckles sprinkled lightly across her nose. Just like him. And her eyes–her amber eyes–shone with joy as she turned to him.

“Father!”

Once again, Eris stepped forward. And once again, he was brushed aside. 

The little girl ran past him and straight into Azriel’s waiting arms.

Something sharp caught in his throat. His mate—not his anymore, some bitter voice reminded—stood beside the shadowsinger. Your hand rested gently on your stomach and Eris’s eyes began to sting when he saw the swell of your stomach.

Azriel picked up the girl effortlessly and she squealed in delight. He spun her around, pressing a kiss to her forehead before setting her down. His shadows brushed along her small form, engaging her in a game of chase.

And then—more children. They came out of nowhere, laughing and tumbling through the meadow. They were just as beautiful as the little girl. One had your smile. But the rest…the rest had Azriel’s eyes, Azriel's wings...

They were your children. With Azriel.

Eris looked at you, eyes wide and frantic. His mouth parted but no words came out. This couldn’t be happening. He was right there, right in front of you.

And yet… you didn’t see him. As if he didn’t exist.

You leaned into Azriel, the shadowsinger wrapping an arm around your shoulder to bring you close. “You know if Eris hadn’t broken my heart, I would’ve never met you.”

Azriel’s wing curled around you, brushing so close to Eris’s face it nearly clipped him. “In a way, I’m glad he did. You're mine now."

What? Eris thought. His heart pounded as if trying to punch its way free from his ribs. The world tilted. The air felt too thin. This had to be a dream. A nightmare.

Wake up, Eris. Wake up!

“I wouldn't want to be anyone else's” you said.

Wake up!

**

Eris jolted awake.

His chest heaved as if he’d been drowning, cold sweat clinging to his skin. His bedroom was dark. Too dark. He sat up and then used his magic to light the candles on his nightstand. It was only a dream, he told himself.

But his hands still trembled as they gripped his sheets. 

Glowing eyes stared back at him from the foot of the bed. His hounds, alert now, heads tilted in concern.

“It was only a dream,” he repeated out loud.

Though, it felt like something far more cruel than that. Like the Cauldron itself had reached into his chest and carved out every hope he had left.

One hound padded forward and rested its head on the bed, blinking up at him with those wide eyes of his. Gravy. Eris reached out and buried his hand in its fur, trying to steady himself.

But the image of you with Azriel, of his child calling Azriel "father" refused to leave him.

And for the first time in a long, long while, the heir of Autumn felt cold.

a/n: This was inspired by The Killer's Mr. Brightside. So sorry to Eris bc I had fun writing this (he's going to get his happy ending dw) At least there was one accuracy in his dream, the gender of his baby was revealed to him before reader told him.

series taglist: @kodafics , @shinyghosteclipse, @marrass, @posierosie, @solanaaaaaaa

@tele86, @bubybubsters, @k-homosapien, @mariaxliliana, @kathren1sky-blog

@anainkandpaper, @icey--stars, @moonlovefairy, @hellohauntedturnstudent, @lucia-valentinaa,

@wrenisrad, @smol-grandpa, @sleepylunarwolf, @63angel, @anuttellaa

@anon1227 @paleidiot @thatacotargirl, @queenoffeysand , @slut4acotar @awkardnerd

@blueroseava , @lovetia , @historygeekqueen , @idk1027 ,@naturakaashi

@blightyblinders , @wolvesnravens , @galaxystern08 , @faeofthemoonandstars , @antisocial-architect

@elisha-chloe, @cwallace02sblog, @randomramblesfanfiction, @moonlitlavenders, @booksnwriting

@sunny1616, @holb32, @gamaranci

[archivegyu]

masterlist

five steps back

kim mingyu x reader || 6k words

The apartment feels too big now, even though it’s the same cramped two-bedroom they’d shared for the past three years. She sits on the edge of their bed—her bed now—staring at the indent on the other side of the mattress where Mingyu used to sleep. His pillow still smells faintly of his cologne, that woody scent that used to make her feel safe when she’d bury her face in his neck during lazy Sunday mornings.

Five years. One thousand, eight hundred, and twenty-six days of shared breakfasts, inside jokes, fights that ended in tearful apologies, and dreams built together like a house of cards that finally collapsed under the weight of reality.

She picks up her phone, thumb hovering over his contact. Kim Mingyu. The photo is from last summer—him at the beach, sandy hair catching the golden hour light, that brilliant smile that could make her forget every worry in the world. His laugh lines are prominent in the picture, the same ones she used to trace with her fingertips when he’d fall asleep first, sprawled across the bed like he owned it, arms reaching for her even in unconsciousness.

The cursor blinks next to his name. She’s typed and deleted twelve different messages in the past week. How are you? Too casual. I miss you. Too desperate. Can we talk? Too hopeful.

Instead, she sets the phone aside and walks to the kitchen, where the coffee maker still has settings for two cups. Mingyu always complained that she made it too weak, but he’d drink it anyway, adding extra sugar and giving her that fond, exasperated look that said you’re lucky I love you without words.

The silence in the apartment is deafening. No more of his off-key humming while he cooked, no more random dance breaks in the living room when his favorite songs came on, no more gentle teasing about her habit of leaving books open on every surface. The quiet stretches and warps until it feels like a living thing, pressing against her chest.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu stares at the ceiling of his new studio apartment, counting the cracks in the paint. Sixteen. He’d started counting them three weeks ago when he moved in, the same day the movers came to split their life into neat, labeled boxes. His things. Her things. The painful negotiations over shared purchases—who gets the coffee table they’d spent hours assembling together, cursing at the incomprehensible instructions while she held the pieces steady and he struggled with the screws?

He’d let her keep most of it. Not out of generosity, but because looking at those objects felt like staring directly into the sun. Every lamp, every throw pillow, every picture frame held too many memories, and he was already drowning in them.

His phone buzzes against his chest. For a split second, his heart races with the impossible hope that it’s her, but it’s just his group chat with the boys. Seungcheol asking if he wants to grab drinks, Soonyoung sending random memes, the usual chaos that used to make him smile. Now it feels distant, like watching life through frosted glass.

He scrolls up through months of messages, finding the ones where he’d complained about being busy with her, canceling plans because she needed him, choosing quiet nights in over loud nights out. The guys had teased him mercilessly about being whipped, and he’d taken it with good humor because it was true. He was completely, utterly gone for her, and everyone knew it.

“You’re different when you’re with her,” Jeonghan had told him once, and Mingyu had taken it as a compliment. He was softer with her, more thoughtful, more careful with his words. She’d taught him patience without trying, shown him that love could be gentle instead of the chaotic whirlwind he’d always imagined.

Now he wonders if different meant losing himself entirely.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

The grocery store is a minefield of memories. She stands in the cereal aisle, staring at the brand Mingyu always bought—some sugary monstrosity that she’d constantly nagged him about. “You’re going to get diabetes,” she’d say, and he’d grin and add it to the cart anyway, sometimes grabbing two boxes just to make her roll her eyes.

A couple rounds the corner, the woman laughing at something her boyfriend said as he tosses items into their cart with theatrical flair. They’re young, probably college students, and they have that glow of early love, when everything is discovery and promise and endless possibility. She remembers being them, remembers grocery shopping with Mingyu being an adventure instead of a chore, turning mundane errands into opportunities for stolen kisses between the frozen foods and impromptu dance parties in empty aisles.

“Excuse me,” someone says, and she realizes she’s been standing frozen in front of the Froot Loops for five minutes. She mumbles an apology and pushes her cart forward, but everything feels surreal, like she’s moving through water.

At the checkout, the cashier makes small talk about the weather, and she nods along while screaming internally. How is everyone just going about their lives when hers has been completely reorganized? How is the world still spinning when five years of her life have just vanished like smoke?

In her car, she sits with her hands gripping the steering wheel, breathing carefully measured breaths the way her therapist taught her. The engagement ring tan line on her finger has finally faded, but she still finds herself twisting the phantom ring when she’s nervous. Mingyu had been so proud when he proposed, so certain and bright-eyed, like he’d solved some cosmic puzzle. “I want forever with you,” he’d said, voice shaking with emotion, and she’d believed him completely.

Forever turned out to be five years and three months.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu’s sister calls while he’s attempting to cook dinner in his shoebox kitchen. He considers letting it go to voicemail, but Minseo has been worried about him, calling every few days with increasingly transparent excuses to check on him.

“How are you eating?” she asks without preamble.

“Hello to you too,” he says, stirring instant ramen and feeling pathetic about it. She used to cook for him, elaborate meals that filled their apartment with warmth and the sounds of oil sizzling, her humming contentedly while she worked. She’d wear his oversized t-shirts and nothing else, and he’d wrap his arms around her waist from behind, chin hooked over her shoulder, stealing tastes and making her laugh when his stubble tickled her neck.

“Don’t deflect. Are you eating actual food or just surviving on convenience store meals?”

“I’m making ramen,” he admits, and her sigh is audible.

“Mingyu…”

“I’m fine, Minseo. Really.”

“No, you’re not. You’re miserable, and you’re too stubborn to admit it.”

