#will I actually write something for this year?

[tuesdayiminlove]

what if he's written mine on my upper thigh (only in my mind)

you've been on four dates with johnny storm. you don't think it's serious. he has a different idea in mind. (johnny storm x fem!reader)

AN: this fic is VERY LOOSELY based off that one lyric in guilty as sin that became the title. i usually don't write super shy or oblivious characters, but i am too obsessed with an opposites attract dynamic. so this is what came about. i hope u enjoy & lmk what u think!!!!! also not proofread again super sorry

WORD COUNT: 5.7k

“Briefing notes?”

“Check.”

“Final printed copy of the speech?”

“In a PDF format as well! Check.” 

“Lozenges?”

In honey lemon. “Check!”

“Triple shot flat white?”

You don’t vocalize your opinion, but you felt like an old man ordering that at the coffee shop. “Check.”

“You’re getting good at this.”

You fight a blush, waving off Lynne’s praise. 

It’s always daunting entering the Baxter Building (especially now more than usual), but you stick behind Lynne and follow her lead. The lift attendant ushers you both into the steel-lined elevator after you showed proper identification, and you’re off. You always get a bundle of nerves at this part; waiting to reach the actual living quarters of the building. But you’ve done it enough to know to stare at your shoes to avoid feeling nauseous. It’s only when you hear the ding do you look up, straightening out your work pants and making sure the coffee cup in your hand stays upright. 

At first, you and Lynne are met with nothing but silence, which is quite unusual (usually there’s Ben in the kitchen, or H.E.R.B.I.E. watching baby Franklin by the couch, his various beeps that you don’t understand greeting you upon entering). You and Lynne don’t question it, though, her muttering something about a late morning while ushering you to the kitchen area where you put everything you’re holding on the counter. 

It’s only when you feel like you’re taking your first breath of the day, hands cramped, do you hear footsteps bounding down the hallway, high heels clanking on the sleek floors. 

Sue Storm strides in, the pinnacle of elegance. She takes one moment to dust off a piece of lint from her red long-sleeve, made of a material that you’re sure costs more than your weekly paycheck. She greets you both with a kind smile, “Good morning.”

“Hardly,” says Lynne, frowning. It took awhile to get used to the fact that Sue and Lynne’s friendship strung for many years that Lynne no longer bothers to give her an agreeable type of kindness that others seem to give at default for the Invisible Woman. “There’s a seventy-three percent chance of rain and the wind nearly ruined my hair.”

Sue snaps her fingers, regaining her memory. “I almost forgot my coat.” She’s bounding down the hallway again, calling for Reed, but not before telling you both to get yourself comfortable and ushering you to the stools in front of the kitchen island. 

You don’t look at Lynne for approval before taking a seat, legs sore from the morning run your friend made you go on before work. You busy yourself by opening the manila folder that holds Sue’s UN speech, checking thrice for any grammar mistakes (if there are any, that’d be your fault and would no doubt be getting a scolding from Lynne). 

You’re too immersed, brows drawn tightly together and lips mouthing each part of the speech. You don’t notice the soft footsteps entering the room, or the slight halt in the steps, before it continues to proceed in your direction. 

A hand rests on the small of your back, finger splayed out on the material of your sweater. 

You jolt, not expecting the contact. 

You swivel the seat and are met with the eyes of Johnny Storm. 

“I didn’t know you’d be here today,” he says flatly—a fact, yet there’s something else hidden beneath his tone. A slight surprise, maybe hurt, as if he expected you to let him know every time you’d be making an appearance in his vicinity. 

His hand stays on your back. 

You open your mouth to reply, though with what you’re not sure, but his movements stop you. He reaches his other hand to your face, thumbs brushing in between your eyebrows and smoothing out the furrowed line. “They’re gonna get stuck like that.” 

You glance at Lynne. She has a compact in her hand, angling the mirror at a stray piece of hair, pretending not to notice. 

When you look back, Johnny’s eyes are still on you. Observing, memorizing, whatever it is he does. 

Your association with Johnny is… new. You’ve been on a few dates, four to be exact, and each time your eyes nearly bulged out of your head when you returned home and he’s already calling to schedule a new one. You’re unsure if you’re part of a rotation of girls, or if you’re the only one he’s seeing. You don't think it's the latter. You’re too shy to ask. What you do know, however, is that you’re certainly not seeing anyone else. Dating is a fickle thing for you, really, and you had only agreed to going out with Johnny because he’d been incredibly persistent. Plus, it is an undeniable and unmoving fact that he is—to the eyes of all—incredibly attractive. You never had it in you to say no. 

You feel your face warm up at the intensity of his gaze, looking down briefly at your ballet flats to collect yourself. You look back up and manage a small smile, hoping it comes as casual and not the complete mess you feel inside. 

You’re quiet—a plain fact that even Johnny has to have already gotten used to. Words don’t leave your mouth as you hoped it would. You imagine saying something that would elicit a smirk, or something. Instead, you remain silent. 

If he notices your nerves, he doesn’t say anything. Just glances behind you at the counter before his eyes light up. “‘That the big speech?”

You nod, instinctively turning and moving the paper to the side and in Johnny’s line of vision to read. You feel the heat of him press against your back. 

He pretends to scan the page. His eyes dot over the little notes on the margin, arrows pointing before and between words. His mouth crinkle upwards when he notices the tiny smiley face you’ve written after a particular note, commending Sue on a certain sentence. “So professional,” he says coolly. 

Sue finally comes back down the hallway, coat splaying on her arm. She notices you and Johnny and a knowing smile plays on her lips. “Time to go. Are you done flirting with my assistant, Johnny?”

“Not yet,” he rapidly replies, barely sparing his sister a glance before his eyes shift to you and he smiles. It’s small, but carries the weight of mischief and reassurance. “So—how about dinner tonight?”

You blink. “Tonight?”

“Yeah. When you’re done with all this UN business.” His tone is light, but there’s a shift in his eyes like he’s unsure of whether or not your answer will be yes. Hope flickers. 

You hesitate, aware of Sue and Lynne’s attention and the fact that your heart is beating way too fast. “I’ll see how late we’re there.”

“That’s not really the answer I was hopi—“

“Johnny,” Sue’s voice cuts through, demanding but light. “I’ll make sure she’s back in ample time if you can let us go.” She frowns at Lynne apologetically. “We’re already running late.”

They’re actually running early, but Lynne has always been a stickler for time. Sue seems to know that. 

Johnny grins, as if the answer is as good as yes. “I’ll take it.” He pushes off the counter, standing tall with a kind of confidence only the Human Torch can carry. He leans in and brushes a piece of hair behind your ear, eyes scanning your nervous face. “Try not to frown too much until then.”

The weight of Sue and Lynne’s gazes on you is strong. 

You try your best to ignore it, following them down the building and into the waiting car. 

—

The UN conference goes by smoothly (for the most part), you not really doing much except standing to the side with Lynne while Sue delivers her speech with natural poise. At one point, a reporter walked up to you—nervous, unassuming you—to see if they could get the scoop of something, anything, on Sue Storm. You stared blankly at the reporter, not being trained for anything like this, until Lynne yanked your arm and said unequivocally, “We won’t be taking any questions.” The interaction was over soon after it started, but had left you shaken up, cursing at yourself for not knowing what to do. 

The interaction still haunts you as you toe off your flats upon entering your apartment, slinging your bag down on the floor as you make your way to the couch and flop. You wonder if the reporter approached you because maybe you looked too meek to deny anyone a question. You hate that feeling. You always thought a job like yours would be a great way to make an impact while still staying away from the spotlight and glamour of politics, but clearly you had been wrong. Especially if you’re affiliated with someone from the Fantastic Four.

You’re contemplating your life decisions when your chubby tabby, Kiwi, curls himself around your right leg. He sniffs lightly at your work pants before nuzzling his head softly on your shin. You smile, reaching down to pluck the docile animal from the floor and lay him carefully in your arms. 

“You don’t have to worry about the press, do you, Kiwi?” you say softly to the cat in your arms, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. “Well neither do I—anymore, at least. Let’s feed you.” 

You make your way to your small kitchen and into the cupboards until you find Kiwi’s food. Your nervous system calms down at the mundanity, continuing your late-afternoon routine of making sure the bowl of food and water is full. When you’re sure that Kiwi is properly satisfied, you leave him and walk into your bedroom to change into more comfortable clothes. 

You’re slipping off your blazer and blouse, eyes rummaging through your array of t-shirts in your drawer to see which one would be the comfiest to slip on. You pick a tattered college tee, the one where it slips off your shoulders to combat the light warmth with a pair of shorts to match. They have kiss marks printed in a straight pattern, something a friend got you for Valentine’s Day. It’s silk and feels nice on your skin. You slip off the remaining rings that adorn your fingers and hoop earrings, delicately placing them on a tray over your dresser. You breathe in relief, finally feeling normal again. 

This is how the rest of your night goes, rummaging through your pantry for a snack and coddling Kiwi on the couch as you sift through various channels on your television. You’re praising Kiwi as he lets out continuous purrs on your lap when there’s a knock on your door. 

Your head jolts us, eyebrows furrowing as you gently set Kiwi to the side before making your way to the door. 

You open your door curiously, a hint of nerves, only to be met with Johnny.

Your nerves suddenly make more sense.

Your eyes angle up to meet his expression, one showing a bit of alarm. 

“Who were you talking to?” he asks plainly, peering into your apartment. 

You follow his line of vision, taking in everything he is. There’s a bunch of scattered papers, copies of the latest speech, on your small dining table. Various blankets litter your couch and you have two bottles of polish (one a top coat) on your rug. One part of the string lights you hung around your living room dangles down from when a tack broke and you were too lazy to fix it. Kiwi nudged a few pieces of kibble from his bowl and onto the floor. 

It’s definitely not a sight to see for guests. 

The silence stretches as you don’t have it in you to reply. What would you say? You were talking to your cat? 

Thankfully, Johnny doesn’t wait for your reply. He peers down at your face, a lackluster and slightly disappointed expression. “Sue said you were too tired for dinner.”

You do remember telling Sue that, apologetically asking her to relay the information to Johnny since you probably wouldn’t see him for the rest of the day. It was a little embarrassing, a little scary, as you deny seeing Johnny to his sister. But still, she gave you a kind smile and said that she would tell him. 

“But that never usually stops Johnny,” she added after, to which you only offered her a half-smile before scurrying off to Lynne’s side. 

You should’ve known he’d show up. 

“Sue said to leave you alone to, you know, de-stress, or whatever,” he flails a hand up to convey that he saw that advice as useless. “But you need to eat.”

It’s then that you look down and see the brown bag in his other hand, and the familiar waft of food hits your nose. Your stomach growls. 

He hears it, the corners of his mouth turning up. 

“It’s from that place you talked about. Chiu’s Garden, remember?”

The shock in you passes like a splash of cold water. You do remember. You said it in passing, once, about the Chinese takeout you get when work gets too busy and the ache in your head gets hard to manage and you don’t want to cook. You had their number memorized, and the workers there greeted you by name. The place isn’t what shocks you. It’s the fact that Johnny of all people remembers. 

There are many things you want to say. Starting with Thank you and I hope you plucked the sauce that’s on the counter before you left. But mostly How do you remember?

If Johnny notices your shock at the gesture, he doesn’t comment. Only raising a single eyebrow at you. “Can I come in?” 

You realize you haven’t spoken yet. “Are you a vampire?”

The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop yourself, unsure if you meant it as a joke or if it just slipped out because it’s the first thing your mind went to. 

Johnny stifles a laugh. “A vampire?” 

Well, now you clearly have to give him an explanation. “Vampires need permission to be let into private areas.” There’s a hint of embarrassment in your voice, and you curse yourself once again for not knowing what to say and saying the wrong thing. 

He peers at you, eyes squinting and assessing your face. “What have you been watching lately?”

You shrug. You don’t tell him you watched the Scars of Dracula while you were finalizing the last of Sue’s speech the night before. Or how you got fully immersed into it. Or how you talked to Kiwi about how thankful you are that you don’t have a roommate to let unknown strangers into your apartment. 

“Well, I’m no vampire,” he says. 

There’s a playful lilt to his voice, and you realize now that you might be in on a joke you created. Not wanting to disappoint him or bring the mood down because, hey, you’re not in on a lot of jokes, you take a long backwards step back into your apartment. “Prove it.”

Johnny responds by taking a similar long step into your apartment, now standing right in front of you. Your chest nearly meets his as he looks down at you with a smirk. Your heart stutters, and you hope the lack of space between you two doesn’t mean that he can hear it. “See?” 

You manage a small nod, walking around him to shut your door. You think your stomach might start doing backflips if you stay that close to Johnny, mind unsure if it’s a rush of nervousness or excitement. 

He seems to take your interaction as an acceptance that he’s allowed to be here, in your apartment, and though he’s never been inside, he quickly assesses the layout and walks towards your kitchen. 

Kiwi looks as if to say, you let a man into the apartment. 

Your eyes reply, I didn’t know he was coming! 

“I know I didn’t show it—“ Johnny calls out from the kitchen. You hear the crinkle of the brown bag and food being brought out. “—but I was really nervous that I knocked on the wrong apartment. I only ever walked you to the front of the building!”

You pad the small way to the kitchen, peering in to see him open a plastic container and dip his fingers in to snipe a piece of broccoli. 

“I had to look at each door to find your last name,” he says through a mouthful of broccoli. “Thank God you live on the second floor, right?” He turns to meet your eyes, giving you a close-lipped, goofy smile that has your mouth threatening to smile back. When he swallows, he motions to all the cupboards above him. “Do you usually eat with plates or out of the container? Also I brought you orange soda.”

“I—I just eat out the container,” you say softly, leaning against the entryway, arms crossed. 

“Perfect! Me too.” He gathers the food into his arms in a perfect balance, picking up the soda can last before motioning past you. “C’mon. Let’s eat.”

You watch him maneuver your apartment with ease, as if it isn’t the first time he’s been here. He tiptoes past Kiwi’s kibble on the floor and barely manages to knock down a picture frame that sits at the edge of your coffee table. He mutters an apology before putting the food down and sitting on your couch. “So what are we watching—oh. Hello.” He peers down at your cat, who stares back at him blankly. “Is this the infamous Kiwi? Is this who you were talking to?” He reaches his hand out and scratches behind Kiwi’s ear tentatively, unsure if he would be squeamish or not. Unsurprisingly, Kiwi leans into his touch. Johnny is delighted “We’re going to have great conversations,” he whispers, as if keeping a secret between him and the cat. 

You find the sight awfully endearing. You don’t realize you’ve been staring as long as you have until Johnny turns his head to stare at you. “You coming?”

You timidly make your way to the couch, now unsure of how to feel at place in your home when Johnny Storm is in it. Johnny Storm, who despite four dates, you’ve barely gotten used to. You like him (obviously, you’ve let him take you out continuously), but you’re still unsure of what he is to you. The ambiguity of your relationship to him is much easier to stomach when he’s across from you at a restaurant booth, or walking in the park with fresh air around you. 

Now—here—with him on your couch, you don’t think you understand your relationship with him all too well. You wonder if he shows up at other dates’ houses like this; their favorite takeout and a soft smile that can quiet any ache. You wonder how different the other girls he sees are from you; if they stumble on their words despite ample practice. 

You take a seat on the other end of the couch, Kiwi already taking up space in the middle. You angle yourself to face him, legs tucked under you with your arms still crossed. 

“You’re too far away,” he says plainly, as if stating a fact instead of discontentment. “But I have a feeling he’s not going to move anytime soon, is he?”

This gets a laugh out of you, looking down at Kiwi, who blinks slowly at your face. “He’s the boss.”

Johnny lets out a tsk tsk, shaking his head with a grin. “I should’ve known. Guess I’m gonna have to share you tonight.”

The rest of the night goes like this: Johnny shows the various things he bought you from the Chiu’s Garden menu, as he was unsure of what to get you. He has a delightful expression as you express that you like all of them. He pumps a fist in the air and you laugh, leaning down from the couch to pick your food of choice from the coffee table. He makes sure to give you a review of everything he tries, and he’s deeply satisfied, muttering about how you two need to go back together next time. Something flutters in your stomach at the mention of a next time. 

Eventually, Kiwi grows bored of the Ted Gilbert Show and hops off the couch, lightly swaying as he makes his way into your bedroom for some peace and quiet. Johnny takes that as an opportunity to sit closer to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and reaching his other to rest on your knee. He barely pays attention to the ministrations his thumb does on your knee, but it affects you greatly. You, again, wonder if he does this to other girls he’s with. You wonder if it’s stupid that you feel so special. 

“Hey.” 

You look up at him, brows already furrowed from how hard you were thinking. 

“What did I say?” he scolds softly, his hand on your knee leaving as he reaches his thumb in between your eyebrows again. “They’re gonna get stuck like that.” 

—

When you’re not suffering from severe imposter syndrome as you play assistant with Lynne for Sue, you’re taking up extra shifts at the coffee shop down your street. You’ve been working here since you were eighteen and trying to pay for college. Now, you’re a little older and trying to pay your college debts. Still, you know the owner, and they’re more than willing to pay you under the table for your efforts to keep the shop afloat when you can. 

The line isn’t long and you’re striking up a conversation with Miss Sutton, a regular, as she fishes her purse for change. 

“And, Freddie—“ she says, her eyes down at her bag, “—he keeps crying. He’s getting old. ‘Vet said he might be going blind in his right eye.”

Your heart lurches immediately as you imagine yourself in that position; Kiwi growing old and going blind. But he’s only four and you make sure to take him to regular checkups. “I’m so sorry, Miss Sutton,” you say honestly. “Maybe he and Kiwi can have a play date! It might cheer him up.”

She places a few dollars onto the counter and looks at you flatly. “Or remind him of what he no longer has.”

Well, that took a turn. 

You smile tensely at the older woman, taking the dollars and commit yourself to counting them instead of making the conversation worse. So much for comfort. She’s fifty cents off, but you don’t mention it. 

You busy yourself with making chamomile tea, which is one of the easier orders you’ve had all day (you love a good macchiato with lavender syrup with the nice cold foam on the top, but it’s a fucking hassle to make). You hum a little to yourself, in your element at a place you’re comfortable in. Thoughts of a sick Kiwi and a grumpy Miss Sutton exit your mind. 

The bell over the door dings, alerting you of a new customer. You pass the finished drink to your coworker as she finishes heating a pastry. You dust off your hands and turn around. 

“Hello, welcome to—“

You’re met with blue eyes, blond hair, and an accusatory look. 

Your mind goes blank. 

Johnny doesn’t wait for you to finish your obligatory customer greeting, “You’ve been overworking yourself.”

“I—what?”

“You were with Sue all day Tuesday, you cancelled our date yesterday to take a shift here and had an emergency meetup with Lynne, and now you’re back today. You’re overworking yourself.”

You want to say that this is actually what normal people do to make a living, but you don’t say that. Instead, you stare up at his unrelenting gaze and gulp. “Aren’t you—“ your voice comes out squeaky and you clear your throat. “Aren’t you, like, a superhero? You save Earth for a living.” 

He shrugs off your answer like it’s nothing. 

Beside you, your coworker takes note of Johnny, and gasps. 

You both turn your head to the sound. 

“You weren’t lying?” she says, mouth wide. “You’re friends with Johnny Storm?”

Johnny immediately looks offended. “Friends?”

“Viv,” you say, ignoring him, “can you go to the back and make sure Hal is done with the croissants batch? We’re out up here.” 

Viv looks at you as if to say, you’re kicking me out as if Johnny Storm isn’t right here? 

You manage a harsher look, and she’s off, muttering something about getting her camera. You hope to God out of embarrassment that she doesn’t. Johnny visits your place of work and the first thing that happens is your coworker ambushes him. And know he knows that you talk about him.

“I’m sorry about her, I’ll tell her to put her camera away,” you say. 

Johnny looks at you, brows furrowing before shaking his head rapidly. “I don’t care about a photo. I care about you. When was the last time you took a break for yourself? Doesn’t Kiwi miss you?”

“… I did a face mask last night,” you say dumbly. You leave out the part where you were on the phone with an airline company until 2AM because you stupidly booked the wrong time for Sue and Reed’s flight to Chicago, face mask forgotten and on for hours while you tried to fix your mistake before Lynne noticed. 

The admission seems to calm him down a bit, shoulders sagging as his mind recalibrates. “When do you get off here?”

You don’t really have set shifts, you’ve been here since 10AM and helping out any way you can. Hal had you making croissants with him for two hours until Viv asked for your help at the front. Now, it’s 5PM and the sun is getting ready to set—and you hate that Johnny is right, because you feel wrung out. Your body suddenly becomes more alert of the ache on your temples, and the emptiness of your stomach. 

“I can technically leave whenever.” 

His eyes light up. “Perfect! You’re leaving now. Grab your coat.” 

“Johnny—“

“You can go,” a voice behind you says. 

You turn to see Hal and Viv standing together by the door to the back, eyes wide in wonder as they continue to stare at Johnny. It’s a look you recognize from the amount of times you’ve spent with him. It’s why Johnny takes you to restaurants and you get seated at the most private corner, or why he wears sunglasses and a cap in the dead of winter when you stroll through the park. You appreciate the efforts Johnny goes to be unnoticed—knowing you don’t like the attention. But you wonder if that’s just how he’s been going around publicly lately; unnoticed. You realize it’s been awhile since you’ve seen a tabloid of him walking a girl down the street, or a blurry photo of him in a store with someone. Maybe he’s tired of the cameras. 

“Are you sure?” you ask Hal. 

He nods, taking his eyes away from Johnny to give you a softer look. “Croissants are done, I have Viv to work like a dog—“

“Hey!”

“—we’ll be just fine. Have fun with your friend.” He wiggles his eyebrows, and you fight the blush that threatens to coat your cheeks. 

You’re too busy going to the back to grab your coat and purse to notice the shock on Johnny’s face. You give one last goodbye to Hal and Viv before you leave the counter to join Johnny’s side. He waits for you to slip on your coat before placing a hand on the small of your back to guide you out the shop. 

You swear you hear a click from Viv’s camera. 

You breathe in the fresh, cool air the second you’re out on the street. You watch as Johnny inconspicuously slips on a pair of sunglasses and pulls the hood of his coat up. 

He’s silent as you both walk the short distance to your apartment, which is unusual. Usually, he’s already talking your ear off about his day, or something Ben has cooked since he knows your affinity with anything cooking or baking-related. You usually stay silent when he gets like that, listening intently and only giving your input when he manages to force it out of you (even after all this time, you’re still nervous). 

But there’s none of that today. Silence stretches even as you enter your apartment building, him holding the door open for you, and as you pat the snow from your boots onto the rug (normally, this is where Johnny says something stupid, like how you both look like ducks shaking water off by a pond). You walk up the stairs and open your apartment door, still silent. 

Your stomach churns nervously. You wonder if Johnny is mad at you—for overworking, as he says. If the concern has stretched into anger. Or if Hal and Viv’s peering eyes,, and knowing of him, threw Johnny off, realizing you’re just like any other person who brags about his existence. But it’s not like that! You wonder if you’ve ruined what you and he have—whether you know what you guys are or not. 

Finally, as both of your coats have been shrugged off and left on the hook by your door—

“I’m your friend?”

You look up from where you were staring at the floor and furrow your brows. “Hm?” 

“That’s how they talked about me,” he says, and you know he’s referring to Hal and Viv. “They said I’m your friend. Is that how you talk about me?”

He stares at you, eyes searching your own as you try to string together a response. “Um… yeah?” 

Because you don’t know what else to call Johnny. Johnny who takes you to the most private parts of a fancy restaurant, and brings you takeout when you’re tired, and shows up to work to make sure you haven’t been burnt out. Johnny who now looks down at you with a pained expression, for reasons you’re a little unsure of why. Isn’t that what people are in whatever stage you and Johnny are in? Friends? Isn’t he seeing other people? 

Johnny exhales sharply through his nose, walking up to you and shaking his head as if your answer had been outlandish. “That’s really what you think we are?”

Your lips part, but you don’t answer. He’s standing so close now that you can see the faint tint of pink on his nose from the cold. His breath fans down at you. You try to imagine what Johnny wants to hear, but still, you’re unsure. “You and I…” you say slowly, “We’re—what else would we be?” 

His jaw ticks. “Together.”

Together. As in, you and Johnny. You think about Johnny walking you to your door, eyes lingering at your lips but he moves to kiss your cheek and you’re convinced you’d just imagined it. Johnny, who has admitted to looking for restaurants with similar dishes to ones you’ve cooked, so you can compare (“I bet yours is better,” he says plainly, taking another bite. “Do you agree? Or are you too modest?”). Johnny and his thumb that grazes the middle of your eyebrows because they’re gonna get stuck like that. 

You blink at him, voice small. “Together?” 

Johnny genuinely looked confused at your confusion. His brows knot in the way he always tells you to stop doing. “Yeah? Like dating. Together-together. What did you think this was?” 

Heat crawls up the back of your neck, mortification and disbelief tangling in a mess that makes it hard to think. “I—I thought you were just being… you know. Nice. How you treat the other girls.”

His head jerks back. “'The other girls'? Well first, nobody’s that nice. At least, not like I have been. I’ve only ever been like this with you.” 

Your stomach turns at the admission. 

“Second, what other girls? You think I’ve been seeing other people?”

You’re too embarrassed to answer, because you know your answer would be yes. Instead, you huff a large sigh and press your palms to your eyes. “I don’t know what to think right now, Johnny.”

You hear him sigh softly. Two hands reach your wrists. “Hey, hey,” he coos, tone soft as he gently pries your hands away from your eyes. You’re immediately met with a blue storm, swirling with thought and something else that you’re unsure how to name. “I’m sorry if I stressed you out, okay? Come here.”

He envelopes you in a hug, warm and all-encompassing, the kind that makes you realize just how cold the outside has made you without noticing. His chin rests against the top of your head. 

Your arms hover at your sides at first, stiff with hesitation. But as you slowly think through Johnny’s words, you melt into him. The exhaustion from the conversation, from work, from everything presses down harder, and the steadiness of his heart against your head makes something inside you settle. 

Johnny thinks you too are together. 

You wonder how stupid you must really be for not noticing. 

“We’re together,” you say softly into his chest, breathing him in. 

“We are,” he says, a whisper.. “I’m sorry for not making it more… known. I thought you knew.” 

“No,” you say, shaking your head and laughing a little. 

“I didn’t know. I’m too in my head about this, you know?” you admit meekly, your mind now re-assessing every interaction you’ve ever had with the boy against you. Re-assessing with the word EXCLUSIVE over every single memory. 

The two of you stay tangled in each other’s arms until a small meow interrupts your moment, Kiwi coming to curl around your feet. You untangle yourself from Johnny to pick up the cat, resting his body against your chest as you turn to the side so that Kiwi’s head is facing Johnny. 

“Kiwi, this is my boyfriend. I bet you knew that already, didn’t you?” There’s a glee in your voice that has Johnny lighting up, reaching down to give Kiwi a kiss on his head. 

“He’s all-knowing,” he adds with a grin. He reaches out to caress your cheek, pulling you back in, Kiwi in the middle. He sighs happily. “You better reintroduce me to Hal and Viv,” he whispers softly into your hair. 

[humanityinahandbag]

Eddie Munson and the Rainbow Unicorn Tattoo of Doom

Let me just start by saying that this headcanon came to me at 1 am. I woke up in a cold sweat and knew I had to write it down before it was lost forever.

I fully believe that Eddie Munson, if given the time and support, could absolutely become famous. If not mainstream famous, then at least in a way where he's known throughout certain communities. He draws people to him; people that feel lost or different. He's got fans that are Queer, punk, metal. Fans that are young and fans that are old.

Fans that have just found out about him.

And fans that have known him for a long time.

And I fully believe that the fans that have known him a long time are the ones that will notice... certain changes.

Eddie Munson, as long as he's been in the spotlight, has had scars. They pucker and pull at his cheek and arms, some of the worst collecting around his abdomen that are in full view when he's lost in a particularly sick guitar solo.

The media uses these to their terrible advantage. He cuts a scary looking figure - at least that's what the conservative mothers and fathers in their button up blazers think - and he's got a certain haunted look in his eyes when he sings about demons and other worlds that can leave concert goers breathless.

And then there are the tattoos.