He wants to argue, but what’s the point? His sister has known him his whole life, watched him fall in love so completely that he’d rearranged his entire existence around another person. She’d liked her too, had welcomed her into the family with open arms, treated her like the sister she’d never had. The breakup had devastated everyone, not just him.

“Have you talked to her?” Minseo asks gently.

“No.” The word comes out harsher than he intends. “There’s nothing to say.”

“There’s five years worth of things to say.”

“And we said them. All of them. That’s why we’re not together anymore.”

The silence stretches between them. Minseo doesn’t understand, can’t understand, because she wasn’t there for the slow, painful dissolution of everything they’d built. She didn’t see the way they’d started speaking to each other like polite strangers, didn’t witness the careful distance that crept between them like frost, didn’t hear the fights that devolved into exhausted silence because they’d stopped believing they could fix what was breaking.

“I just think—”

“I have to go,” Mingyu interrupts. “Thanks for calling.”

He hangs up and stares at his sad dinner, appetite completely gone. Outside his window, Seoul buzzes with Friday night energy, but he feels disconnected from all of it, like he’s watching life happen from behind a wall of glass.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

She finds the box by accident while looking for her winter clothes. It’s shoved in the back of their shared closet—her closet now—behind old coats and forgotten shoes. Her heart stops when she realizes what it is.

Their memory box. They’d started it as a joke during their first year together, saving ticket stubs and photo booth strips and little notes they’d written each other. Over time, it had become sacred, a physical collection of their love story that they’d add to on anniversaries and special occasions.

With trembling fingers, she lifts the lid. The smell hits her first—his cologne mingled with the vanilla candles she used to burn, creating a scent that’s purely them, purely home. Inside, five years of memories lie carefully preserved like pressed flowers.

Movie tickets from their first official date, when Mingyu had been so nervous he’d bought popcorn with extra butter even though she’d mentioned being lactose intolerant. She’d eaten it anyway, not wanting to make him feel bad, and spent the entire movie in mild digestive distress while trying to focus on his running commentary whispered in her ear.

A napkin from the café where they’d had their first fight, a stupid argument about punctuality that had escalated until they were both near tears. They’d talked it out over lukewarm coffee and stale pastries, learning how to disagree without destroying each other. “We’re going to have to figure this out,” she’d said, “if we want this to work.” And they had, for a while. They’d gotten so good at compromise, at bending without breaking, at choosing love over pride.

Polaroids from their friends’ wedding, where they’d danced until their feet hurt and made drunken promises about their own future ceremony. Mingyu had spun her around the dance floor like they were the only two people in the world, dipping her dramatically while she laughed until her stomach hurt. “You’re going to marry me someday,” he’d whispered against her ear, and it hadn’t been a question. It had been certainty, solid as gravity.

A USB drive labeled “Our Songs” in Mingyu’s messy handwriting. Playlists he’d made for road trips, for quiet mornings, for when she was stressed about work. Hours of music that had soundtracked their relationship, songs that would probably make her cry for the rest of her life.

At the bottom of the box, wrapped in tissue paper, is the promise ring he’d given her for their second anniversary. Not an engagement ring, but a placeholder, a symbol of intention. “Someday,” he’d said, slipping it onto her finger, “when we’re ready for forever.” She’d worn it faithfully until he’d replaced it with the real thing, and even then, she’d kept it close, a reminder of when their love was still growing instead of slowly dying.

She holds the ring up to the light, remembering the girl who’d worn it, who’d believed so completely in their future together. That girl feels like a stranger now, naive and hopeful in a way that seems almost reckless. How do you mourn a version of yourself that no longer exists?

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu’s mother invites him for Sunday dinner, and he goes because he doesn’t have the energy to make excuses anymore. The family meal feels strange without her there, like a song missing its harmony. His parents had loved her, had already started treating her like a daughter, asking about her work and her family and fussing over her the way they fussed over their own children.

“How is she?” his mother asks carefully, setting down a plate of his favorite kimchi jjigae.

“I don’t know, Mom. We don’t talk anymore.”

His father looks up from his rice. “Maybe you should.”

“What would be the point?”

“Closure,” his mother suggests. “Or… maybe you’d realize you made a mistake.”

Mingyu sets down his spoon, suddenly angry. “It wasn’t a mistake. We tried everything. Counseling, space, compromise—nothing worked. We just… we grew apart. It happens.”

“Five years doesn’t just disappear overnight,” his father says quietly.

“It doesn’t disappear at all. That’s the problem.”

The weight of those five years sits on his chest like a stone. Five years of birthday celebrations and holiday traditions, of learning each other’s languages of love and comfort. Five years of building a life together, making plans, dreaming about children and houses and growing old together. All of it still exists, but in the past tense now, preserved like artifacts from a civilization that no longer exists.

He remembers their last real conversation, the one where they’d finally admitted what they’d both been avoiding. They’d been sitting on opposite ends of their couch, the space between them feeling like an ocean.

“I don’t think we’re making each other happy anymore,” she’d said, voice barely above a whisper.

And he’d wanted to argue, to fight for them the way he always had, but the truth was crushing and undeniable. They’d become ghosts of themselves, going through the motions of love without feeling it, staying together out of habit instead of desire.

“I know,” he’d replied, and those two words had contained the end of everything.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

The coffee shop where they’d met is exactly the same. Same mismatched chairs, same chalkboard menu, same indie music playing just a little too loud. She orders her usual—medium coffee, oat milk, no sugar—and sits at a table by the window, watching people hurry past on the sidewalk.

She’d been a graduate student then, stressed about her thesis and surviving on caffeine and determination. Mingyu had been at the next table over, phone pressed to his ear, having what sounded like a heated discussion with someone about modeling schedules and photo shoots. When he’d hung up, he’d caught her looking and had given her an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” he’d said. “Work drama.”

“No problem. I’m just jealous that your work drama sounds more interesting than my academic drama.”

They’d started talking, and one conversation had turned into two hours of effortless connection. He’d been funnier than she’d expected, self-deprecating and warm, asking genuine questions about her research and listening to her answers like they mattered. When her laptop had died mid-conversation, he’d offered to buy her coffee while she figured out her next move.

“I’m Mingyu,” he’d said, extending his hand with that smile that had made her stomach flip.

“Nice to meet you, Mingyu.”

She’d given him her number before she’d fully processed what was happening, saying yes to dinner before her rational brain could interfere. It had felt like destiny, like the universe aligning to put them in the same place at the same time.

Now she sits in the same spot, drinking the same coffee, and wonders if she’d made a different choice that day—left when her laptop died, been too shy to maintain eye contact, said no to dinner—would she be sitting here feeling like half of herself had been surgically removed?

A young couple at the counter catches her attention. The girl is laughing at something the guy said, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek while he orders for both of them. They look so young, so sure of themselves, so completely unaware that love isn’t always enough.

She pays for her coffee and leaves quickly, unable to watch their beginning when she’s still processing her ending.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu runs into Seungcheol at the gym, and his friend immediately starts hovering like a concerned mother hen.

“You look like shit,” Seungcheol says with characteristic bluntness.

“Thanks. Really needed to hear that today.”

“I’m serious. When’s the last time you went out? Had fun? Talked to another human being who wasn’t forced to interact with you for work?”

Mingyu increases the speed on his treadmill, hoping the physical exertion will shut down this conversation. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re a hermit. A sad, lonely hermit who’s wasting away in his depression cave.”

“It’s been three months, Cheol. I’m allowed to be sad.”

“You’re allowed to grieve. You’re not allowed to disappear.”

Seungcheol hops on the treadmill next to him, matching his pace. “The guys are worried about you. Hell, I’m worried about you. This isn’t healthy.”

“What’s healthy? Moving on like five years meant nothing? Dating someone new before I’ve even processed what happened?”

“I’m not saying date someone new. I’m saying rejoin the world. Remember that you exist outside of that relationship.”

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? Mingyu isn’t sure he does exist outside of that relationship. For five years, he’d been half of a whole, and now he’s trying to figure out how to be complete on his own. Everything he’d enjoyed, everywhere he’d gone, everyone he’d been—it was all connected to her, woven together so tightly that separating them feels impossible.

“She was my best friend,” he says quietly, and Seungcheol’s expression softens.

“I know.”

“I told her everything. She knew me better than I know myself. And now she’s just… gone. Like she never existed.”

“She did exist. That relationship happened, and it mattered, and it’s okay to miss it. But you can’t live in the past forever.”

Mingyu knows Seungcheol is right, logically. But logic and emotion are speaking different languages right now, and his heart is fluent only in loss.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

She’s sorting through old photos on her laptop when she finds the folder labeled “Us.” Five years of documentation, from awkward early selfies to professional couple photos, chronicling their evolution from strangers to lovers to strangers again.

There’s the picture from their first vacation together, a weekend trip to Busan where they’d argued about directions and laughed until they cried and fallen asleep on the beach. Mingyu’s hair was shorter then, and he looked younger, less serious. She was tanner, more carefree, wearing his oversized hoodie and grinning at the camera like she’d discovered the secret to happiness.

A photo from her graduation, Mingyu beaming with pride as she holds her diploma. He’d been more excited about her achievement than she was, taking pictures from every angle and insisting on celebrating with an expensive dinner they couldn’t really afford. “My girlfriend, the PhD,” he’d kept saying, like her success was his own.