When he started his career, he had a few of them. There were bats, a scary little monster, a tiny dragon.

The start of his career was... rough. The tabloids talked about overdoses. About a man named Wayne - Eddie's father - coming and going from a rehab center. A month later, more people began drifting in. Unknown, young people who looked nothing like rock stars or metal fans. Especially the one wearing the polo shirts and pressed slacks and just so happened to go more frequently than the others.

It takes a year, but Eddie begins to get back on his feet. And that's when fans start to see it.

Eddie Munson looks a lot... happier. Bouncier, even.

And not only that, but he's got a new tattoo.

A nail bat appears down his ribs.

By the next year, an ice cream scoop appears over his heart.

Fans that have stayed long enough track his skin like its the pages of a particularly intriguing novel. There are zines and fan club Q&As and photographs following Eddie year by year.

They track when a little bird is added to his wrist. When a pen is added somewhere near his elbow. A 20 sided die makes it onto his shoulder.

There was a near uproar of intrigue when a kiss mark showed up against his neck. That grew tenfold when a tattooed ring appeared around his finger, an actual ring safely stored away in his dressing room.

But it was the tattoo that showed up ten years into his career that garnered the most attention.

Eddie's tattoo's have always changed, but they've always had at least one constant. They were always, always, without color. Shades of black were all that ever graced his scarred skin. It was the only constant the fans knew to be true in their wild collection of rumors and speculations.

And then the unicorn appeared.

Bright. Gaudy. A little sloppy. It showed up on his side one day; bright purple in a dark blue outline. Above its head was a very scribbly rainbow.

"Maybe its a creature of darkness," fans whispered. "Maybe it's like... the rainbow of doom or something..."

It was the best they could come up with.

This was mostly because Eddie, loud as he could be on stage, was actually a very private person. Which meant that no one but his closest friends (and one polo shirted husband) got to see the same scribbly little rainbow and purple unicorn tacked onto his fridge with a Hawkins, Indiana magnet.

"You know that people won't think it's very metal," Steve had pointed out one night, weeks before the tattoo had become a reality. They'd just finished dinner and he was handing washed dishes over to Eddie to dry.

Eddie admired the picture on the fridge, storing a newly dried plate into a cabinet. Down the hall they could hear their daughter singing along with Cookie Monster, probably scribbling another picture with her arsenal of crayons. There were lines on the kitchen doorway tracking how much she'd grown in her three years of life. Sticky fingerprints lined the walls and banisters. There were My Little Pony dolls scattered in every room.

"You kidding?" he'd said, looking back towards his husband, mundanely holding a glass, yellow gloves all the way up to his elbows. "I'm pretty sure there's nothing more metal in the world."

[apple-yan]

Waste Away (Yandere Male Cowboy x Reader)

Apple's Note : surprise, Bitch, Thought you'd seen the last of me? nah but I'm trying a different setup to take up less space with my posts! The drawing will be at the bottom of the post. I hope it looks alright! Also, while this doesn’t imply any gender for the reader, I did write it with a male reader in mind.

Trigger warnings : Violence, reader injury, alcohol, Death mention, religious implications, yan makes fun of reader, reader implies yan to be a father-figure, age gap, reader is straight up not having a good time right now.

Owning and tending to a ranch pretty much by yourself was hard work, but it was something you've had to do for a long while. When your Pa had passed five years back, it left you as the only one left to take care of his cattle and your grandmother.

You had taken the responsibility seriously, waking up before dawn, going to sleep well past midnight sometimes. You worked tirelessly, getting your hands dirty, to try your best to honor your old man, but the work began to grate on you. You figured that you could set a bit of money aside to hire help if you let them use the guest room in the farmhouse.

Despite your odd hours, your grandmother always had warm food ready for you and clean clothes neatly folded and set on your bed. You felt bad, making an old woman like her work, but any time you brought up the idea of her resting, she’d just smack your hand and tell you that if she wants to do something, she will.

It was a calm night, one where you had actually managed to get everything together before sundown, and you were even able to help your grandmother with dinner (despite her chasing you out of the kitchen a few times.) As you sat at the table after setting it and saying grace, a knock came on the farmhouse door. You set your silverware down, excusing yourself as you answer the door.

A tall stranger stood at the door, leaning down a bit to fit in the frame. He looked to be about the age of your father, with hands calloused from years of hard work.

“Um- who-?” You’re cut off by a wave of his hand, and he hands you a paper. One of the posters that you had messily slapped up in the town square nearby, asking for someone who was good with animals and could help your granny pick up heavy things. You glance up at him, “Ah, you’re here for the job! Well, it’s so nice to meet you. No one else has responded to the posters yet. My Granma Hellen just finished some chili and cornbread. Would you like to sit down with us while we talk?”

He nods as you ramble. Ah, the strong and silent type. You hope that doesn’t translate to rude.

“Oh, I’m getting ahead of myself. Did you ride here? We’ve got space in the stables if you need.”

Again, a nod, and you lead him out to where he should put his horse, rambling about the responsibilities, the history of the ranch, and whatnot. You glance at him, then realise, “Oh my, I forgot to introduce myself, Mister! I’m (Y/N)!” You hold out your hand, and he pauses before shaking it. He’s warm and his grip is strong. You hope that means the cattle will like him.

“Name’s Emmet Amos. Pleasure.” He regards you with a nod as you lead him inside.

“Mister Amos, this is my Granma Hellen,” You gesture to the older woman, “She makes the greatest food you’ll ever get to eat, I’ll tell ya. And she’s always busy with something, makes me wonder if I’ll ever be able to run the ranch without her!” You chuckle as he greets her.

“Granma, I’mma grab our guest another bowl, you can keep eating.” You head off to the kitchen, returning with another bowl of chili and some silverware to hand to him. “I’m glad you showed up, actually! We’ve always got too much food, so this is a good surprise.”

Throughout dinner, you ramble on more about what's expected. He can stay in the empty room on the first floor if he makes sure to clean himself off each day and make the bed each morning. Food and other necessities will be taken care of, but he’s welcome to make his own. Waking up with the first cock-call is a given, and if he gets hurt, he’s gotta tell you right away to take him to the clinic so he doesn’t risk getting sick.

After a while, you notice they’re both done eating, and you’ve barely touched your bowl. You chuckle bashfully, “Ah, but look at me rambling, what made you wanna come to the ranch? I’m sure a cool fella like you might make a good living anywhere.”

He hums, swallowing his food before replying, “I needed a fresh start. Place where no one knows me,” He glances between you and your gran, “It helps that the people are friendly.”

You laugh, “Well, I’m sure there’s lots of people like you, Mr Amos. Everyone who lives out here is runnin’ from somethin’. Where’re you from?”

“Nowhere very interesting.”

You tilt your head, but don’t press it. Farm hands, especially those who travel, can be a touchy bunch, whether they think it or not, and you learned growing up not to ask a rude question twice.

“Mr Amos, I’ll go get your room ready. Can you do the dishes? Granma can’t lift that cast iron too well, no matter what she tells you.” That earns you a smack, which you laugh at, then smile at him, “Don’t matter where you’re from, Mr Amos, you’re here now.”

You don’t see it as you leave, but that makes him smile.

—

Months went on, Spring became Summer. The heavy sun beat down on you, burning the back of your neck and the tips of your ears as you fed the pigs. You glance at their trough, noting the need for more water as you head to the well.

Over the months, you and Emmet had developed a routine, waking up and eating breakfast together (Usually just bread and eggs) before starting on the daily needs. It was nice to have less of a workload, tasks that would normally take a whole day getting finished before evening.

Emmet started talking more at the table and receiving his own lighthearted smacks from your grandmother. He was settling in well, and that made you glad.

Each week, when you’d ride product into town to collect, you’d hand him his pay in an envelope and give him a pat on the shoulder, thanking him for helping you. You’re sure he could make more money somewhere else. That he’d have less work comparatively. But he didn’t complain as he did the dishes each night and even took care of your weekly trips to town for your grandmother’s medicine.

Emmet was a quiet guy still, sure, but he was more friendly now. Joking with you while you fed the pigs together, pushing you in the mud, then helping you up after you laughed at him for falling.

It had been a while, but you wonder if this was what it was like when you and your dad would work together.

On the anniversary of the fire, you sat on a hill overlooking the valley out west. You had buried your father beneath a tree at the bottom of that hill, but today you couldn’t handle looking at it. You took a swig of shine from a flask as you heard heavy boots on the grass behind you,

“Didn’t take you for a fast drinker,” He holds out his hand as he sits beside you, and you pass him the flask to take a swig. He grimaces, “Straight shine, Bud? Less of a kid than you look, I guess,” He chuckles, handing it back to you, “What’s got a talker like you making me start a conversation, hm?”

“It’s been six years.” You say simply, taking another swig,

“Since what, Kid?”

“Pa died in that barn over there,” You nod towards the wrecked remains of the barn, mostly reclaimed by the wildlife around it. You left it be, didn’t have the heart to go near it, “He was tryna save what he could. Kept going in and coming out with calves. Then he went in… and uh..” You frown, taking another swig, “I realised it’d been too long when the roof fell.”

He goes quiet, as he often does, but it isn’t unwelcome. The rustle of the summer breeze goes past, brushing the long grass past you two. Awkwardly, he pats your back, “So that's why someone so small was running this all by themself.”

You nod, “He killed himself for these cows. I can’t let them just waste away.”

He nods, and you both take a swig from the flask as the sun sets, crickets already chirping away through the night, “He’d be proud, I’m sure.”

You smile at that, “Thank you, Mr Amos.”

He nods, “‘pleasure.”

—

Your grandmother hasn't been doing well lately. You had taken over cooking, and even though you felt guilty, that meant you had to leave more of the farm work to Emmet so you could bring your Gran her food on time. If he was bothered, he didn’t say, and you made sure to pay him a few dollars more to thank him for it.

You’d wake up early, get ready, feed the chicks, then go in and make your grandmother soft porridge. It was really more water than grain, but it was all she could swallow.

She stopped responding to you when talking or leaving the bed at all. That was how you knew what was coming.

One Saturday, when Emmet was about to go to town as he usually does, you flagged him down.

“Hey, Mr Amos.. I don’t think gran needs the medicine no more. Can you just do me a favor and pick her up some of these?” You hand him a list. It’s got some of her favorite foods on it, some alcohol, and what stands out is a green tomato you listed.

“Kid, why would Hellen want an unripe tomato?”

“They’re firmer. Better for frying. She liked it a lot.” You say, and hand him a few dollars, “I hope the multiple stops ain’t too much.”

He looks at you, and you swear you see his eyes soften as he shakes his head, “Not at all, kid. I have a few things to do in town anyway.”

You nod, then step away, waving him off as you go back inside.

You don’t say it out loud, but Emmet noticed the shaking in your shoulders anyway.

—

Your Grandmother passed on Sunday, and you already knew it would happen. Her last word was your father’s name, spoken gently as she pet your hair, and you cried.

Emmet watched from the doorway as the reverend closed her eyes, crossing her and sending her off.

He helped dig the hole beside your father’s grave so she could be with her son.

And he didn’t mention the times he caught you sniffling when you thought you were alone.

—

When fall rolled around, you sat on the front porch, sitting in the chair that was once her’s, in a house that was once your father’s.

You sigh, shoulders hunched, but perk up when Emmet comes out through the creaky door. You should oil it, but your dad used to do that. You were worried you wouldn’t do it the same way he did, and silly as that sounded, that scared you.

Emmet sat beside you, and you both silently watched the grass flow in the wind.

A few minutes passed like that before Emmet spoke up, “You know, kid, you’ve gotta be one of the most unlucky people I know.”

You glance at him, confused. He chuckles, going on, “Pa died in a fire, Mom’s outta the picture, Grandma died...” He trails off, “And to think I came here to rob you.”

The silence comes back, but now it feels wrong. Cold. You frown, “I don’t appreciate the jokes, Mr Amos. Grandma's only been buried a week.”

“I ain’t joking, kid. I came here thinking, Hey, this is a place with an inexperienced owner and a weak old lady, it’ll be easy money!” He laughs, and that comforting feeling you used to get from it is gone. He’s laughing at you, not with you, “But ah.. I froze up when I saw ya, Kid. Naive to a comedic degree and willing to give a stranger the shirt off your back. I found myself making an honest living.”

You stay quiet, and he smirks, “Come on now, usually you’re the one ranting on about something. What’s got you quiet?”

“Why’re you telling me this?”

“Well, cause your old lady is gone now, so it's slightly less wicked what I’m about to have to do.”

“What do you mean-”

Something hard hit the back of your head, and you fell out of the rocking chair, curled in on yourself. You hold your head, feeling blood on it. You glance at him dizzily, as your vision blurs and multiplies. You see him pull the shovel back up one more time, but you don’t feel the impact when you faint.

—

You wake up to a throbbing in your head. You’re in your bed, and the sun beams in through the window. You must have overslept. You grunt, throwing your feet off the side of the bed to get ready, already planning on how to apologize to Emmet for making him do the morning alone.

That’s when you feel it. The bandages on your head and the shooting pain through your skull. The ropes around your wrists on the headboard.

That wasn’t a nightmare. You were trapped with this guy, and you realized that he had been living with you for almost a year. You had let this man into your home, near your grandmother. You had let him get her medicine, you had paid him, and your heart sank.

You thought you had made a friend. That you had met someone who cared about your father’s ranch as much as you did. You felt stupid.

The door creaks open as a breeze comes in through the window, and you glance at him as the old floral drapes swish in the wind.

“Hope I didn’t hit your head too hard, sweetness. Doc made a house call when I told him you let the ladder fall on you in the barn.” He chuckles, pulling the armchair closer to the bedside and sitting as he stares at you, “You look mighty cute when you’re angry, Kid. All puffy cheeks. You look like you’re trying not to cry.”

“I don’t get why you’re still here..”

“Didn’t wanna leave my cute little boss to heal on their own.”

“You could have just killed me and taken everything in the house- what’s the point of all of this?”

“Sh-sh-sh,” He hums at you like you’re a horse, and pats your head much the same way as you shiver, “Your head hurts real bad, and you���re thinking mighty fast. Doc said you need rest, kid. You’re slow even when you haven’t been hit in the head, so don’t go pushing yourself.”