Their first New Year’s Eve together, both of them slightly drunk and completely besotted, kissing at midnight while fireworks exploded over the Han River. They’d made resolutions they’d forgotten by February, promised each other forever in the reckless way that only new love allows.

Halloween photos where they’d dressed as couples costumes that seemed hilarious at the time but look ridiculous now. Christmas mornings in their pajamas, exchanging gifts and drinking hot chocolate. Birthday celebrations, anniversary dinners, lazy Sunday afternoons where they’d documented their contentment without realizing how precious it was.

And then, somewhere around year four, the photos change. Their smiles become more performative, their poses more staged. They’re still beautiful together, still look like a couple that should work, but something essential is missing. The light in their eyes, the natural gravitation toward each other—it’s fading, imperceptible to everyone else but obvious now with the cruel clarity of hindsight.

The last photo in the folder is from their final anniversary dinner. They’d gone to the restaurant where he’d proposed, trying to recapture something that was already gone. They look elegant and mature, but distant, like actors playing roles they no longer believed in.

She closes the laptop and pushes it away, suddenly exhausted. How do you delete five years of memories? How do you decide which moments to keep and which ones to let go? Every photo tells a story of people who loved each other completely, who built a life together with such care and intention, who believed they were writing a love story for the ages.

Instead, they’d written a tragedy.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

Mingyu’s phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number, and his heart stops when he realizes it’s her. She’s changed her number, probably trying to start fresh, but she’s texting him from it.

I found our memory box. I think you should have some of these things.

He stares at the message for ten minutes, typing and deleting responses. What do you say to the person who used to be your whole world? How do you respond to an olive branch when you’re not sure you’re ready for contact?

Finally, he types: Keep them. They’re yours.

Her response comes quickly: They’re ours.

Were ours. Past tense.

The dots appear and disappear several times, like she’s writing and rewriting her response. When it finally comes, it’s simple: Can we meet? Just to talk?

Every rational part of his brain screams no. Seeing her will only reopen wounds that are barely beginning to scab over. But his heart, traitorous and hopeful, is already saying yes.

When?

Tomorrow? The café on Hongik Street?

The café where they’d had their first date. Of course. Even in ending, they’re drawn to their beginnings.

Okay.

After he sends it, he sits in his empty apartment and wonders if he’s making a mistake. But maybe mistakes are better than the nothing he’s been living with.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

She arrives early and chooses a table in the back corner, somewhere private where they can fall apart without an audience. Her hands shake as she orders coffee she doesn’t want, and she checks her reflection in her phone screen obsessively, like her appearance matters when her insides are completely destroyed.

When Mingyu walks in, her breath catches. He looks different—thinner, more tired, like he’s been carrying the same weight she has. His hair is longer than she’s ever seen it, and he’s wearing the black jacket she’d bought him for his birthday last year. The one that made his shoulders look impossibly broad and his eyes impossibly warm.

He spots her and hesitates for just a moment before walking over. The familiarity of his gait, the way he moves through space with unconscious grace, hits her like a physical blow. This is the person who used to crawl into bed beside her every night, who knew exactly how she liked her coffee and which side of the bed she preferred and how to make her laugh when she was crying.

Now he’s a stranger wearing a familiar face.

“Hi,” he says, settling into the chair across from her.

“Hi.”

They stare at each other across the small table, and the silence is deafening. What do you say to someone who used to be your everything? How do you make small talk with the person who knows your every secret?

“You look good,” she lies, because he looks heartbroken and exhausted and like he’s been running on empty for months.

“You too,” he lies back, even though she knows she looks exactly as destroyed as she feels.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“I wasn’t sure either.”

More silence. She fidgets with her coffee cup, and he drums his fingers against the table—the same nervous habit he’s had since she’s known him. Some things never change, even when everything else has been obliterated.

“I’ve been thinking about us a lot,” she finally says. “About what happened. What went wrong.”

“And?”

“I don’t think anything went wrong. I think we just… grew in different directions.”

Mingyu nods slowly. “We became different people.”

“We became the people we were always going to become. We just couldn’t become them together.”

It’s the most honest thing either of them has said about their breakup, and it hangs in the air between them like a bridge they’re afraid to cross.

“I keep waiting to stop missing you,” she admits. “But it’s been months, and I still reach for you in the morning. I still save funny memes to send to you. I still think about calling you when something good happens.”

“I know. I do the same thing.”

“Do you think it’ll ever stop?”

Mingyu considers this, really considers it, and she loves him for taking her question seriously instead of offering empty platitudes.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s not supposed to stop. Maybe missing someone you loved that much is just… part of loving them.”

The tears she’s been holding back finally spill over, and he automatically reaches across the table before catching himself, hand freezing halfway between them. The aborted gesture hurts more than the tears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’m sorry we couldn’t make it work. I’m sorry we lost each other. I’m sorry for everything.”

“I’m sorry too. For all of it.”

They sit in their shared sorrow, mourning not just their relationship but their friendship, their partnership, their planned future that will never exist. They’re grieving the children they’ll never have together, the house they’ll never buy, the old age they’ll never share. They’re saying goodbye to a thousand small dreams and the comfortable certainty of forever.

“I should go,” Mingyu says eventually, and she nods even though she wants to beg him to stay.

He stands, then hesitates. “For what it’s worth, loving you was the best thing I ever did. Even if I couldn’t do it right in the end.”

And then he’s gone, walking out of her life as quietly as he’d walked into it five years ago, leaving her alone with her coffee and her memories and the weight of everything they’d been together.

࣪ ִֶָ☾.

She doesn’t text him again, and he doesn’t text her. They don’t run into each other around the city, don’t accidentally end up at the same parties or restaurants or coffee shops. It’s like they’ve developed a sixth sense for avoiding each other, moving through Seoul like opposing magnets.

Months pass. She gets a promotion at work, starts dating someone new—a kind man who makes her laugh and doesn’t try to replace what she had with Mingyu, just offers something different. Mingyu, she hears through mutual friends, is doing well too. Focusing on his career, traveling more, seeing someone casually though nothing serious.

They’re both moving forward, building new lives on the foundation of who they became during their five years together. The love they shared didn’t disappear; it transformed them, taught them how to love and be loved, showed them what they wanted and needed in a partner. In some ways, their breakup was the final gift they gave each other—the freedom to find happiness in new places.

But sometimes, late at night when the world is quiet and she’s alone with her thoughts, she still reaches for her phone. Still finds his contact, still stares at that photo from the beach where he’s laughing at something she said off-camera. Still wonders if he thinks about her too, if he misses what they had, if he ever regrets letting go.

She never calls. Never texts. Never disrupts the careful distance they’ve constructed between their old life and their new ones.

But she keeps his number. Keeps the photos. Keeps the memory box with all its treasures from a love that was real and deep and ultimately finite.

Because some loves aren’t meant to last forever. Some loves are meant to teach you how to love better the next time. Some loves are meant to break your heart so completely that when you put it back together, you’re stronger, wiser, more capable of recognizing real happiness when it finds you.

Five years of loving Kim Mingyu taught her all of these things.

And maybe, in the end, that’s enough.

[raevalyntine]

took you long enough (brother's best friend! zayne)

reader is also neighbours with zayne!, teeny tiny angst, yearning, jealousy, angry reader putting zayne in his place, zayne's a coward at first, zayne's just really down bad, slightly suggestive, protective brother, fluff ending

Zayne didn’t know why he’d picked up the dessert. He stood in his kitchen like a man possessed, staring down at the small container of tiramisu he’d brought home from work, wrapped it up, then found himself walking the familiar path next door. The light from your window was still on, faint against the evening sky.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a neighbourly gesture. Something your brother would have appreciated. That was all.

But it wasn’t.

Not really.

Not when deep in his chest, he wanted more than to just share a dessert with you.

Not when he could feel the silence you’d left behind like a ghost in his ribs.

You used to text him constantly. Stupid things like memes that didn’t make sense, blurry pictures of your takeout, and random thoughts at odd hours. “Why do we need to wash towels? We get out of the shower clean, right? So we’re cleaning the towel too, right? If we lost our legs, where would we feel the pain? In our legs? But they’re gone so…”

He used to groan and roll his eyes, tell you to stop texting him so much, to stop bothering him. But you never listened. And maybe a part of him had liked that you were stubborn and annoying.

But then the texts stopped.

He used to recognize the rhythm of your knock before it even finished, that familiar beat on his office door at the hospital—always arriving with a paper bag crinkling in your arms and a smile so disarming it made him forget whatever was on his screen. “You’re a distraction,” he’d mutter every time, trying to sound stern, but his voice always softened around the edges when it was you. You’d just laugh, breezing in like you belonged there, settling into the chair across from him without waiting for permission. Sometimes you ate in silence, other times you filled the space with stories about your day, your voice rising and falling like music he didn’t know he’d memorised. And while he feigned attention to patient charts and hospital protocols, the truth was, he was tracing the sound of your laughter in his mind, letting it echo in the quiet corners of his heart where no one else had ever been allowed.