You frown, wishing you could push him away, smack his condescending face. You wish you had shut the door on him. You wish you hadn’t posted for help in the town square.

“I’ll be honest with ya, Kid, I’m kinda shocked you didn’t know about me. My poster was right beside yours. You ain’t too good at reading, are ya?”

You stay silent, staring away from him as you clench your hands in your lap.

He chuckles, “I ain’t gonna kill ya, if you’re worried about that. And I didn’t kill Granny Hellen either,”

That makes you see red, and suddenly you’re thrashing, cursing at him, trying to kick him and break the ropes from your wrists, “Don’t you dare call her that, you pig! She ain’t you’re granny, she took care of you and you lied to her! You get her name out of your damn mouth-!” A smack silences you, and you sit, stunned with your face to one side.

He glares, “Don’t go acting like a brat on me, kid. I could always change my mind bout keeping you around.”

“...What would you even need me for?” Your voice is quieter now, and you’ve stopped thrashing.

“Need? Nothing. I want you, bud.”

There’s a cruel glint in his eyes, and you lower your head to look away from it, wondering how you never saw it before.

“It’d be nice to settle down after all these years. Think about it, your daddy killed himself for those cows,” he grins at you, “I can’t let em waste away.”

---

the sauce

[blinkie-evilmode]

being anti ai is making me feel like in going insane.

that's okay, it's because being anti-ai is an insane position. the things you have a problem with have nothing to do with ai. they are 100% the fault of corporations. ai is actually sicknasty fucking awesome. the anti-ai sentiment is just petit bourgeoise/artisan hand wringing.

studies have proven its making people dumber

if the study proves anything, it's that AI does not make you dumber, but it makes you learn slower. which isn't a crime, a form of harm, or a social ill! there's nothing wrong with completing a task using a tool that slows your learning, it would be dangerous to suggest otherwise.

you're wrong

if it were true, what would the mechanism be? are you seriously proposing that certain text can be a brown note but for getting dumber?

if llm text were capable of it, would that not be something we could identify and prevent? …if corporations were capable of doing good things, sure! but corporations are not capable of this.

its causing water shortages where its data centers are built

yeah, just like every data center built in the past 30 years. that's what corporations do. they don't destroy the water, it goes back into the water table, but it is incredibly destructive to the surrounding environment… because corporations are incentivized to do so by a total lack of regulation, an inability of the locals to meaningfully push against it (because local governments are always run by the most evil mom n pop petit bougie fascists in the universe), and by the economic incentives for building the maximum compute per square foot for the least amount of money.

all of these dcs could easily be powered off of solar, nuclear, and other renewables. none of them need to use evaporative cooling. chatgpt is not meaningfully more expensive (in energy usage) per query than google searches circa 2010 (you can run llms on your phone, big dcs run individual queries even more efficiently than that). watching netflix or youtube uses more power than chatgpt, per minute. the computer is not your enemy. you are fighting a mirage, which acts as a distraction from the real problem: corporations don't have to price in environmental destruction when doing things. if they did have to, you wouldn't see this.

but they won't have to, because the united states is a fascist dictatorship whose sole purpose is enabling corporations to kill people, and has been doing that since 1492, or 1776 if you want to blame specifically the us government.

its spreading misinformation

have you been on social media at all in your life. you are posting this on tumblr dot com. isn't there a new misinformation+harrassment campaign against a trans woman like, literally multiple times an hour here? plausible bullshit has been a problem for all of human history. gpt and other similar models have easily identifiable tells, that you can recognize, if you use the tools regularly. would you like to inoculate yourself against ai hallucinations? use ai daily.

https://arxiv.org/pdf/2501.15654

i promise that if you do you will start to understand these machines for what they are: highly condensed lossy storage of all text humans have ever written, with a novel query system that sometimes returns incorrect results.

its trained off stolen images, writing, video, audio

okay. why should i care. when has copyright ever protected me? what's your alternative? what legal protections could possibly exist under our current economic system that would allow mr patreon to draw overwatch porn (and get paid for it) while not allowing midjourney to generate overwatch porn? i can generate overwatch porn on my laptop using less energy than it takes to run fortnite, on software that nobody can take away from me. i'm dead serious, what the hell do you people actually want, in terms of policy, and do you have any actual plans for getting that policy passed. because everything i've ever seen an anti-ai person champion as "omg this is how we kill chatgpt" has been, like "disney gets to own the concept of anthropomorphic animals (and they still get to use ai, and now you don't get to either)"

be for fucking real

theres no way to verify what its doing with the information it collects

what does tumblr do with our posts. what does google do with our searches. what does youtube do with your watch metrics. what does nyt and every other news site do with our click paths. what does reddit do with their comments and upvote system. what does literally every networked service in the first world do.

ai is not unique, literally at all, in its capability to extract data from you. https://www.congress.gov/118/meeting/house/116192/documents/HHRG-118-JU00-20230712-SD010.pdf the advertising industry is the most comprehensive spy network in history. chatgpt and deepseek are not at all novel or uniquely bad. every website is someone else's computer, and you are feeding that computer information about your own brain every time you open a website.

my work has an entire graphics media department and has still put ai generated motivational posters up everywhere

that sucks, and i have nothing but sympathy for this, sounds like your employer is similarly awful to work for as every corporation

everyone treats it as a novelty

it is extremely novel, yeah, actually https://xkcd.com/1425/ september 24, 2014 https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/GPT-2 14 february, 2019 gpt, image recognition, image generation, are all based on the same fundamental technology of statistical modeling of sample data, and solves a huge class of problems that have been considered unsolvable until the late 2010s, when, purely coincidentally i'm sure, corporations got access to sums of sample data larger than all civilizations in history have had access to, combined

every treats it as a mandatory part of life

yeah, corporations have extreme control over the subjects we speak about, the things we are allowed to do, and more. if you grew up in the 80s and 90s you'd see the same thing happen with the internet, would have hoped it'd go away when the dotcom bubble burst, and then in the 2010s you would gradually lose your ability to function as a citizen of a first world country without a constant internet connection in your pocket.

none of that is the fault of the technology. corporations are just incapable of (and unwilling to) actually accommodate people, and actively want to poison them, so now grandma has to be fed an endless stream of lobster jesus just so she can see the schedule for her local bingo night. that's not because of the internet. that's not the fault of ai. the internet is a cool research project that fell out of passionate nerds at universities, got slurped up by the military, and then slowly made its way into civilian life. ai is an amazing (truly groundbreaking, unprecedented step) thing that can do great things, but corporations want to use it to replace labor, and then kill us all as soon as they've done it.

sorry to use a cliche, but the only reasons you could say "ai bad" are actually because of capitalism

being anti ai is making me feel like in going insane. "you asked for thoughts about your characters backstory and i put it into chat gpt for ideas". studies have proven its making people dumber. "i asked ai to generate this meal plan". its causing water shortages where its data centers are built. "ill generate some pictures for the dnd campaign". its spreading misinformation. "meta, generate an image of this guy doing something stupid". its trained off stolen images, writing, video, audio. "i was talking with my snapchat ai-" theres no way to verify what its doing with the information it collects. "youtube is impletmenting ai based age verification". my work has an entire graphics media department and has still put ai generated motivational posters up everywhere. ai playlists. ai facial verification. google ai microsoft ai meta ai snapchat ai. everyone treats it as a novelty. every treats it as a mandatory part of life. am i the only one who sees it? am i paranoid? am i going insane? jesus fucking christ. if i have to hear one more "well at least-" "but it does-" "but you can-" im about to lose it. i shouldnt have to jump through hoops to avoid the evil machine. have you no principles? no goddamn spine? am i the weird one here?

[mittenkisses]

Silver x Reader with a reader who's just really really really oblivious and dense to all of Silver's attempts at courting? 🙈 Ur writing is so sweet I love it sm!

oblivious

ft : silver

a/n : sorry this took forever but hope u enjoy!!

── ⟢ ・⸝⸝ 🐚

you and silver were quick to become friends. he has the type of personality that instantly drew you in, his presence calming and peaceful. plenty of boys at night raven college are nice, but something about silver keeps you coming back, feeling content just to spend time with him. he's just so majestic, and though you'll never say it out loud, he's the most prince-like in the entire school.

the two of you sit under the shade of a tree, comfortable silence surrounding you as you work in tandem. you, with the essay you've yet to finish, and him with his textbook open on the grass in front of him. the colder months are drawing near, but you're enjoying the last warm stretch before they arrive. the weather is perfect, a nice breeze blowing through as the sounds of the track and field team's practice floats into the air. it's a beautiful scene, like a fairytale.

you lose track of time, but it's a while before you hear silver speak. "prefect," he murmurs. when you look over, you can see his eyes are already closed. "could i...rest on your shoulder?"

"of course," you tell him with a smile, scooting closer. you feel his weight against you, and in only a few seconds his breathing begins to slow into an even pace.

(un)fortunately, he's leaning on your dominant arm, so you can't continue your work without disturbing him. oh well, you think, using your free hand to set everything to the side. you could use a nap, too. you gingerly lean your head against his, careful not to move him, and close your eyes.

—

you and silver are in different years, but you still set aside time to study together as end-of-semester exams approach. it's easier to focus when there's someone like him with you, able to keep each other on target. you love ace and deuce, you truly do, but those boys cannot study for the life of them.

as silver is packing his things at the end of one of your sessions, he suddenly pauses, waiting for you to look up before he speaks. his cheeks are tinged pink, but you can't blame him — it has been getting pretty cold outside.

"if you have any free time after exams, then," he begins, glancing away, "maybe we could get some food...?" his voice trails off at the end.

"that sounds great!" you say, nodding enthusiastically. "i don't think i'll be doing anything before break, so any time should be fine with me! oh, maybe we could invite some other people too, make it a little celebration!"

silver stares at you, like he's not sure how to interpret your answer. he clears his throat. "ah. actually, i meant just the two of us."

you blink. "oh! well, yeah, that's fine too. kalim will probably be hosting a party before break anyway."

you can't fully read silver's expression; he seems confused about something, but you're not sure what it is. before you can ask, though, he smiles and nods. "i'll let you know when i'm available, then."

as he leaves, you can't help but wonder why he's acting so strange.

—

there is a dance coming up. a formal dance, to be exact.

okay, yes, it's a school dance, but nrc is a fancy school, at least by your standards. it can't be that bad. you've seen some of the setup being done, and so far the decorations alone have already exceeded every school event you've seen in your world. it's only a week away, and you're starting to get excited.

there's one problem, though: you don't have a date.

actually, most people don't have a date, since it's an all-boys school and so many of them are too embarrassed to call another man their date. you know that at least some people are going together, though; an argument between ace and deuce over who got to be your date somehow ended with them being each other's, and you're pretty sure you saw azul trying to convince jamil to go with him. you and your friends are going as a group, but it just feels incomplete without an official partner with you.

you're discussing your dilemma at lunch when a voice speaks from behind you. "silver doesn't have a date either, you know."

you nearly jump out of your seat — you'll never get used to the way lilia seems to appear out of thin air. or, at least, you think it was lilia, but when you turn around, there's no one there.

when silver stops you after class and asks if you'll be his date, you realise that lilia's words mean he must have been planning it. you say yes, of course, but silver doesn't really seem satisfied.

—

the dance is fun. it's really fun, actually. it isn't officially over for another couple hours, but you've gotten tired of the actual dancing part and found yourself near the food tables. grim has rubbed off on you, apparently. you think you're alone, until you hear someone approach.

as late as it is, the place is still crowded with people, though not quite as many as earlier in the night. silver takes your arm and drags you away from the noise, away from any eyes that might be watching. he leads you to the garden, standing in the midst of your favourite flowers. "it seems i haven't been blunt enough," he says before you can ask what's going on. he takes a deep breath.

"i like you, prefect."

...oh.

things suddenly start to make sense. sleeping on you, taking you to dinner, asking you to the dance.

he's been trying to let you know for a while now.

you're about to respond, but in the dim light you can just barely make out a flush on his cheeks. something about it encourages you to tease him, just a little.

"as a friend, you mean?" you ask, tilting your head cluelessly, but silver's exasperated expression makes you break and laugh. "i'm kidding," you reassure him, and he sighs in relief. you have to admit he's cute like this.

he shifts awkwardly. "so, does this mean...?"

you take his hand, smiling at him. "i like you too, silver."

[suigenerisisadiva]

✮⋆˙ You Call That Tea? ✮⋆˙

Pairing: Bat Boys x Fem!British!Reader

Summary: The process of trying to understand what a "bunda" is isn't known to the average Gothamite as it seems.

CW: inappropriate terms and language A/N: This was so fun to write, I can't wait to go to London next year bc my cousin's getting married!

Requested by my big batty gyal @miss-multi45 sorry this took so long

(if that joke was bad please forgive me my manchester cousins use it 24/7)

Dick Grayson !

Doesn't understand why you call french fries "chips"

The first one to introduce you to Alfred Goat-worth and he calls you his honorary child

Tries to mimic your accent and also says "innit" wrong Pauses when you say "loo" instead of "toilet" or "bathroom" Quote: “You just said ‘fancy a cuppa’....that’s it. I’m moving to London. I’m going to wear tweed and call everyone ‘mate.’” Bless his heart he's trying his best

Jason Todd!

Deadass starts calling Wally and Roy "bloody muppets" on patrol unironically

Is super into you saying the lines of Price or Ghost because he says you sound like the Call of Duty characters

For halloween you both went as COD characters everyone loved it and it doesn't help that Jason's built like a tank either

Calls the wrong people "leng" because it sounds like an insult to him

Shits his pants from laughter when you say something "pongs" (I actually use this word in everyday life believe it or not)

Quote: "Babe what does "You got a fat bunda styll?" mean?"

Tim Drake!

Hates beans on toast but loves scones

Googled British slang when the both of you met so he could "properly integrate himself into way of speech"

Prior to that, he once asked if he could shag you without knowing what it meant

Loves it when you call Damian a "bloke" cuz it pisses him off

Started tweaking watching Beta Squad because he didn't understand a single thing Chunkz said

Quote: "....So when you said Dick was being a "proper wanker", that wasn't a compliment??"

Hope you all enjoyed this! Likes, comments, reblogs and requests are highly appreciated! Requests are open!

Sources! -

Dividers - @hyuneskkami

Headers - @moodwings

Property of suigenerisisadiva, do not repost my work pls & ty

[haologram]

about you ⌁ k.sy [m]

— synopsis: things between you and soonyoung never really end. sometimes you're up all night on the phone, sometimes you make it past the message plans you've been putting off and end up in his bed. It's really up to you, soonyoung has never been anything but about you. – genre: idiots exes to ??? ; angst, fluff. — pairing: ex-boyfriend!kwon soonyoung x fem!reader – word count: 6.1k — rating: 18+. minors do not interact. – warnings: a little rushed but general pining, swearing, they're stupid. mentions of dick jokes because i'm just a silly gal. — what to listen to: no one noticed - the marías ; undressed - sombr ; soft spot - keshi. – author's note: green dividers by @/saradika-graphics. this is for @aeristudios. i'm not very good at sentimental expressions face-to-face, and i did write this in one sitting but i hope this is enough to show that i appreciate you dearly. i know i'm a little late in the day but happy birthday aeris! ♡

YOU AND SOONYOUNG WERE NEVER REALLY OVER.

It was one of the more annoying parts of your tumultuous relationship, knowing that your breakup had been so amicable that he would still come over unannounced. Sometimes you were making dinner and yelling at him to get out, other times you were sprawled on your couch and he cleaned your entire apartment — but most of the time, you just co-existed. He'd lay on the floor in front of your coffee table and flip through whatever Netflix had to offer, and you'd wind up right next to him within ten minutes of him choosing a movie, popcorn bowl in hand.

Your friends found this…odd. To say the least.

From Jeonghan being the master of ghosting to Mingyu filling his time with hobbies to force himself to move on from every relationship he's ever had — the fact that you and Soonyoung dated for six years and then seemingly broke up despite not…actually? Breaking up?

Or ever falling out of love.

It was like sorcery to them. It was strange to see two people they thought would once marry, move their things out of their shared apartment and move in to new ones in opposite directions. And yet: still met every Tuesday for a lunch date, still grocery shopped together, still called and asked if the other wanted something before leaving a favorite spot.

One could say it's healthy, it's friendship, it's being amicable so things aren't awkward. It's only been six months since, anyway.

Others have more to say than normal, despite not having better coping mechanisms.

"It's unhealthy," Seungcheol scoffed, rooting around in your pantry for the protein powder he stashed. Your apartment was closer to his gym, and he let himself in while you were getting ready for work — or slam into you like he did today, sweaty and gross, right as you were exiting in your nicely pressed blouse. Thus, making you late — because you'd rather die than go to work smelling like Choi Seungcheol and zero bitches.

"I don't care what you, of all people, have to say about my dynamic with Soonyoung. You kept half your exes on the hook so long that one of them started believing they were invited to the group hangouts. And then you turned into a gym rat after you dated half the city and couldn't find a nice girl within a 10-mile radius. If I were you, I'd drink my protein shake and shut the hell up." You scoff from your living room, your fingers annoyingly not cooperating with you as you tried to button a new blouse. He snorts from the kitchen, stepping out as you let out a frustrated breath.

"It's not just me that says it, you know that." His voice is too saccharine for your taste, making you scowl as he reaches to button your shirt for you. You allow it, letting him smooth your collar with a knowing look. "I say it because I'm your friend, Y/N." "What, everyone else says it because they're assholes? I know it's not a regular thing, Cheol, but it's not like Soonyoung and I were the most normal couple anyway." You run a hand over your face, checking your watch with your tongue in your cheek. "I'm late. You'll lock up, right?"

You're grabbing your purse without an answer from him, only for your phone to buzz with an incoming call in your pocket. You fish it out as Seungcheol beelines back for the kitchen, the creak of a cabinet followed by an aha! as you answer the call without looking.

"Hello?" You wave at Seungcheol, who gives you a cute smile before you slip out the front door.

"You and me, lunch at Amato's. Whaddya say?" It's Soonyoung, the sound of his stupid stereo blaring in the background. You're not sure if it's his car or if he's at the studio, but either way, it's way too early to hear Thong Song by Sisqo.

"You call me at…8:32 on a Tuesday morning while blasting a sex song to ask if I want to get lunch at Amato's? You've gotta give the bit up at some point, Hosh." You roll your eyes as if he can see you, barreling down the stairs of your complex as he laughs on the other end. You practically sprint to your car, the sky rumbling above you.

"You don't have to call me that, you know. You can just keep calling me Soonie." "We're broken up, you fool. What's the point of pet names without the pet?" "You never told me you were into that—"

"I'm not! God, you're so annoying." You fumble with your door handle, popping it open just as a fat drop of rain lands on your head. You clench your teeth, throwing your bag into your passenger seat as another laugh comes through the staticky call.

"So…Amato's? Yes or no, babe." "Call me babe again, and I'll make sure your 'meatballs' are on the menu—" "Hey, hey! I need those!"

"You're disgusting. Pick me up at noon, if you're late even by a minute I'll have lunch with Jihoon." You hang up before he can reply, taking a deep breath before shoving your keys into the ignition. Cranking the ignition, the engine doesn't start.

"Wonderful. Wonder-fucking-ful." You rub your face, letting out a suffocated scream into your palms before leaning against your horn. "This is fine."

You grab your bag, pulling it over your shoulder with a sniff, turning your nose up as you slam back out of it. Your hand on your hip, you kick your tire rim when Seungcheol's voice rings out behind you.

"Need a ride?" "On a real cowboy, damn it. Can you spare or will you be late?"

You hold a file folder over your head, the sprinkles of rain splattering against it as he grins, rounding the car to open the door for you. You give him a grateful smile, slipping in quickly and shutting his door as he makes his way around. He slides into the driver's side, half-finished protein shake in hand (a cup you'll know you won't get back) when he stills. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, pressing his knuckle into the car's start button before looking over at you.

"It's Tuesday." "…It is. Lots of meetings. Already running late." "You're having lunch with Soonyoung, huh?"

"Will you fuck off?" You sink into the passenger seat, crossing your arms on your chest with a petulant kick of your feet. Seungcheol's stereo turns on, blasting Cupid's Chokehold by Gym Class Heroes through the local radio station.

"Fitting, isn't it?" "Fuck off, Seungcheol."

His laughter fills your ears as he pulls out of the lot.

"You're late." Jihoon calls as you scurry past him, making you scowl.

"Andyou're annoying. Let me be, will you? It's pouring out there." You spit, shucking off your soaked sweater. Grimacing, you shove into a drawer in your desk, settling at your desk as the cold air hits your back.

"Here."

You look up to see Jihoon holding a folded blanket over the divider between your desks. You raise a brow, and he rolls his eyes before tossing it onto your keyboard.

"Just take it. Soonyoung'll have my head if I let his girlfriend freeze." "I'm not his girlfriend anymore, Jihoon."

"That's not what he thinks." Jihoon grouses, making you roll your eyes as you grab the blanket off your keyboard. You wrap it around your shoulders after shaking it out, tonguing your cheek as you sign into your computer. "Speaking of Soonyoung, where are you guys going for lunch today? Just so I don't bump into you."

You snort, looking up from your monitor to see Jihoon staring down at a thick file in his hands, his brows furrowed as he tapped a pen on his lips.

"What makes you think I'm going to lunch with Soonyoung today?"

He looks up, a confused glaze over his eyes as he gestures to the air with his pen.

"It's Tuesday? You guys always go on a lunch date on Tuesdays." He speaks slowly, giving you an insulted look before glancing back down at his file. You blink, before he stands abruptly. "I've got a bone to pick with Mingyu. Let me know when I get back, because I was thinking Amato's today and I don't want to see you guys sharing a bowl of spaghetti a la Lady and the Tramp."

Your reply is caught in your throat as Jihoon whizzes by, his cologne filling your nose as you stare at your keyboard. It was a light purple, a gift from Soonyoung weeks before the two of you started dating all those years ago. Your eyes travel up, the picture on your monitor big and bright in your vision — you, Soonyoung and his dog, Latte, in the middle of a park. You had a beef stick in your hand, and Latte managed to bite it right as Soonyoung took the photo.

It was hers after that.

You feel an odd sensation in your stomach as you clear your throat, opening the employee portal and logging on.

Username: useryn@pledisfinance.com Password: KwonSoonyoung061596!$

Your hands still over the Enter button. You blink once, twice, three times before pressing it — the portal opening and your chest feeling tight as you fumble around for your water bottle. Another gift from Soonyoung, right before the breakup — one you can't stop yourself from using, lest his little minions (re: Seokmin and Seungkwan) report back to him and say they saw you drinking out of a cup instead of the insulated forty-ounce water bottle in baby blue.

You sit momentarily, popping the straw out of the bottle as you glance around the rest of your desk. A framed photo of Latte, another of Latte and Soonyoung, and one of you and him the first time you went to the county fair — sitting in a Ferris Wheel, fear evident in his eyes as you both posed for the camera. You remember him throwing up right after — and you mourned the loss of sixteen dollars worth of frozen mango margaritas. It was a good memory nevertheless, one of the last dates before the two of you sat down and talked about your relationship with no bounds.

Soonyoung had brought it up first — talks of lack of quality time because of your jobs, one he quit shortly after dating you because it was a breach of contract to date within the company. He used his savings to open a dance studio downtown, only two and a half blocks from your office building. That was why you had Tuesday lunch dates, and that was why you'd gotten used to barreling downstairs on Thursday afternoons to see him leaning on his motorcycle with an extra helmet and riding pants for you.

That was how you managed to spend time together. A busy manager at a financial office where everyone but your friends were incompetent and a new small business owner fighting for his spot in the Top 10 Dance Studios on Tripadvisor didn't have much time to spare, even for those they loved most. He brought up a break, a moment to come home late without feeling the ache in his chest at seeing you were already asleep. He brought up a pause, a step back for you to realize if you really wanted to keep feeling your stomach sink knowing he was going to be late picking you up from work on Thursday evenings.

It was you who pulled the plug entirely.

Neither of you cried. You didn't say anything for a full ten minutes, actually — you both sat in your then-shared dining room, glasses of liquor full in front of you before one of you laughed. You don't remember who, but suddenly the room was full of giggles and Soonyoung stood up to plant a soft kiss on your hairline.

"We should go apartment hunting. It'll be bad for us to stay here if we're broken up."

He cleaned the table, and you both ordered takeout to eat in front of the television, sitting thigh to thigh. You went to bed together, your head nuzzled into the crook of his neck and soft I love yous were whispered before you fell asleep. The next week was full of impromptu apartment tours together, correcting agents when they asked if you were together and picking each other's furniture out during breaks in between packing boxes.

You think that was why the split was so clean.

It seemed like there wouldn't be an end to you and Soonyoung anyway — your relationship only being a quick knot in the road that was a lifelong friendship. Your pinkies were linked as you dragged each other through hardware stores, picking new paint colors and you'd complain about sore backs to one another after helping build IKEA furniture. He'd make you stay on his bed and take the couch if you were over too late, he'd make warm breakfast and send you on your way with a full tumbler of tea.

He'd hug you so tight, you wondered if he wanted to let go. If he was reluctantly letting go, and if that was what kept you both so tethered to one another.

It wasn't that you didn't love Soonyoung. You did.

You do.

Talks of marriage were few and far between, but they were lengthy. Conversations about rings, dream venues, how he wanted to wear a nice pink tie instead of the regular black. How he wanted camellias and you wanted hydrangeas, and how you compromised by saying both at the exact same time. You expressed your distaste for stuffy ballrooms, and he eagerly wrapped his arms around you with the admittance of wanting a semi-outdoor celebration.

You looked at rings together. Sapphires, emeralds, infinity bands and even mentions of his mother's 10-carat ring — nothing really caught your eye until he came home from his week-long birthday trip back to his parents' place, one you missed to take care of something a bunch of rookies screwed up at work. He tried to play it cool, he tried to be nonchalant — before popping his suitcase open two days after arriving to reveal a velvet box buried beneath his underwear.

A simple gold band, and a pretty round-cut diamond sitting in the prongs with two sets of three smaller rubies nestled against the sides. With an impish smile, he set it down on the dresser for the two of you to stare at, your hand tight around his as you swallowed nervously.

"Is that—" "I didn't think. I just saw it and I bought it." "…Is this you proposing?"

That conversation was had three years into your relationship, two days after his birthday dinner at Jeonghan's restaurant in downtown. You were both dressed to the nines, all fitted black dress and his nice tie — only to leave the restaurant after and pull through a Wendy's drive-thru with grumbling bellies.

It never came up again. The ring sat on his side of the dresser, among his colognes, and mocking you every morning until you woke up and you weren't sharing an apartment with him anymore. It was then that you finally cried — loud enough that your director didn't question you when you reluctantly called off work, hard enough that you could hardly breathe and long enough that Soonyoung seemingly felt a disturbance in the force and swung by after work.

He too, broke down then. He held you close, promising it wasn't forever. Promising that things would work themselves out, that he'd find a way, that things would change. Linking his pinky finger to yours in a juvenile vow that it was you and him to the ends of the earth — even if it wasn't him in your bed every night, even if you found somebody new.

Even if it hurt him to think that way.

That night ended with him laying on the floor next to your bed, holding your hand over the edge as you slept. He didn't leave until morning, leaving breakfast and a note that said see you next week tucked into a packed lunch bag. You didn't cry about it again, instead getting dressed for work and hiking the bag over your shoulder with your purse.

You decided you'd distance yourself a bit after that, and you assumed it was what Soonyoung would want, too — until you stepped outside on Thursday evening that same week, seeing your ex-boyfriend slow to a stop in front of your office building. He pulled his helmet off, black hair falling into his eyes as he turned to see you standing a few feet away.

It wasn't like you weren't expecting it. You'd taken a rideshare to work that morning out of habit, charging the fifteen dollars to Soonyoung's credit card on the app.

Whether you like it or not, Soonyoung's got you in a grip you're not so sure you want to be freed from. It's like his fingers hold the oxygen you need, wrapped tight around your throat but fully willing to let go. Fully able to let go, but refusing to because you've got him the exact same way.

Soonyoung doesn't know a life that isn't all about you. He'd gone to college with you after meeting you his senior year of high school, he'd landed two internships with you back to back, he'd gotten you both hired at Pledis Finance and he left so you'd get your promotion and he'd still get to be your boyfriend. He opened his business, he made good money and he tried to make more time for the two of you now that he was his own boss. He tried everything, even pulling strings at your job to get you off early every few Fridays — and it worked. Soonyoung's life is having his cake and eating it, too, and it's all about you.