You hadn’t shown up in over a month.

Now, his days were quiet.

Now, there was no knock.

Just absence. Loud and aching.

And Zayne had the ridiculous realization that he'd built his days around your interruptions, and without them, something in him had started to unravel.

And then came the nights out.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

You were out more often lately, stepping out into the night like you belonged to it. Sometimes dolled up, pretty and poised, and so far out of reach it made his throat tighten. Other nights, you looked like trouble waiting to happen—short skirts, off-shoulder tops, legs bare and defiant. Like you were daring the world to notice you.

He would watch from his window. Just for a moment.

Just long enough to curse whoever you were meeting.

And sometimes, when the nights were especially cold, he caught sight of someone walking you back. A man he didn’t recognize. A stranger. Tall. Laughing too loud. Standing too close. Someone who probably didn’t know that you got cold easily, or that your mood soured when the wind bit too hard. Someone who didn’t carry your favourite gum in his glove compartment just because you once said you liked the minty kind.

Zayne had stood by the window that night, fists clenched at his sides as the man waved you off and you walked up to your door alone. You hadn’t even noticed him watching. You’d looked… fine. Fine without him.

But something in Zayne bristled.

He had half a mind to snitch to your brother. Let him handle it, blow the whistle like some concerned guardian.

But Zayne wasn’t stupid.

He was more scared of you than your brother actually. 

And more protective than he had any right to be.

So he told himself this was just doing it as your brother’s best friend, making sure you’re well taken care of. That’s why he’d picked up the dessert. That’s why he was walking over now. That’s why his heart was hammering too loudly for a man doing something so casual.

He told himself that lie again and again.

But his fingers were still trembling when he reached your front step. His knuckles hovered just above the door. But the door opened before he could even knock.

You stood there, framed by the hallway light, stunning in a way that knocked the breath from his lungs. Your makeup was subtle, lips painted with that glossy tint you wore when you wanted to feel pretty, a figure-hugging dress that clung to every curve like it was tailored just for you. You smelled like vanilla and really, really bad decisions.

Zayne’s breath hitched. His mind stuttered.

Because for a second, just one, he wasn’t thinking straight like he usually does. He was thinking like a man on the edge.

He imagined what it’d feel like to smear that lipstick with his mouth, to kiss that attitude right out of you—slow, hard, and unforgiving. To grab your waist, feel the heat of your skin under his hands, and push you against the doorframe just to see you flustered and breathless for once. Mess up that perfect hair with his hands tangled in it, tugging until you gasped his name in that voice he always pretended not to crave and watch you glare at him with wild eyes and swollen lips.

And just as his mind started to spiral, your voice dragged him back.

“Zayne?” you asked, blinking up at him. “What are you doing here?”

His throat worked around nothing. For a second, he forgot what he was even holding.

He stiffened, caught. “Uh—I, um. Dessert. Brought you dessert,” he said gruffly, lifting the container.

You raised a brow, half-amused. “Didn’t know you did door-to-door dessert deliveries now.”

He swallowed. “Just thought you might want some.”

“Sweet,” you said. “But I’ve got plans.”

His stomach dropped. “Plans?” he echoed, tone flat.

“Yeah. A date.”

There it was.

“A date. At this hour?”

“Last I checked, I don’t have a curfew,” you said, already reaching for your purse.

“With who?”

“Some guy I met last week.”

“So you don’t don’t even know him?” he snapped, voice harsher than he intended.

“And?”

His voice dropped an octave, sharp and accusing. “It’s not safe. Some guy asks you out this late, and you just… say yes? He invites you out in the middle of the night, and you think that’s okay?”

You looked at him, really looked at him, and something in your eyes shifted, cooling into something unreadable. “What’s it to you, Zayne?”

He frowned. “I just—it's not right. What kind of guy invites a woman to a date this late?”

You tilted your head, gave him that look that always made his heart stutter. “Is that really the part that bothers you? That it’s late? Not that it’s someone else?”

He stayed silent.

So you smiled, bitter and bright. “Right. You’re the type of guy who’s nice and proper. Because you’re Zayne. The responsible, respectful, too good for anyone, Dr Zayne. Who never says anything and never does anything. Just watches from the sidelines and keeps doing his job like a good boy.”

His brows drew together. “Excuse me? I… That’s not fair.”

“Did I say something wrong? What’s not fair is spending years throwing myself at you like a damn idiot,” you snapped. “Texts, lunches, flirting—you name it. You had all the signs, Zayne. Hell, I may as well have tattooed it on my forehead.”

He flinched, but you were far from finished.

“And every single time? You brushed it off. Gently, politely. Like you were just tolerating your best friend’s little sister. Like I was some delicate child you had to tiptoe around.”

“I was trying to protect you–”

“From what?” you shot back. “From your own feelings? From getting too close? God, Zayne, you’re so scared of wanting me out loud, it makes me sick.”

You took a breath, trying to smooth the sting in your throat. “But you know what? Fine. Be a coward. Be the noble idiot who thinks he's doing the right thing by pushing me away.”

Your voice lowered, sharp with finality. “But don’t come to my door acting like you're here just to fulfil your responsibility, when the truth is, you’ve always cared. You’ve just been too much of a fool to do anything about it.”

His throat tightened as he looked into your eyes—so hurt and angry and wild.

You waited. He said nothing.

And then a car honk cut through the moment, sharp and final.

You scoffed, shaking your head like you were done playing this game. Without another word, you turned on your heel and walked down the steps toward the car idling at the curb. The guy you were seeing waved from the driver’s side, clueless and grinning.

Zayne stood there, rooted to the spot. The tiramisu in his hand felt heavier now, like a mistake he couldn’t undo. He watched the car door shut behind you. Watched the way the red of the taillights lit up your silhouette as the car pulled away into the night.

And still, he didn’t move.

Because maybe you were right. Maybe he was a fool.

Zayne sat on the edge of his couch, elbows on knees, hands laced tightly as he stared at the untouched glass of water in front of him. The clock on the wall ticked mockingly. 1:47 a.m.

You still weren’t home.

He had told himself not to worry. You were an adult, perfectly capable, strong-willed. You’d told him that yourself a hundred times. And yet the anxiety coiled tighter in his chest with each passing minute. The idea of you out there, with a stranger who didn’t know the slope of your shoulders when you were tired or the way your voice curled around sarcasm when you were hiding hurt, was enough to set him on edge.

Then his phone rang. Your brother.

“Zayne, hey. I need a huge favour,” came the familiar voice, slightly out of breath. “Can you pick her up from that club downtown? She called me, but I’m still stuck at work and I won’t get there in time. I don’t want her waiting alone, and I trust you more than a cab.” Zayne was already reaching for his keys. “I’m on my way.”

The drive there was a blur of city lights and the drumbeat of his own pulse. The club was loud even from a distance, bass vibrating through the pavement as lights spilt across the sidewalk. Zayne parked and scanned the front entrance. Then he saw you.

You were sitting on the curb, arms folded tight around yourself, dress bunched slightly at your knees. Your heels dangled from your fingers, and your expression was drawn, tired, bored, and cold. You were beautiful, still. Always.

Zayne felt something simmer in his chest. What kind of man leaves a woman alone like this? He got out, walking quickly toward you.

“Let’s go home,” he said quietly, already slipping off his coat.

You looked up, surprised. “Wait—Zayne? I thought my brother—”

“He asked me to come,” Zayne murmured, already draping his coat around your shoulders. You didn’t resist as he guided you gently to the car, opening the door and shielding your head as you slipped inside. The warmth hit you immediately, and you leaned back against the seat, sighing.

The drive was quiet. The road ahead was dark and familiar, winding through city streets he knew by heart, but tonight it all felt unfamiliar. Because you weren’t talking. You weren’t laughing or teasing him. You just stared out the window, quiet. Zayne glanced at you. “Are you alright?”

You gave a half-nod. He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “So… how was your date?”

You scoffed. “Awful.”

Zayne smiled a little. “That bad?”

You finally turned toward him, eyes rolling. “He brought me to the club just to show off. He didn’t even listen to me. Half the time he was talking about himself, and then he left me alone at the bar so he could dance with some girls he apparently ‘used to hook up with’.” You threw your hands up, exasperated. “I felt like a wall.”

Zayne’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing, just listened. Let you rant. It grounded him. Hearing your voice again. Hearing your anger directed at someone else and not him.

“You should’ve seen him,” you went on, rolling your eyes. “He kept looking at his reflection in his phone like he was in love with it. Who even does that?”

Zayne chuckled despite himself, glancing at you. You glared at him. “It’s not funny.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You are,” you accused. “You’re laughing while I’m basically telling you I’m gonna die single. My friends are getting married. Some are popping out babies after babies. And I’m here, wasting my time with losers and still going home alone.”

Zayne’s smile faded. He turned onto your street, headlights cutting through the quiet.

“Maybe you’re just choosing the wrong kind of guy,” he said gently. “Maybe you need someone who actually knows you. Someone who remembers you hate runny yolks but loves soft-boiled eggs. Someone who knows you go quiet when you’re overwhelmed, or that you fake-laugh when you’re trying to hide being nervous. Someone who doesn’t need a reminder that you hate strawberries, but somehow love strawberry-flavoured things.”