"Ugh."

You click out of the portal on your screen, moving to settings and removing the photo of you and Soonyoung with a default screensaver.

"Yowch, chaos in utopia? Did Boyfriend leave the stove on again?"

You hear Wonwoo behind you, before the heat of his chest is right next to the back of your chair. You scowl, swatting your hand over your shoulder and brushing the collar of his shirt as he snickers.

"He's not my boyfriend, Jeon. Shut up." "Well, he's certainly something. And speaking of him, he's moping in the group chat about how you hung up on him earlier. You might wanna get him to shut up before Minghao kicks him out again."

You shove Wonwoo's shoulder behind you, only earning more mischievous giggles as he practically skipped away, and you glanced at the photos on your desk. A moment passes before you grab all of them and shove them into a drawer with a clatter, before the buzz of your phone catches your attention.

NEW! [3] Messages In: After Hours 🍸 Soonyoung 💘: she hung up on me! Cheol: dude we do not care Jihoon: retweet ^

You tongue your cheek, quickly clicking around before shooting the message off and tossing your phone in the very same drawer. A hoot is heard across the office, but you only open your portal again and take a deep breath, forcing yourself to focus.

Message To: After Hours 🍸 ↳ Replying to: Kwon Soonyoung YOU: minghao can you boot him plz

NEW! [2] Messages In: After Hours 🍸 Hao: with pleasure Kwon Soonyoung: hey!!! Hao has removed Kwon Soonyoung from the group.

NEW! [2] Messages from: Kwon Soonyoung [11:58 AM] ditching the bike. coming to get you on foot since amato's is a block away. [12:01 PM] where are you? i'm outside.

"You're not very funny, you know."

Soonyoung is pouting as you tuck your hands into your jacket pockets, your heels clicking against the pavement as he falls into lockstep besides you. You bite back a smile, shrugging your shoulders as he drapes his arm over them and pulls you into his side. You don't touch him, giving him a sideways glance as your hand clenches in your pocket — usually tucked into the back pocket of his jeans.

"I'm hilarious, thank you. Where's the bike?" "Reducing my carbon footprint. Add me back to the group or you pay for your own alfredo."

"I can afford a fifteen dollar plate of alfredo pasta, Soonyoung." You snort, only for him to stomp his foot as you reach the crosswalk.

"You shouldn't have to, though. Why can't you just let me love you?" He grumbles, and you feel your heart sink just a bit as the light changes, allowing you to cross quickly.

"I have let you love me, and I continue to let you in this weird little situation we have going on. If you wanna pay for my lunch, be my guest." You shrug again, seeing the blinking red sign of Amato's come into view. "How's work? Still struggling with that 3 PM client?"

"I don't get lunch with you to talk shop." He scoffs, his hand on your shoulder swiping your collarbone. "How's your back? If it still hurts I can get you in with Chan at the massage spa. Great guy, always uses this really nice almond oil."

"Pft, no thanks. My back is fine, Mingyu got me a pillow for my desk chair." You pat your back unceremoniously, and Soonyoung's lip juts out in a pout.

"You let Mingyu buy you things?" "Don't get jealous, it's not a good look on you."

"'M not jealous." He mutters, "just wondering what a twerp like him has to offer you."

"That twerp is our friend, Soonyoung. Watch your mouth." You remind him, your tone bored as he huffs. He mutters under his breath, and you seemingly don't care enough to catch it as you both stop at the corner. A couple is standing beside you, headed in the same direction — and the girl's ring finger catches your eye.

Yellow gold, marquis-cut ruby.

"…and she said she doesn't want to book the slot anymore because it takes up too much of her time. Lady, all the slots are 90-minutes anyway, and I don't do private sessions with less than 4 people. I don't know what…are you paying attention? Babe."

Soonyoung's hand squeezes your shoulder, and you tear your eyes away from the girl's hand to meet his worried ones. You realize you're on the other side of the street, in front of the restaurant doors.

"You okay? You kinda…spaced out there." "What did I say about calling me babe?"

You let out a breath, feigning annoyance as he pulls the door open. The smell of hearty marinara fills your heart as you step inside, your hand in your pocket coming out to pull him forward by his shirt. He stumbles next to you, and you smile at the hostess that knows you both by name now.

"Hey, guys! Booth in the back, right?" She grins, and you nod quickly before she lets you slip past her. Your hand on Soonyoung's shirt is grabbed by his own, and you yank it out of his grasp before he can interlace your fingers.

"Sit on that side." You point at the opposite side of the booth as you slide into the other, and you ignore the wounded puppy look on his face as he slips into it reluctantly.

"Are you mad at me or something?" He asks softly, and you don't get a chance to reply when your favorite waitress, Saerom, skids in front of your booth with two glasses of water and a basket of bread. She sets them down, pulling a ramekin of garlic butter from her apron pocket and sliding it next to the bread with a quick smile that fades faster than a New York minute.

"Ooh, trouble in paradise? You guys never sit across." She questions, whipping out her notepad as you clear your throat. "Anything I can do?"

"Uh, nope. Just the usual, please." You say quickly, and she gives you a concerned look as Soonyoung shifts uncomfortably. He shucks his jacket off, giving Saerom a quick nod as she awkwardly skirts away. You fiddle with the straws at the end of the table, tossing one across the table for him before tearing the paper off your own and shoving it into your glass.

"Y/N? Did I do something?"

You shake your head, "Nope. Just eat your bread, Soonyoung."

He seems unsatisfied by the answer, but doesn't push it. You both sit in silence, the tap of Soonyoung's shoe the only sound in your vicinity as the restaurant remains solemn on the early Tuesday afternoon.

You clear your throat twice without anything to say, and for once, he doesn't say anything either. Sitting across from one another is weird, and the side of your thigh where his usually brushes is cold as you rub your hand over your slacks to warm it up. He seems slightly defeated but like he doesn't want to push it, he doesn't want to make a conversation uncomfortable — something that Soonyoung never shied away from. To be uncomfortable is to subject yourself to growth, to new beginnings, to understandings.

But he does nothing of the sort as he chews his bread for too long and finishes his first glass of water in three sips.

Saerom comes and goes — more bread, your appetizers of soup and arancini, your entrees of lasagna and classic alfredo with tagliatelle pasta noodles. The crease between her brows grows deeper as she slides a dessert menu on the table in the middle of you pushing your pasta around.

Your chest feels tight as he rests his chin on his palm, chewing aimlessly around the same bite of lasagna. Your eyes meet for a moment, before you set your fork down. Glancing over your shoulder, you see Saerom talking with the bartender, Joshua. You stare at the pasta on your plate, the letters on the dessert menu blurring as your eyes slowly fill with tears.

"What are we doing?" You whisper, and he stills.

"What do you mean?" "What are we doing, Soonyoung?"

You blink rapidly, willing the tears back as you shrug. "Tuesday lunch, Thursday night drives…I still get off early every other Friday because of you. I still spend the night at your place once a week like we did before we moved in together. There's pictures of you and Latte on my desk at work, you're my screensaver on every device I own that isn't my television. I still make kimchi fried rice at two in the morning and expect you to walk out of the bedroom and join me on the couch."

Looking back up at him, you tilt your head to the side.

"So what are we doing, Soonyoung? Why are we doing this? What do we gain?"

He sits for a minute. The longest minute of your life, you think, as you cross and uncross your legs beneath the table. He stares at you for the minute, too — his eyes darting all over your face. Reading you, taking you in as his tongue peeks out to lick his lips.

"I don't know how to live a life that doesn't revolve around you." He whispers, but it's shaky. His fingers tremble as he traces the logo of the restaurant on the table mat, his eyes glossy as he shrugs. "It's selfish. I'm selfish, even, but it's the truth. I've never known a moment that isn't full of you and I don't know how I've made it this long without breaking down and begging you to take me back. I've never hated a mattress more than the one I have now. It smells like you without you slipping being under my covers when I get home late, and I can't bring myself to look at half the clothes in my closet without thinking of you. You're everywhere and nowhere and I can't sleep well most nights, no matter how tired I am, because it's cold without you. I'm freezing without you."

He taps the table mat, sniffling as a singular tear rolls down his cheek. He wipes at it haphazardly, clearing his throat as he looks away.

"I don't know what we're doing. I don't know but I don't care as long as I keep seeing you, even if it hurts me to know that I can't kiss you. I can't kiss you, or call you baby, or call you mine but I don't care." The words come out in one breath, your lip trembling as you hold back a sob. "You're all I know. My entire existence is dedicated to you. How could I just let that go?"

"Because this is unhealthy." "You sound like Seungcheol. Stop hanging out with that guy, he'll poison the well."

He scoffs, wiping his eyes roughly as you suck in the deepest breath possible. Your throat aches as your hand finds your wallet, deep in the pocket of your slacks. He looks at you with such a tenderness in his gaze, your stomach flipping as you try to clear your throat.

"I don't know what we're doing, but I know how I feel. How I've always felt and how I know you feel, too." His voice still shakes, but he's confident. He squeezes his eyes shut, nibbling on his lip before sighing and forcing himself to look at you.

"So what the hell are we doing? Why aren't we together? Why am I meeting you three times a week when I could come home to you every night? Why can't I think of you when I'm in the fucking shower without feeling guilty? Why are we doing this?"

"You think of me in the shower?" You blurt, and he tongues his cheek.

"You're missing the point." "What point? That you're a pervert?" "So what? I'm not allowed to fantasize about my girlfriend of six fucking years? God forbid a man has hobbies."

"I'm not your girlfriend, is the problem." You shoot back, and he rolls his eyes, sliding out of his booth and rounding the table to sit next to you. He pushes you further into it with his hip, his jeans brushing your slack as he rearranges the plates. "Soonyoung."

"No. We have time for each other and I miss being woken up by the sound of pots and pans banging as Riverdale plays way too loud on the television. I miss talking about getting married and remembering the gleam in your eyes when you thought I was proposing, and I regret not doing it. I regret thinking I wasn't ready because I've always been ready and I've always been yours, even if you're not mine."

He shifts in his seat, his knee bumping yours as he turns.

"I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you for over ten years. Since college, I've known who seared her name into my heart and if it's not you, then it's no one. We can end it, fully, and I'll do everything I can to move on if that's what you want." His hand grabs yours from on top of your thigh, squeezing softly as you glance at him through teary eyes.

"Just don't tell me you don't love me anymore." "I could never." "Then what are we doing? Why are we still sitting here when I could get Jeonghan to let you off early and we can move all your shit into my place? Or even get a new place together? What are we doing?"

"Wasting time." Saerom's voice calls out from across the restaurant as she thumbs through a wad of cash, and Joshua elbows her with a pointed look. "Ouch, you bastard! It's not like I lied!"

"You're meddling." He grits, and you let out a pitiful laugh as Soonyoung interlaces your fingers. "Guys, it's on us if you wanna go…make out, or something."

"Who's meddling now?" Saerom grumbles, and he shoves her shoulder lightly as Soonyoung smiles softly. "Come on. I'll even take you on a date. We can go on a ride around the Han River like we did on our first date, I'll buy you a soda from the same vending machine and shake it so it explodes like it did then."

"Is that when you realized I was the one? After I told you that Nissan dick joke?"

He rolls his eyes, pulling you out of the booth as you chuckled.

"I knew you were the one before that stupid joke." "Prove it. You, me, the Han River on your bike and a shaken orange soda. I'll find another dick joke on the way there." "Done deal."

"YOU OWE ME SIXTY BUCKS."

Seungcheol slaps the back of Mingyu's head as they sip beers on the carpet of your apartment. The younger scowls, shoving Seungcheol away as he snickers.

"I didn't even make that bet with you, it was Jeonghan." He mutters, but digs his wallet out of his pocket anyway. You quickly reach over and pluck the cash out of Mingyu's fingers, sticking your tongue out at a sulking Seungcheol. "Hey!"

"Is for horses. You're not allowed to bet on two people in love, it's in poor taste." You scoff, shoving them into the pocket of your shorts. "Plus, consider it payment for helping me pack up my apartment."

"Shouldn't you be paying us?" Mingyu blinks, and you shake your head.

"I put up with you guys bitching and moaning after offering to help me move so I could get out of here faster. It's like, reparations for subjecting me to your manly grumbling. Not to mention, you bet on the love of my life coming back to me as if we weren't in utter limbo."

"Why are you guys just sitting there? Help me move the boxes!" Soonyoung scolds them from the doorway of your bedroom, Jihoon squeezing out with a box labeled shoes.

"Why do you have so many fucking shoes? Are you a caterpillar?" He grouses, pushing past the two men scrambling to get up from the carpet and beelining for the door. You roll your eyes, watching as Seungcheol and Mingyu clamber into your bedroom as Soonyoung slips out of the way. You attempt to duck out of his path, but he grabs the belt loop of your shorts and pulls you back into his chest.

"Why are you running?" "Not running, whatever do you mean?" "So, avoiding?"

"Gasp, I'd never avoid my fiancé." You feign shock as he presses a kiss to your cheek, sinking his teeth into it lightly before swat him away. "Stop it! We have guests!"

"Oh, spare the excuses. You guys fucked in my car once." Seungcheol retorts, and Soonyoung kicks the back of his thigh. He scowls, giving a horse-like kick back before scurrying out of the apartment.

Soonyoung's arms slide around your waist, making you roll your eyes as he sways you back and forth. You settle your hands atop his, before feeling one of his hands slide over your left. He fiddles with the ring on your finger, tugging at it gently.

"Are we ready for this?" You whisper, looking down at the glimmer of the gemstone in the low light. He flips your hand over, the letter S engraved on the band staring back up at you both. "Soonyoung."

"Born ready, I think. After all…I've always been all about you."

Messages In: After Hours 🍸 Gyu: i don't think we should add him back. he's gonna talk about how much he loves yn and it's gonna make me barf. Jihoon: still dealing with that breakup, huh? you'll be alright, bud. Jihoon added Soonyoung 💘 to the group. Soonyoung 💘: I'M BACK BITCHES! WHO WANTS TO BE A GROOMSMAN! Jeonghan: YOU'RE GETTING MARRIED? SEUNGCHEOL YOU OWE ME EIGHTY BUCKS! You removed Jeonghan from the group. You removed Cheol from the group. You: anyone else? Seokmin: plz tell me i can be the flower girl Seungkwan: nice try, it's gonna be me. Soonyoung 💘: honey i'm outside to pick you up Hao has removed Soonyoung 💘 from the group. Hao: please be gross elsewhere. You: hey hao? Hao: i'm not adding him back. what do you want? You: do you like poutine? Hao:… You added Soonyoung 💘 to the group. Soonyoung 💘: poutine this DICK in your mouth Hao has removed Soonyoung 💘 from the group. Hao has removed you from the group.

haologram © 2025 || no translations, reposting or modifications are allowed. do not claim as your own. viewer discretion is advised. your media consumption is your responsibility.

[doberbutts]

I had a partner whose previous partner had died, very suddenly by suicide, and I did feel in pretty constant competition with his dead ex-spouse. Part of it was the recency- he had broken up with the guy, got with me a few months later, and a few months into our relationship his ex killed himself. But a significant portion of it was undigested and unprocessed grief and anger at the loss, even when his hands had been washed of their previous connection.

He fell into a deep depression and actively tore himself apart over it during the bulk of our relationship together- he couldn't sleep in the same bed as me, we couldn't be intimate, even something as small as a cuddle on the couch or a kiss goodnight was a big ask much of the time. We went on no dates. We did pretty much nothing as a couple together outside of a handful of dog events and some nightly parallel play where we played seperate videogames. He went on several-day binge drinking benders to try and stop the dreams and the grief. He went to therapy but spent most of the time arguing with his therapist that he was justified in exploding his life over his dead ex. I had to talk him out of trying to kill himself to join his ex on multiple late night phone calls over the next couple years we were together. He was frequently hospitalized due to alcohol poisoning because he knew that was a way to kill himself because he'd tried it before prior to us being together. We broke it off and came back together to be off and on at several points during that time. He would tell me he wasn't fit to be in any relationship because everything he touches dies and what if he kills me too, only to beg to have me back a few weeks after telling me that he didn't want to be in a relationship anymore.

And at some point I realized that I couldn't compete with a dead guy anymore. That he had a present with a living partner but could not stop looking over his shoulder to his past that he had already said goodbye to prior to the suicide. That I had been weighed against a dead man, and the dead man had won. It did really feel like he was cheating on me with a corpse already buried in the ground.

So we broke up. He stayed single for quite some time though after a few years expressed regret that he ruined what we had between us. I think he has someone in his life again now, though he's mentioned the same problems with intimacy and togetherness and affection still exist, and he still writes yearly eulogies about how the love of his life was suddenly taken from him. Once again I remind you, they broke up because the dude cheated on him *prior* to my relationship with him, and the suicide happened *during* the early stages of our relationship, so they were not actively together at that time either.

So if someone's spouse is acting this way during their relationship, I can certainly understand feeling like they have to compete with a dead person, and not wanting to be involved. I felt incredibly disrespected and devalued throughout the entire process- and it had very little to do with the fact that he loved someone before me and very much to do with how deeply the grief impacted him and how little he was able to actually commit himself to the relationship happening right now in front of him. And as much as I wanted to support and stand by him through it, at the end of the day as much as I loved him I could not continue to try and convince him to actually exist in the now rather than constantly regret his decision to walk away from someone who had already disrespected *their* relationship.

My ex was and is still extremely disabled by mental illness, now has a recent autism diagnosis, and appears to have built a better life for himself. And for that I'm grateful. But having experienced this, I'm a bit leery of labeling it a problem of monogamy or heterosexuality.

I think it is equally likely that many men are taught from a very young age to stunt themselves emotionally, to clam up and close themselves off from their deeper emotions, and to not practice any amount of emotional maturity especially during upsetting or traumatizing events. And then a big trauma happens, like your spouse dying, and suddenly bottling things up just turns them into a molotov cocktail to explode all of your personal relationships and hopefully there's still something salvageable left in the rubble. Like, it has to suck for my ex that we are approximately 10 years from this happening and he is still incapable of processing that grief enough to not have his intimate relationships blow up in his face. I don't think many people would choose to stay in that mental state, but it does happen.

Heterosexual relationship culture is so alien to me and I don’t know if it’s the fact I’m not cishet or the fact I’m autistic but I hear so many things that make me go “Am I insane or are they?”

There’s a lot of hate on widowers and I saw a woman say “You cannot compete with a dead woman.” which is perhaps a reasonable statement to say if he’s constantly comparing you to his dead partner but that wasn’t what the post was about. And I realized “Oh my God, these people genuinely feel like they’re constantly in competition with their spouse’s exes and the ex being dead makes them feel insecure that they cannot best her.”

There’s also been an uptick in the ‘men and women cannot be ‘just’ friends’ rhetoric which I feel like is extremely dangerous and reflects the rise of fascism and sexism. Some of these stories of women feeling threatened by their husband’s female best friend have some merit and others are like “I feel angry that my husband still talks to the girl he grew up next door to and she and her wife are invited to family gatherings and included in family photos sometimes. Am I right to be suspicious?” No. No you’re not. I cannot imagine being you and living with that high level of stress and paranoia and constant torment and jealousy about your husband having a positive relationship with anyone who isn’t you.

[benjaboyisatwink]

Part 2 of the one that got away with Simon. Not much to add lol, it's just the guys shocked abt it. Also sue me, yes, I do think Simon isn't at all that closed off if you were someone he was close I'm with for so long, I just don't think that's Simon.

.𖥔 ݁ 🍯 a tad bit suggestive, mentions of sex, but it's brief˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚

They were confused. The 141 men were completely confused. They had seen weeks ago a stranger throw a box at Ghost, shout at him, hit him, get away with it, and even have Ghost hug them.

What?

Johnny was already theorizing about it. But he was honestly as flabbergasted as the rest, specially since they suddenly saw Ghost look...happy?? He was in a great mood since that ceremony, even recruits noticed how the lieutenant was casually humming under his breath as he walked through the halls of base.

Kyle even saw him eat a homemade meal, packed with a small note the lieutenant put in his pocket as soon as he read. Kyle was simply too shocked by it and the food's smell to do anything other than stare as Simon ate it all with a smile.

Price was shocked that Simon was actually leaving base when he could. Staying away after deployment instead of being in his barracks until the next op.

"What's got you so happy, son?"

It was Price who broke the silence on the table. They were at the bar they usually went to, but Simon was smiling the whole time he was drinking, humming along to everyone's talk half heartedly. They all had noticed, and the captain was set on getting some answers, Simon being slightly drunk already helped, too.

"They didn' forget t' write" he mumbles, humming like that was some great news "hell..found out they're living around 'ere"

The guys frown, Gaz is the one to bite the bullet, feigned aloofness as he sips his beer.

"Who?"

Simon hums, texting someone before glancing up like he just remembered he was being questioned.

"My friend" he mumbles "not exactly friends anymore—"

Before they can assume said friend died or something, a person walks up to their table. You, the random they saw at the ceremony. They're ready to tell you to piss off, when Simon glances at you and melts, calling out your name softly.

"Simon Riley...you told me you wouldn't even drink! Do I really have to babysit you like before?"

You huff and puff, but can't help to soften softly as he drunkenly murmurs your name, taking your hand in his, a boyish grin on his face, one that didn't change at all from your teen years. Though you don't remember Simon being so dumb and gooey around you, you blame it on the teen love filter you had at the time. He looks like an idiot, smiling up at you, balaclava pushed up to show his lips, and the visible corner of his eyes crinkling.

"I'm fine, luv" he rumbles, standing up fairly straight and putting his hands on your hips as he smiles down at you, amused by your annoyance "y' weren't this uptight 'efore"

You roll your eyes, trying to hide your own smirk

"We're not teens anymore"

you huff some more, then glance at the other men, who are looking like Simon grew a second head. You wave at them, introducing yourself as an old friend of Simon's. Simon doesn't seem to like that and grumbles, putting a hand over your mouth.

"Not just friends."

you push his hand off your mouth and glare at him. Sure, you two had started talking again, and he may or may not kissed you until you felt like a puddle at your doorstep, and he may or may not have fucked you dumb a few times already since that ceremony. But you weren't really going around telling people you're together — or at least you thought you weren't.

"What?" He shrugs at your glare "'s true ain't it? Or d'you always let your friends f.."

You groan loudly and push him away, pulling him away from his friends with a haste goodnight.

And the 141 are still confused. Because they found out why Ghost was in a good mood, but now they also found out that apparently Ghost now had a pretty bird waiting for him at home, and he was soft with them. A totally different man than the scary lieutenant they knew.

They all just give up trying to understand it as a few weeks later he goes back to dark and brooding Ghost. Though they still saw how soft he was when you'd come pick him up after he went drinking with the boys.

[smokebombsandspotlights]

🎤 ask me something different — part 5

pairing: F1 Grid x Journalist!Reader (platonic) genre: fluff, humor, found family, media pen chaos summary: You’ve officially become the interview everyone wants to nail. Now the drivers are rehearsing, scheming, and dramatically over-preparing just to impress you with their answers. It’s adorable. And ridiculous. Mostly ridiculous. word count: 816 warnings: competitive silliness, dramatic monologues, and Lando Norris trying to use a thesaurus.

🎥 ☕ scene one — “lando brings props” You’re setting up when Lando strolls into the media pen holding… a whiteboard.

“What is that?” you ask.

“My visual aid,” he says proudly. “For your question.”

You blink. “You don’t even know the question yet.”

Lando smirks. “Doesn’t matter. I’ve got flow charts for every possible topic: leadership, resilience, favorite cheese—covered.”

The McLaren comms rep facepalms as Lando whips out a marker and writes cheddar supremacy in bold letters mid-interview.

🏁 🧡 scene two — “ollie bearman has a script” Ollie approaches you with a folded piece of paper.

“This is my prepared statement,” he says, dead serious.

You laugh. “Prepared for what?”

“For whatever you’re about to ask.”

You ask him, “How do you reset after a bad session?”

He unfolds his paper and reads: “I take a moment to breathe, I reflect on what I can control, and I remember that this is my dream.”

You smile. “That’s actually really good.”

He grins. “Thanks. I had George proofread it.”

🌧️ 🛠️ scene three — “george russell has a glossary” George decides this is the year he will dominate your interviews.

He shows up with a notebook labeled: ‘Words to Impress Y/N’.

Halfway through your question about leadership pressure, he slips in: “It’s about fostering a resilient yet adaptable mindset, creating a culture of iterative excellence.”

You blink. “Iterative… excellence?”

George beams. “Thesaurus.com.”

📰 📚 scene four — “charles leclerc practices in the mirror” You hear it from Carlos first.

“Charles has been rehearsing answers in the hotel bathroom.”

You laugh—until you see Charles mouthing responses to himself in a reflective panel before the interview.

When you ask, “What does success mean to you this season?” he answers so smoothly it feels scripted.

You narrow your eyes. “Did you practice that?”

Charles smiles innocently. “Maybe.”

🧢 📋 scene five — “kimi antonelli tries reverse psychology” Kimi decides not to prepare—on purpose.

When you ask, “How do you deal with nerves on a tricky circuit?” he shrugs. “I just… don’t.”

You stare. “That’s your answer?”

Kimi shrugs again. “Everyone else is overcomplicating it. I am simple.”

Later, you hear him telling Toto, “I just didn’t want to do the Lando whiteboard thing.”

🌿 ☀️ scene six — “max verstappen goes cinematic” Max has clearly decided this is performance art now.

When you ask him about motivation, he pauses dramatically, looks off into the middle distance, and says:

“It’s not about winning. It’s about… not losing.”

You blink. “…Okay, that’s intense.”

Max nods solemnly. “I watched a documentary last night. Felt inspired.”

Someone on Twitter later edits his clip with slow piano music and black-and-white filters.

📷 ☕ scene seven — “lewis hamilton calls it a masterclass” Lewis has been quietly observing the chaos all season.

One afternoon, you ask him, “What’s one thing you’ve learned this year outside the car?”

He smiles. “That if you give people the right space, they’ll surprise you with their answers. Just like you’ve been doing to us.”

You blush. “Thanks, Lewis.”

He winks. “See? That’s how you nail a Y/N interview. Everyone else is overcomplicating it.”

🎧 🍂 scene eight — “the great monologue-off” The real chaos starts when Oscar and Lando get competitive.

You ask Oscar about balancing expectations in F1, and he launches into a perfectly timed, 90-second reflective monologue.

Lando, waiting nearby, crosses his arms. “Okay, but my answer will be better.”

He proceeds to give a two-minute TED Talk on resilience while using the whiteboard for bullet points.

Ollie claps at the end. Kimi just mutters, “Overachievers.”

✨ 💌 final scene — “you didn’t mean to start a trend” By the end of the season, every driver has their own “Y/N interview prep” ritual:

Lando: whiteboard diagrams.

Ollie: scripted notes (proofread by George).

George: big words.

Charles: mirror rehearsals.

Kimi: pretending not to care.

Max: dramatic one-liners.

Lewis: wise mentor energy.

Sky Sports uploads a montage titled “The Grid Tries to Impress Y/N”.

It racks up millions of views, with captions like:

“Y/N is basically the final boss of the media pen.”

“Kimi’s answer being 4 words is peak confidence.”

“Max’s ‘not about winning’ line lives rent-free in my head.”

When the season ends, Charles jokingly says during a live feed: “If you come back next year, I will prepare harder than anyone. This is a promise.”

You grin, mic in hand. “Charles, I don’t care who ‘wins’—I just care if it’s honest.”

And in that moment, you realize: Somewhere between the first awkward interview and now, you’ve turned media day into something the drivers actually look forward to.

Which, in F1, might be your biggest win yet.

End.

A/N: If you want, I can make a Part 6 where the drivers get too comfortable and start bringing you wild off-topic answers just to see how you react — it could be pure comedy while keeping the found-family vibe.

Taglist:@moonlightphilosopher, @karinari1@jessk23@bunnisplayground@thisdoesntexsist-cherry@bookworm-weirdofor-life@skzlover24@lottie810@josephinel83@hades-favourite-daughter@princess3055@rosiel-leclerc04@nikfigueiredo@anoukformula1@queen-aria-things@pookynknowntranger@bia-n-t-d@hellsingalucard18@omgsuperstarg @elvy16 @lagrandeourse

[thehoneycrypt]

Hello! Hope you’re doing well!