You went quiet. The car eased to a stop at your shared driveway.

You blinked, stunned, but he wasn’t done. He turned to you and gazed at you with a determination that you’ve recognized and grown to love over the years.

“Someone who’s been a fool for years,” he continued, his words rough, like they’d been caged too long. “Someone who was too scared because he thought he might not be enough for you. Someone who spent so much time convincing himself that you deserved more than what he could offer.”

Your breath hitched, but you couldn’t look away.

Zayne’s eyes softened with guilt and longing. “Someone who was terrified,” he whispered. “Terrified of messing it up. Of saying the wrong thing and losing you completely. Someone who chose to just keep quiet and told himself he could live with being just your friend. Your neighbour. The guy next door who got to see you smile from across the fence.”

He laughed once, quiet and bitter. “Stupid, right? Thinking he could be content with scraps, when all he ever wanted was you.”

The air between you tightened, thick with everything unsaid over the years. Your lips parted, but no words came.

The words hung in the air between you, thick and heavy, each syllable landing with the force of something long overdue. For a moment, there was only silence. The weight of everything unsaid fell between you like a wall that neither of you knew how to break.

Zayne's chest rose and fell, his pulse thudding in his ears. He waited for you to respond, to say something, but you just sat there, not moving, your lips parted slightly as if you were on the edge of a decision you couldn't make.

And then, finally, he whispered, his voice raw, desperate—“Someone like me.”

There it was. The unspoken truth. The answer he had been so terrified to say out loud.

And in the next heartbeat, the world shifted.

You didn’t know who moved first, whether it was him or you, but in that instant, the car’s silence was shattered by the crash of your lips together.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow. It was raw and hungry, desperate like a dam that had finally broken. His hands gripped your face, pulling you closer as if he couldn’t get enough, as if this was the only thing that made sense in that moment. Your fingers dug into his shirt, tugging him toward you with the same need, the same urgency.

The kiss was everything you both wanted and everything you had been holding back. The taste of his lips—the heat of his touch—was everything you had imagined in all the years of waiting. And yet, nothing in your fantasies had prepared you for this. Nothing had prepared you for the way he kissed you with so much emotion, so much intensity, that it felt like the world had stopped moving around you. All that mattered was the feel of each other, the way your bodies fit together, the way your hearts raced in sync.

When you finally pulled away, the world came rushing back. Your breath was heavy, quick, like you’d been holding it for far too long. Zayne’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath warm against your skin. For a moment, everything felt impossibly still, like time had been suspended in the aftermath of the kiss.

He closed his eyes for a brief second, trying to steady himself, and when he opened them again, there was a deep vulnerability in them and a truth that had been buried for so long. He whispered softly, his voice raw with sincerity, “I’m sorry. For being so scared. For taking so long to see what was right in front of me. And… for making you wait.”  Zayne’s hands gently cupped your face, his thumb brushing the apple of your cheek as his gaze softened. “I... I’ve always wanted you. I just didn’t know how to make it real. How to be enough for you.”

A small, tender smile tugged at your lips as you leaned into his touch, feeling warmth flood your chest. His words hit something deep inside you, and before you knew it, you were grinning up at him, your face flushed.

“Well,” you teased, voice playful but soft, “took you long enough, you jerk.”

Zayne’s eyes sparkled with a mix of relief and amusement, and he let out a light chuckle. There was something in his gaze—something that was both teasing and affectionate, an unspoken promise between the two of you.

“Language, princess,” he murmured, his lips curling into a grin. “Might have to teach your pretty mouth to say nicer things.”

Before you could respond, Zayne leaned in again, his lips capturing yours with a renewed hunger, as if to prove that he wasn’t done showing you how much he wanted you. It was deep, it was slow, but every brush of his lips sent sparks through you. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t bear the space between you. Before you knew it, you were already climbing onto Zayne’s lap, your hands tangling in his hair as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer.

The kiss was turning downright sinful—your legs curled onto Zayne’s lap, your fingers in his hair, his hands locked around your waist like he didn’t ever want to let go. The car’s windows were fogging up, the air inside heavy with heat, breathless laughter, and long-suppressed longing. 

But just as Zayne’s hand slid up your spine and you tugged at his shirt like you were two seconds away from losing all restraint—

HONK!

Both of you froze. Then—

HOOONK-HOOOOOONK!

Blinding headlights lit up the interior of the car like a stage spotlight, catching you full-on, tangled together in a compromising, heated mess.

You flinched, breaking the kiss and whipping your head toward the glaring brightness outside.

Parked at the end of the driveway, unmistakable even through your haze of panic, was your brother’s car.

“Oh my god.”

You buried your face in Zayne’s neck, groaning into his collarbone. “Oh my god. He’s going to kill us.”

Zayne didn’t move, frozen like a deer in headlights, his eyes wide with panic. His hands stiffened on your waist, and his throat went dry as your brother’s earlier words echoed in his mind—“I trust you more than a cab.” And now, in this exact position, Zayne was pretty sure he was about to lose that trust entirely.

Then came the knock on the driver’s side window.

A slow, smug rhythm.

Zayne winced. You peeked over your shoulder, already dreading the sight.

Reluctantly, Zayne rolled down the window. The cold night air swept in and with it, your brother’s voice, thick with amusement.

“Well, well. Finally,” he said, grinning like he’d just hit the jackpot at a casino. “Took you two long enough. I was this close to stamping both of your foreheads with proclamations of love.”

You groaned louder, burying yourself deeper into Zayne’s neck. “Please shut up.”

“I mean, I always knew you two were pathetic, but watching this unfold in real time? It was like watching paint dry. Painful. Agonizing. Occasionally hilarious.”

Zayne cleared his throat, his cheeks burning red. “We, uh—”

Your brother raised a hand. “Don’t. Save it.”

Then the teasing drained from his face, replaced by something firmer, steadier. He turned his attention to you, voice shifting into big-brother authority.

“Alright. That’s enough for tonight. Go inside.”

You lifted your head, blinking. “What? Why?”

“You heard me,” he said flatly, using that tone you knew better than to argue with. “Inside. Now. Before I actually start giving a speech.”

You huffed, still perched in Zayne’s lap. “You’re literally the worst.”

“And I’m still your big brother.” He nodded toward the front door. “Go.”

Grumbling under your breath, you turned to Zayne, leaned in, and pressed a quick peck to his lips—soft, sweet, and entirely defiant. Then you slipped out of the car and marched toward the house with theatrical indignation, muttering something about “cockblocker” and “ruining the moment”.

Zayne watched you go with a helpless smile… until he turned and saw your brother still standing there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

The air shifted.

Your brother said nothing at first—just studied him. Zayne sat up straighter, hands folding in his lap, bracing like he was about to be grilled in military.

“You’re my best friend,” your brother said at last, his voice lower, quieter. “And she’s my sister. So let me be very clear.”

Zayne nodded quickly. “Yes, s—sir.” He immediately winced.

Your brother narrowed his eyes, one brow lifting. “...Did you just sir me?”

Zayne cleared his throat and looked down at his hands. “It slipped out.”

Your brother exhaled through his nose, biting back a smirk, but his tone remained serious.

“She’s not just someone for you to have fun with, Zayne. She’s the girl who cries at sad commercials and laughs when she’s about to fall apart. She gives everything—her heart, her trust, her loyalty—without asking for nearly enough in return. If you’re not ready for that, walk away now.”

“I’m ready,” Zayne said, quietly but firmly. “I love her. I have been for years, and you know that too. And I’m going to do it right this time.”

There was a pause. Then your brother’s eyes softened—just barely. “Then start with a proper date. Not... whatever this was.”

Zayne let out a quiet breath of a laugh, nodding. “Alright.”

Your brother gave him one final look—half warning, half reluctant approval—then turned and started walking back into his house.

Zayne leaned back in the driver’s seat, heart still racing, lips still tingling, a dazed smile slowly creeping onto his face.

He was so lost in it that he didn’t notice the upstairs window sliding open.

“Zayne!”

He jumped, startled, and looked up.

You were leaning out your bedroom window, arms folded on the sill, cheek resting on them. You looked soft, sleepy, and absolutely glowing.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you said with a bright smile. “Goodnight.”

Zayne blinked, then gave the smallest wave, utterly stunned.

Your brother, who was halfway into the house, snorted. “She’s got you whipped already.”

Zayne didn’t deny it.

And he didn’t mind one bit.

Because you were his now.

And this time, he was going to do it right.

That night, Zayne lay in bed, eyes open to the dark, one arm draped across his chest like he could hold the feeling in place.

The feeling of you.

He wasn’t sure sleep would come. Not when his body still buzzed with the aftershock of your kiss, not when every inch of him still remembered the way you moved, the way you tasted like rebellion and longing and something that was finally his.

Your lips had been soft, but demanding—pulling something from him that he hadn’t let surface in years. That kiss had been a sin wrapped in years of aching restraint, and now that he’d tasted you, he didn’t know how to come down from it. He could still feel the ghost of your breath against his jaw, the press of your thighs as you climbed into his lap like you belonged there.

And god, you did.

You kissed him like you were tired of waiting. Like you were punishing him and claiming him all at once. Like you wanted him to feel the years you’d spent wanting him back. And he did.

He remembered the tremble in your fingers when they threaded into his hair, the heat of your mouth when you gasped softly against his lips. He remembered the soft press of your body against his, the way your hips shifted in that one maddening moment that made him groan and clutch you tighter like he could stop the earth from tilting.

It hadn’t just been a kiss. It had been an undoing.

And now he lay there, ruined by it.

He shifted on the sheets, jaw tight, heart still thrumming like he was back in the car with you all over again.

He loves you so much.

God, maybe he always had.

He loved you the very first time he stepped foot in your house, when he was still a quiet, awkward kid following your older brother into the chaos of you. You’d stormed into the living room like a thunderclap in your overalls, hands on your hips, declaring that you had to be included in whatever game they were playing. “No girls allowed” meant nothing to you. You took your seat like you were born to belong.

He loved you when he didn’t even know what love was. When all he knew was that everything felt brighter when you were in the room.

He loved you in middle school, when you were loud and moody and always talking back, your moods shifting like seasons, impossible to predict, impossible not to watch. He’d pretend to be annoyed, but he always looked up when you walked into the room. Always noticed when your voice got quiet. Always cared more than he should have.

He loved you in high school, when you’d show up uninvited to his study sessions with your brother—distracting, relentless, asking questions you already knew the answers to just so he’d look at you. He’d try to ignore the flutter in his chest when you sat too close, when you chewed your pen thoughtfully, when you teased him until his ears turned red. He memorized your laugh like it was part of his syllabus.

Years passed. You grew. He did too. But his heart never unlearned the shape of you.

And now… now he could finally hold that love in the open.

No more quiet glances. No more buried feelings.

He could wait for you to be ready. For you to trust that this time, he wouldn’t let go.

He’d be the gentleman you deserved—every bit the man you needed, not the scared boy who thought loving you meant keeping his distance.

He would make sure you never felt alone. Never again let silence answer the questions in your eyes. He’d give you the kind of love that didn’t just promise—it showed up. Every time.

Zayne sighed into the quiet, a soft smile curving his lips.

“Please be nice to my heart,” he whispered into the dark. “And maybe—go easy on the miniskirts.”

He chuckled to himself, just a little, the sound low and warm.

And as the rhythm of his breathing slowed, Zayne finally let sleep take him, peaceful and light, for the first time in years.

He fell asleep to the promise of tomorrow.

To the sound of your voice still ringing through his thoughts.

And to the quiet certainty that this time, he wouldn’t be too late.

[fanfictionismyaddiction]

Six Times Toto Pushed His Luck (Part1)

Part 2

word count: 888

Pairing: Toto Wolff x wife reader

Summary: When Toto Wolff's antics push his wife to the brink, she resorts to calling him by his full name, "Torger," reminding him who's really in charge in their playful yet loving relationship.

______________________________________________________________

You never really called him by his full first name. Toto was just easier, softer, and it fit him—most of the time. But sometimes, just sometimes, he pushed you to the edge, and then ‘Toto’ wasn’t enough. That’s when ‘Torger’ came out, a signal that he was skating on thin ice. And on very rare, very special occasions, when things were absolutely out of control, it became ‘Torger Christian Wolff.’

1. Monaco Apartment - Breakfast Disaster

It started off as a calm morning in Monaco, the sunlight streaming into your apartment. You’d barely woken up when you heard the clattering of pots and pans in the kitchen. Toto’s cooking. You sighed, knowing exactly where this was headed.

As you entered the kitchen, you were greeted by the sight of him attempting to scramble eggs in the smallest pan possible. Half of the eggs were sticking to the pan, the other half still runny, and he had the heat turned up too high.

“Toto,” you began gently, “maybe I should—”

“I’ve got this,” he said, his voice confident.

Seconds later, the eggs flipped awkwardly, some landing on the stove, some… on the floor. You pinched the bridge of your nose, exasperated.

“Torger,” you finally said, crossing your arms. “You need to stop before we end up with a fire.”

He froze, the name cutting through his concentration. “Torger? It’s not that bad.”

“Torger. Step away from the stove.”

2. Silverstone Garage - Headphones Drama

Silverstone was in full swing, the race just as intense as you expected. Things weren’t going Mercedes’ way, and you could feel Toto’s frustration brewing from across the garage. Then, as if on cue, it happened—the dramatic slamming of the headphones. He ripped them off his head and threw them down onto the table in one swift, angry motion.

You sighed. How many pairs had he gone through this season? Too many to count.

“Torger,” you said, louder than usual to cut through the tension. “If you break one more pair of headphones…”

He looked at you with raised eyebrows. “Torger?”

“Yes. Torger. Those things are expensive, and you’re going to run out at this rate.”

He chuckled, the tension easing a bit. “Alright, alright. I’ll be gentler.”

3. Vienna - The Overpacking Incident

Packing for a quick weekend trip to Vienna should have been simple. Should have been. But when Toto decided to take the lead, you knew you were in for trouble. You opened the suitcase and stared in disbelief. There were four pairs of shoes, multiple shirts, and enough clothes to last a month.

“Torger,” you called from the bedroom. “Come here.”

He appeared in the doorway, clearly proud of his work. “I packed for us.”

You pointed at the suitcase. “Torger, why are there four pairs of shoes? We’re gone for two days!”

“I thought options would be good.”

“Torger, we don’t need options. We need space. Unpack this now.”

4. The Paddock - PDA Overload

The paddock was bustling, as usual, cameras and fans everywhere. You and Toto were walking through when, out of nowhere, he decided it was the perfect moment for an over-the-top kiss. In front of everyone. The photographers snapped away, and you could practically feel the internet lighting up with memes.

“Toto,” you whispered, trying to pull away.

“What?” he asked, his grin devilish.

You shot him a look, but he leaned in again, clearly enjoying himself. That’s when you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Torger. Not in front of everyone!”

He laughed, finally pulling back. “What? Can’t I show my wife some affection?”

“Torger, not when the whole grid is watching.”

5. Home Gym - The Training Competition

One of Toto’s favorite pastimes was working out, and today, he had challenged you to a little ‘friendly’ competition. At first, it was fun—some light weights, a few squats—but as the session went on, his competitive side started showing. He kept pushing, adding more weights and insisting on extra rounds.

By the time you were on your third set of squats, you’d had enough. Your legs felt like jelly, and he was still going strong.

“Torger,” you panted, dropping the weights. “I’m not a Formula 1 driver. This is insane.”

“One more set,” he said, completely ignoring the exhaustion in your voice.

“Torger,” you warned, “if you make me do one more squat, you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

He chuckled, finally letting you off the hook. “Fine, fine. You win.”

6. Baku - The Meltdown

Baku was not going well. The race had been a disaster, and Toto’s mood was even worse. He spent the entire evening pacing, ranting about strategies, tires, and everything that had gone wrong. You had tried to calm him down, but nothing worked.

Finally, he stormed into the hotel room, still mid-rant, and that was when you’d had enough.

“Torger Christian Wolff,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you’d ever intended.

He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide. You never used his full name unless you were seriously upset.

“You need to stop this. It’s done, the race is over. Either calm down or I’m calling Christian Horner to tell him you need a break.”

Toto blinked, stunned. “You wouldn’t…”

“Try me, Torger Christian.”

He stared at you for a moment before letting out a deep sigh. “Alright, I’ll stop.”

“Good.”

[ducksido]

hiii :3 could you write headcanons about dorm leaders with a s/o who's like idia

Riddle Rosehearts

At first, he’s… confused. Your lack of eye contact and mumbled anime references during tea time make him think you’re mocking him.

Once he realizes you’re just very socially awkward, he becomes much more patient.

He lowkey finds your rambling about your favorite games kind of… impressive? You speak fast, you’re passionate, and it’s endearing.

Tries to gently coax you into tea parties to help your social anxiety. He’ll sit beside you like, “It’s alright, you don’t need to speak unless you’re comfortable.”

If you info-dump, he listens with unexpected interest—even if he doesn’t understand half of it.

Will lecture anyone who makes fun of your quirks. “That’s just how they communicate! It’s called a comfort topic—show some respect!”

Leona Kingscholar

You're like… a tiny, nervous house cat. He’s both entertained and bewildered.

He definitely teases you at first. “Oi, you’ve got something to say? Spit it out already.” But secretly finds your stuttering adorable.

The first time you compare him to a JRPG antihero, he rolls his eyes… but doesn’t stop you. “Tch. You nerds are all the same.”

Loves watching you play games while you narrate what’s going on. Will lie on your lap like a lazy lion and listen with half-lidded eyes.

100% spoils you once he realizes you’re touch-starved. “C’mere, shut up and let me nap on you.”

If someone calls you creepy or weird, expect a very calm but threatening “Wanna repeat that to my face?”

Azul Ashengrotto

Immediately relates to your anxious tendencies. Social anxiety besties <3

Loves that you’re not clingy in public. He’s all for quiet quality time in his lounge or study.

Buys you rare merchandise or figures without even being asked. “I came across this limited-edition item and thought you might enjoy it.”

You make him feel less alone—he no longer feels like the only anxious nerd in NRC.

He melts a little when you stim nervously or pace while thinking. “You’re adorable when you're lost in thought…”

Is impressed by your game strategies. “You cleared that dungeon solo? Remind me never to underestimate you again.”

Kalim Al-Asim

HE THINKS YOU’RE THE CUTEST THING ALIVE.

Will listen to you infodump for hours even if he has no idea what you’re talking about. Just nods with stars in his eyes.

Tries to get you out of your shell by inviting you to parties—which you hate at first, but Kalim always makes sure you have a quiet escape plan if needed.

Loves your hoodie + pajama aesthetic. “You're always cozy!! Can I get a hoodie like yours?”

Gives you anime plushies as gifts constantly.

Protective in his own way—if someone makes you feel bad about your hobbies, he goes full golden retriever mode: “What?? That’s so mean!! Your games are awesome!!”

Vil Schoenheit

At first glance? He’s skeptical.

But when he learns your behaviors stem from social anxiety and not apathy, he softens significantly.

Tries to bring out your confidence. “You’re brilliant—stop hiding behind that screen.”

Surprisingly patient when teaching you how to be more comfortable around people… but he’ll also call you out. “No, darling, muttering your rebuttal after the conversation ends doesn’t count as standing up for yourself.”

Slowly helps you care more about self-image, but in a way that still respects your boundaries. Yes, you can still wear oversized sweaters.

Secretly watches anime to understand your references. Will never admit it.

Idia Shroud

You're literally his dream partner. He thinks he downloaded you from a dating sim at first.

The relationship is mostly texting even when you’re in the same room.

You two have the most insane, cryptic conversations that no one else understands. Just obscure memes, gaming references, and dramatic anime monologues.

You both stim together while watching streams. Cuddling under a blanket fort, surrounded by LED lights, is peak intimacy.

If you ever show affection first, he instantly short-circuits.

He is SO possessive in a feral nerd way. “If someone else tries to talk to you, I’ll delete their save file irl.”

Malleus Draconia

Finds your mannerisms absolutely fascinating. Like an ancient dragon trying to understand modern introverts.

He likes that you’re not intimidated by him—just by… everything else.

If you nervously mutter anime lines, he’ll try to learn them. “...Was that a chant? Is this a courtship ritual in your realm?”

He’s incredibly patient with your social anxiety. Actually prefers the quiet comfort of your presence over noisy events.

You bring him handheld games and slowly get him into gacha culture. He’s way too good at pulling 5-stars.

If anyone mocks your interests, he stares them down until they cry. “You shall not speak so freely of what you do not understand.”

[quill-vy]

THE LANDO EFFECT

IN WHICH

Lando Norris was your boyfriend, and he definitely had something on you. well, for better or for worse!

lando norris was just a boy, after all.

a boy with too much talent and not enough patience.

a boy who laughed like he’d never learned how to care, a boy who kissed you in the rain after a shit qualifying session and said, “fuck it, let’s get pizza,” like that could fix everything. and somehow, it did.

that was the thing about lando. he was immature in the way that made you roll your eyes but grin anyway.

the smallest details like, he’d send you memes at 3 am after a race, voice notes of him singing horribly off-key, and pictures of his dog with captions like “he misses u more than me.” well that’s obviously a lie. you knew he missed you like a withdrawal symptom.

you made him feel like he wasn’t just a driver.

and he helped you realise how terribly perfect you were, well, to him.

but then there were the other moments. the ones that made your ribs ache. like when he’d stare at his phone after a bad race, jaw clenched, and you’d see the weight of the world press down on him. or when he’d cancel plans last minute, voice tight with guilt, and you’d swallow your disappointment because, of course, mclaren came first.

“you deserve better than this,” he mumbled once, forehead against yours in some dimly lit hotel room.

you laughed, but it came out shaky. “yeah, well. too bad i’m stupid for you.”

he kissed you like he was trying to memorize the shape of your mouth. the taste of him was electric and soft, like the calm before the storm. he kissed you like you were the only thing he had left in the world, and maybe, just maybe, he thought you were.

MAX FEWTRELL

“she’s too good for you,” max said, watching you across the paddock, laughing with oscar over some inside joke.

lando didn’t even argue. just took a swig of his red bull and said, “tell me something i don’t know.”

max raised an eyebrow, but he could tell lando wasn’t in the mood to talk.

maybe he was right.

maybe you were too good for him.

maybe he didn’t deserve you, but it didn’t change the fact that every time he looked at you, his chest tightened like he couldn’t breathe without you there.

lando wasn’t good at talking about feelings. he was good at laughing them off, distracting you with dumb jokes, and pretending like nothing was wrong. but deep down, he knew.

he always knew.

“it’s not that i don’t care,” he muttered one night as you sat on his lap, your fingers running through his hair. “it’s just… i’m scared, okay? scared that i’ll fuck it all up.”

you kissed him then, not to shut him up, but to show him. to remind him that love wasn’t about being perfect—but it was about trying. and lando was trying. god, he was trying his best. he just didn’t know how to let you in. not all the way. not yet.

THE BREAKING POINT

it happened after vegas.

a crash. not his fault, but it didn’t matter—the car was wrecked, his race was over, and the second he stormed past you without a word, you knew.

you found him in the garage later, still in his suit, hands gripping his helmet like he wanted to throw it.

“lando.”

he didn’t look up. “not now.”

“yes now.” you stepped closer. “you don’t get to shut me out every time it gets hard.”

“i don’t—” he exhaled sharply. “i don’t know how to do this, okay? the racing, the fucking media, you—”

you swallowed hard, the words catching in your throat. “i’m not asking you to choose,” you said quietly, trying to keep your voice steady. “i’m asking you to let me in.”

for a second, he looked so young it hurt. like a boy who still thought the world was black and white, that if he messed up, everything would break. but there was so much more to him than that. he just needed someone to remind him. someone to show him it was okay to be scared, to not always have the answers.

then he pulled you into his arms, his breath hot against your neck. his hands shook slightly, and you could feel the weight of everything pressing down on him. “i’m trying.”

you kissed him then, softly, not to fix things but just to be with him, to remind him that he wasn’t alone. in that moment, it didn’t matter what happened next. all that mattered was the way he held you like you were the only thing keeping him together.

The Lando Effect.

it was messy. it was stupid. but it was all yours.

lando had a way of making everything feel like it could fall apart, but somehow, it never did.

there was something about the way he would look at you, eyes wide and vulnerable, like he was scared of you leaving but didn’t know how to ask you to stay. you didn’t need him to say it, though.

you could see it in the way he held onto you, the way his hand would slip into yours when he thought no one was watching.

you didn’t have to tell him you loved him, because you both knew. it was in the quiet moments, the little things—like when he’d text you at 2 am to ask if you were awake, just to hear your voice. just to hear your voice.

this man was down bad.

when he showed up at your door two weeks later, hair a mess, eyes wild, you knew something had changed.

“i think i love you,” he said, like the words that he never knew how to say had slipped out before he could stop them. he looked at you, his face flushed with that mixture of excitement and fear, and for a second, it felt like everything stopped.

he just went down just for you.

“i love you too, baby.”

you kissed him then, soft and slow, tasting forever like it was the only thing that mattered. you didn’t need words, but you said them. just to reassure him. just for him to trust you.

but the kiss said it all. he was still lando, still messy and chaotic and a little broken, but he was yours.

and that was enough.

and then max, who conveniently lived in the opposite apartment room from you, ruined it by yelling “get a room!” from the hallway, but whatever. romance was dead anyway.

a/n: noooo this was short but it’s okay

did you see what i did there with the black and white 🤭🤭 i’m a genius ✅✅

i have a longer one loaded guys (TRUST)

[bodybaggage]

Oh, It’s On!

DP X DC

Ensue the prank war…

---

It all started with a simple question posed by Dick as he lounged on the Batcave’s most uncomfortable piece of furniture, which he affectionately called "the Bat-Stone."

“So, has anyone actually tested the limits of Danny’s ghost powers?”

Tim looked up from his laptop, always the first to take a bait. “You mean, besides the constant intangible phase he does to avoid Damian’s batarangs?”

Stephanie, who was tending to her bo-staff but was actually poking Cass with the end of it—grinned. “I’m in. If nothing else, we’ll get some decent entertainment. Better than watching Bruce brood in the dark.”

Cass, normally the least likely to engage in such activities, simply tilted her head with a curious look that might have been interpreted as a quiet agreement. She might not speak often, but Cass had developed a taste for subtle chaos.

Jason cracked his knuckles with a smirk. “Sounds like a good way to pass the time. And besides, I’m bored.”

Danny, floating into the room with a glow of mild suspicion, was not as oblivious as they might have hoped. “You guys aren’t planning anything, are you?”

Dick waved a hand dismissively. “Us? Plan something? Come on, Danny, we’re innocent.”

Danny gave him a deadpan stare. “That’s literally the opposite of what you are.”

The challenge was set, and everyone knew it. But Danny, being the ghostly trickster he was, didn’t wait to be pranked first. He struck with precision.

---

The first inkling that things were amiss came when the Batmobiles began moving on their own. Jason was the first to notice, his usual vehicle—a sleek, red tank of a motorcycle—had rolled up to him as if it were a loyal dog wanting to go for a walk.

“Alright, who’s messing with my ride?” Jason demanded, but the vehicle simply honked twice in response, the sound oddly cheerful.

“It’s not me!” Tim called from across the cave, where his own ride had begun circling him like a shark. “I swear, I’m not touching anything!”

Danny floated nearby, feigning innocence with an expression that screamed, I totally did this. “You sure your cars aren’t just excited to see you?”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “This is war, ghost boy.”

---

The Batcave, typically a place of stoic professionalism, had devolved into a battleground of pranks. Stephanie had rigged Danny’s usual hangout spot with a pop-up scarecrow (it looked suspiciously like Scarecrow, but with a clown wig) that would jump out at him whenever he tried to sit down.

The trap backfired spectacularly when Danny phased through the seat, sending the scarecrow careening into Cass, who simply caught it midair with one hand and set it down gently. Without saying a word, she gave Stephanie a look that said, ‘Nice try, but no.’

“Okay, point to Danny,” Stephanie conceded, wiping away tears of laughter.

In retaliation, Danny decided to step up his game. The next morning, Alfred calmly entered the Batcave with a tray of tea, his hair glowing an eternal green. Not a word about the change, not even a glance in the mirror—Alfred was far too professional for that.

Bruce, however, did notice. “Alfred, did you do something... different with your hair?”

Alfred, ever unflappable, set down the tea tray. “Just trying out a new look, Master Wayne. I believe it’s quite... refreshing.”

Bruce nodded slowly, not entirely sure if Alfred was joking. “It’s very... unique.”

Danny had to leave the room, barely containing his laughter. The dry humor had struck a chord, even with the ghost kid.

---

As the prank war escalated, it became harder to tell who was pranking who. Jason found his helmet filled with ectoplasm, while Tim’s gadgets began mysteriously glitching out, causing them to display random memes whenever he tried to access files.

Stephanie set up a system of water balloons throughout the cave, each strategically placed to drench whoever activated the trap. The grand finale was a large balloon precariously perched above the entrance, ready to douse the first unlucky victim.

Unfortunately for Damian, who had been staunchly standing next to Bruce to avoid any involvement in the chaos, his loyalty did not save him.

“I am not a part of this, Father,” Damian declared, stepping slightly closer to Bruce.

A soft ‘click’ echoed in the cave, followed by a loud splash as the massive water balloon above exploded, soaking Damian from head to toe.

Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Damian, I thought you said you weren’t part of this.”

“I am not!” Damian insisted, dripping onto the Batcave floor. He glared at the ceiling as if it had personally offended him. “This was not intended for me.”

Danny appeared next to him, intangible and dry. “I guess the water balloon had other plans.”

Jason, Tim, Stephanie, and Dick burst into laughter, while Cass allowed herself a rare smile. Even Bruce couldn’t hold back the faintest twitch of his lips.

---

The chaos continued throughout the day, culminating in a final showdown where Danny—now fully embracing his role as master prankster—made every Bat-Suit in the Batcave walk out of their cases and perform the ‘Michael Jackson’s Thriller’ dance.

Bruce had walked in just in time to see his most serious suit do the moonwalk.

“That’s it,” Bruce declared, finally done with the madness. “No more pranks in the Batcave.”

But as he said it, his own suit’s visor flipped up to reveal a pair of glowing green eyes that winked at him before going dark.

Danny’s laugh echoed through the cave. “You’re gonna have to catch me first, Bats!”

Bruce sighed again, mentally preparing himself for the next round. It seemed that in the Batcave, chaos would always have a ghostly signature.

[booskwannie]

"friends"

vernon chwe hansol x you. "what were they?" people would ask. but you and vernon were just friends. friends. - angst wc - 1,177 heavily inspired by Chase Atlantic's "Friends" - "And what the hell were we? Tell me we weren't just friends. This doesn't make much sense, no. But I'm not hurt, I'm tense, 'Cause I'll be fine without you babe."

the first time vernon touched you like that, it was an accident. at least, that’s what you told yourself.

his hand had brushed against yours—just for a second—on the floor of his apartment. you were sitting cross-legged across from each other, half a pizza between you, some indie film flickering in the background that neither of you were really watching. you’d been talking about nothing, the way friends do when it’s late and the city outside has gone to sleep. then he reached for another slice and your fingers touched, and neither of you moved away.

you didn’t look at him. you didn’t have to. the air had shifted.

the silence was too full.

he said your name like a question. you didn’t answer.

and that’s how it started—not with a kiss or a confession, but with something small and irreversible.

after that night, things didn’t change all at once. you still met up for coffee. still traded music recommendations. still lay on his couch for hours without saying a word. but now, sometimes, his head would fall onto your shoulder. sometimes, you’d lie down beside him just a little too close. sometimes, your hand would find his without meaning to.

it wasn’t dating. it wasn’t casual, either. there were no labels, no conversations, just this unspoken thing burning quietly between you, like a secret you were both too scared to say out loud.

you told yourself not to read into it. but it was hard not to when he looked at you like that.

like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

like you were something he shouldn’t want but couldn’t let go of.

and then came the night you kissed.

neither of you talked about it. you didn’t have to.

it was slow and deliberate, like you'd both been holding your breath for months and finally exhaled. he kissed you like he meant it, like he’d been waiting, like he’d already imagined it a thousand times and was terrified this would be the last. his hands were careful on your skin, almost reverent. yours clung to his shirt like you were afraid of waking up.

when you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours and said nothing.

neither did you.

maybe if you had, things would’ve been different.

maybe.

but you weren’t just friends anymore—not after that. even if no one knew. even if neither of you had the guts to say it aloud.

you told yourself it didn’t matter. that as long as he was still there, still texting, still laughing with you like always, it didn’t matter what you called it.

you lied to yourself so often, it started to sound like truth.

but the silence grew heavier with time. the in-between stretched further. you started noticing the way he’d pull away when someone else was around. how his hand would find yours under the table but disappear the second a friend walked in. the nights you stayed over became less frequent, and when you did, the space between you in bed felt wider than it used to.

still, he’d look at you like he meant something. still, he’d hold you like he didn’t want to let go.

but when he spoke, it was always about everything else. never this. never you.

and you started to wonder—if something matters but no one says it out loud, does it still count?

then one night, he didn’t answer.

you’d sent a message—something stupid and meaningless, just a meme, a joke—and there was no reply. hours passed. then a full day.

when he finally responded, it was short. distant.

you asked if he wanted to hang out that weekend. he said he was busy.

that was the moment something in you cracked.

you didn’t say anything. you didn’t confront him. but your chest felt tight in a way it hadn’t before. something was slipping, and you were too scared to grab for it.

the next time you saw him was at a friend’s party. he smiled when he saw you. like nothing was wrong. like he hadn’t been ignoring you for days.

he hugged you like normal. talked to you like normal. introduced you to a girl you’d never seen before, casually, offhandedly, like it didn’t mean anything.

but her hand lingered on his back a little too long.

and you felt your throat close.

when he turned back to you, you smiled. or tried to.

later that night, you found him alone on the balcony, a drink in hand, eyes on the skyline.

you didn’t ask about the girl. you asked him what you were.

his answer came slow, careful.

“i don’t know,” he said.

you stared at him, heart in your mouth.

he looked at you then, really looked. “it’s not that i don’t care.”

“then what is it?” you asked.

he ran a hand through his hair. “i just don’t know if i can give you what you want.”

you felt the words like a slap. “what do you think i want?”

his jaw clenched. “something real.”

you waited, but that was all he gave you.

so you nodded. took a shaky breath. and walked back inside.

he didn’t follow.

after that, the silence came hard and fast. he stopped replying. you stopped reaching out. friends asked what happened. you said nothing.

because what were you supposed to say?

“we weren’t dating. but it still feels like a breakup.”

it didn’t make sense. but it still hurt.

not the sharp, clean kind of pain. just a dull, constant ache that followed you around, sat beside you in empty rooms, curled up in bed with you at night.

you didn’t cry.

you just... tensed.

tense when his name popped up on your screen. tense when a song reminded you of the way his fingers had felt in your hair. tense when someone mentioned him in passing, like he wasn’t still echoing through every corner of you.

because you were trying to be fine.

you told yourself you would be. that you didn’t need him. that you weren’t broken.

and it was true. you weren’t broken.

just tired.

tired of waiting for something that never arrived. tired of being enough to hold but never enough to choose.

weeks passed. then months.

one night, his name lit up your phone again.

hey. heard you got that new job. congrats.

you stared at it. fingers hovering over the keyboard.

your heart didn’t leap.

it just curled in on itself.

because even now, after everything, he could still talk to you like it was normal. like the hole in your chest was something you imagined. like he hadn’t kissed you like he meant it, only to walk away without ever looking back.

you didn’t reply.

not because you hated him.

but because you were done letting him pretend this never meant anything.

and you knew—finally, honestly—you would be fine without him.

but god, it still didn’t make sense.

because you weren’t just friends.

you were something. something real. even if it was only real to you.