Please ignore me if you’ve done this already, but could you write about how the hanks react when they’re jealous (both individually and all together) (if you could include smut that would also be appreciated).

Keep up the great work you busy bee!

⋆˚꩜｡ jealous, jealous! - the hanks x reader

summary: how the hanks react when they're jealous ft. you getting hit on in public (gn & afab reader - smut excerpt at the end in the hanks together part so 18+ only)

a/n: hi hi folks! i promise that i’m wearing on requests from my writing event, headcanon heavy requests are just faster to write <3 nonetheless, i wanted to get something out soon! enjoy :D

hank 1

bro goes quiet and unintentionally activates a menacing aura if the jealousy stems from someone flirting with you.

he's the tallest of the hanks (6'5" in an au of mine) so he mainly uses that to his advantage to scare people off

the evil lurker vibe immediately turns off if you turn around and see him, he'll be all goofy and giddy with you but the moment you turn back around and the flirter is still there? oh, they have balls

quiet h1nk is not to be messed with and eventually the flirter will leave because it's uncomfortable to be around him when he's like that lol

he then goes very puppy eyes and pouty lip afterwards and confesses that he was jealous cuz he's working on sharing his feelings and not bottling them up <3

hank 2

tries to one up the flirter with his 'superior wit' (lyric and mac helped h2nk learn new words and such so he could write the great american novel)

usually that involves out-flirting the flirter by saying shit like "oh, yes, their eyes are beauteous and exquisite! i'm glad you noticed, too." or "my darling is quite ravishing, i'm so grateful that they're one of mine to cherish."

funnily enough, this works most of the time and the flirter does leave while you're left quite flustered by h2nk's compliments; this makes h2nk feel like man of the year

of course, he compliments you outside of jealousy! but he quite enjoys flexing his newly acquired vocabulary with losers who think they can win you over

he's not shy about informing you afterward that he was jealous, he values open communication and models it for the polycule

hank 3

he's very blunt and to the point with the flirter (he can't out flirt the flirter like h2nk can because his lines are too cheesy)

"hey, they're taken... by me... and four other kickass guys... sooo..."

if the flirter is actually a decent person, they leave immediately afterwards with an apology and h3nk can go about his day with you!

however, if the flirter is an asshole and pulls some shit like "wow, they can do way better" or something, h3nk will throw hands

he just wants to defend your honor! and his bros' honors! you manage to drag him away before fists collide 'cuz you don't want him to get charged with assault (you do find him to be very 'knight in shining armor' when he does this, though)

hank 4

he gives everyone the benefit of the doubt even when he shouldn't because he just assumes the best in folks, even if they're blatantly flirting with one of his partners

"yeah! they're so cool, aren't they?" or "yeah, bro, they have the greatest taste in fashion :)"

he's not a jealous guy... like the least jealous out of all the hanks

however, if the flirter is making you visibly uncomfortable or not stopping after you ask them to, the switch in his head is flipped from golden retriever to pitbull mode and get furious

unfortunately, h4nk is more of a 'punch first, ask questions later' guy so he's not afraid to whack a bitch if they get handsy with you (the only reason he has any restraint is cuz of you and the other hanks)

hank 5

he's polite about it and informs the flirter that you're taken, a very easygoing guy when it comes to jealousy and is able to handle it with grace

h5nk will remove the two of you from the situation if the flirter is being relentless, creepy, or otherwise making you uncomfortable; again, while he may be a bit jealous, he's still a gentleman

however, that gentleman-like approach will go out the window after hank 0 is born and the person is flirting with you while you and him are out with the freaking baby

uses hank 0 as his proxy for the jealousy ('my baby says you have ugly eyebrows and to get lost, loser'), even though everyone knows it's him that's jealous

overall, he can handle his feels, but he's not infallible when it comes to being pouty and whiny because of jealousy post-hank 0 birth

the hanks

who the fuck would flirt with you when you have 5 burly men in your proximity??? who all want your touch and attention like needy little puppies?

usually, if you're left alone for a period of time while the other hanks go off to do something, that's when flirters come by... however, when the hanks get back and see you with the flirter, they all get huffy and moody cuz you're their 'bro-babe'

they approach from behind you and form a semi-circle, all smiling at the flirter nonchalantly and asking them what they're doing

99.9999999% of the time when this happens? the flirter runs for their fucking life

once that's over, the hanks will whisper to you that they need help to 'get over their jealousy' at home...

helping your boys through their jealousy

"H- Hank!" you squeak, as H1nk manhandles you and tosses you on the nearby bed. You're ass up and facing the headboard, but you can hear the distinct sound of belts being removed and pants dropping to the floor. H5nk appears on your left while H2nk appears on your right, their eyes clouded with lust and something darker. You lift yourself up for a moment, only to tetter backwards and land on your back. Hanks 2 and 5 latch onto your breasts, suckling to their hearts' content.

"You're too cute, bro-babe," you tilt your head back and see H3nk hovering above you. He slaps his pale, hard cock against your cheek and asks, "Mind opening up that pretty mouth of yours, babe? I need to fuck your face."

You comply and open your mouth like a good whore. H3nk slides his fat dick inside and grows at the wet warmth around it. Slowly, he thrusts himself in and out, testing the waters before suddenly ramping it up. You could feel his heavy balls smack against your forehead and moan around his dick when H2nk bites down on one of your nipples.

"You gotta stop being so pretty and rad in public, house-babe!" H4nk speaks up. You feel him tap the head of his cock against your leaking entrance, causing you to moan once more around H3nk's dick. The blond Hank plays with your entrance, rubbing himself against your vulva and clit to make you squirm.

"Don't tease our honey so much, Four," H1nk comments to the other. H4nk stops and you whine in disappointment, "Lemme fuck you so good, baby..." he pleas, "I'm too pent up from that douche thinking he could get away with touching you..."

You try to answer, but H3nk abruptly climaxes and shoot cum down your throat, coating it white. He pulls out with a satisfied sigh and mumbles something about you being the 'throat goat' before laying beside you to play with your hair. Disoriented, you manage to swallow it all and answer H4nk, "Fuck... Fuck me..."

H2nk and H5nk unlatch themselves from your breasts and sloppily mark your chest and sides up with bruising hickeys while H4nk gets in position to fuck you. H1nk then takes H3nk and holds out his veiny dick, to which you open your mouth to eagerly suck on.

H1nk and H4nk thrust into you at the same time, electric pleasure shooting throughout your boy. The two of them assault your holes while the other Hanks stroke themselves off to the scene. Spit drips from the corners of your mouths, as your cunt makes unholy squelching noises.

"You're ours, right?" H1nk huffs out between moans, his cock buried deep inside your throat.

"Our bro-babe," H2nk adds on, struggling not to moan.

"You're our perfect angel," H3nk exhales, gritting his teeth.

"Fuck, your pussy is too good, babe! This is our pussy!" H4nk cries out, pistoning his dick in and out to abuse your poor cervix.

"I know one way to make sure everyone knows that you're ours," H5nk whines in your ear, "We'll make sure that they know who you belong to... who do you belong to, baby?"

Your mind is muddled from all the pleasure and sensations, but H1nk pulls out for a moment so you can cry out to the Hanks, "I'm yours!"

H1nk quickly slides back in, continuing to have his way with you. H4nk's hips stutter and he lets out a prolonged groan, as he shoots seed deep within your womb. H1nk joins in and dumps his load down your throat while Hanks 2/3/5 finish and coat your body in their cum.

Everyone collapses on the bed and you gasp softly, cum spilling out from your cunt and your mouth. The Hanks pull you into a five-person embrace and nuzzle close.

"You're ours."

[scarletwinterxx]

before it sinks in - choi seungcheol imagine

and it's here🥺😭 i always love a good bff-to-lovers au, and let me say this one THIS ONE IS THE THE ONE (it will make sense once you read it) it took so much time to edit so i hope you like it!

and to choi seungcheol, thank you for being the best part of the journal i'm still writing. happy birthday, i love you🤍

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

It starts like it always does.

A knock at your door, a familiar rhythm. Three quick knocks, then a pause, then two more. You don’t even bother checking the peephole anymore.

You yell, “It’s open!”

The door creaks, and in he comes—Choi Seungcheol, in his usual post-work disheveled glory. Tie half-untied, sleeves rolled up, one bag of takeout in each hand like some tired office-working Santa Claus.

“Guess who loves you the most?” he announces, holding up the food like an offering.

You grin from your spot on the couch. “Please, that’s definitely just hunger talking.”

“Okay, but I got extra dumplings. I knew you’d pretend you didn’t want any and then steal mine.”

“I never do that,” you say, already reaching for the bag.

He plops down next to you, his thigh pressing against yours casually. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s always been this way. And it kind of has.

“I’m starting to think you don’t actually have any other friends,” you tease, glancing at him sideways as you take the food.

“Joshua’s busy,” he replies without missing a beat, already opening his chopsticks. “And he doesn’t laugh at my jokes like you do. Or... pretend to.”

“I genuinely laugh,”

He looks over at you, amused. “You call me a loser every time I bring you dinner.”

“Because you are one. A loser. With no life. Who brings me food every other night instead of going out.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He pops a dumpling into his mouth. “Also, this ‘no life’ loser knows all your takeout orders by heart.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Okay, stalker.”

“Don’t forget you cried when they took your favorite noodles off the menu last year.”

“That was a valid emotional reaction.”

The banter is easy. Comfortable. That kind of ease only built over years of being in and out of each other’s homes, lives, and moods. You've seen him at his worst: sick with the flu, heartbroken after his first real girlfriend, crying after graduation even though he’d totally denied being sentimental. And he’s seen you through everything. from braces to bad breakups to that unfortunate pixie cut in 2015.

You two are disasters. Just... disasters that happen to orbit around each other.

He leans back on the couch now, sighing. “We’re almost thirty.”

You blink at him, chopsticks halfway to your mouth. “Well, thank you for that existential crisis at dinner.”

He laughs, low and rumbling. “No, seriously. One more month and I hit the big 3-0.”

You shrug. “You’re ancient. I’m still young and thriving.”

“You’re five days older than me.”

He gives you a look, then smirks. “Remember the pact?”

Oh god. The pact.

You cough, immediately reaching for your drink. “Vaguely.”

He tilts his head at you knowingly. “You mean very clearly, because I have a screenshot of the drunk text you sent me after your birthday.”

Your stomach flips but you fake a glare. “Delete it.”

“Never. It's my favorite piece of blackmail.”

You roll your eyes and mutter under your breath, “Should’ve made the pact with Joshua.”

“Joshua would've made you sign a prenup and scheduled your wedding in an Excel sheet. Anyways. You better find someone in the next month or else.”

“Or else you’re stuck with me” you finish his sentence for him

There’s a beat of silence, then he says, quiet but playful, “I could do worse.”

You glance at him. He’s smiling but there’s something in his eyes you can’t quite place. Like... maybe he doesn’t think it’s a joke.

But you don’t go there.

So instead, you nudge his knee and say, “Yeah? You sure about that, loser?”

He grins. “Best loser you’ve got.”

“Aren’t you on, like, girlfriend number… what now?” you ask, feigning deep thought. “Twelve? Fifteen?”

He coughs dramatically, nearly choking on his food. “Excuse me? I’ve barely hit five.”

“Yeah, and four of those were in college. One lasted a week. One was a situationship you swore wasn’t a situationship.”

“It wasn’t,” he insists, pointing his chopsticks at you like he’s genuinely offended. “We just didn’t label it.”

“That’s literally what a situationship is, Cheol.”

He groans and sets down his bowl. “Why are we talking about this?”

“Because it’s funny,” you grin. “You, self-proclaimed heartthrob of the neighborhood, out here bringing me dumplings instead of going on dates.”

“Oh please,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You act like you’ve been busy rejecting suitors left and right. When’s the last time you even went on a date?”

You pause.

“…That’s none of your business.”

“Exactly,” he says smugly, leaning back. “You haven’t.”

You flick a piece of tofu at him. He dodges with the reflexes of a guy who’s probably had food thrown at him by you since age six.

“For your information,” you say primly, “I’ve been choosing not to date. Selectively single.”

He raises a brow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“Better than being dumped because you forgot your anniversary.”

“That was once and it was five years ago,” he groans, hands in his hair. “You’ll never let me live that down, huh?”

“Never.”

You go quiet for a moment, chewing thoughtfully. He watches you for a beat, then asks, a little softer, “You ever think we made that pact too young?”

You shrug. “I mean… we were drunk.”

“True. You made me pinky promise with a glow stick.”

“It was symbolic!” you defend, laughing.

He smiles, but he’s watching you again. That same look from earlier. Lingering.

And before your brain can spiral somewhere dangerous, you grab a spring roll and jab it at him like a weapon. “Okay, Mister No-Love-Life, next question. If you had to marry one of your exes—”

“Nope,” he cuts in immediately, mouth full. “I’d rather die alone.”

You cackle, almost choking on your drink.And that’s how it always is. Teasing. Banter. Just enough flirting to make your stomach twist but never enough to cross that invisible line.

That pact is still there, hanging unspoken between you like a safety net you both pretend not to look at. A joke. A backup plan.Right?

…Right?

You raise an eyebrow, chopsticks paused mid-air as you give him a look.

“Oh, so you wouldn’t marry any of your exes,” you say, drawing out the words. “But you would marry your best friend who drunkenly made you pinky promise to do it under the influence of cheap vodka and birthday cupcakes?”

Seungcheol doesn’t flinch. He just takes a slow sip of his drink, completely unbothered. “Yep.”

“Wow.” You blink at him, pretending to be scandalized. “You’re saying I’m a better option than your entire romantic history?”

He shrugs with mock innocence. “You said it, not me.”

You set your food down, pressing a hand to your chest dramatically. “That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He smirks. “Low bar.”

You point at him. “Okay rude, but fair.”

He leans in slightly, resting his elbow on the back of the couch, face close enough that you can smell the soy sauce on his breath. “Let’s be honest. You’d say yes in a heartbeat.”

You scof  “Please. I’d hesitate at least five seconds.”

He grins. “That’s still a yes.”

You roll your eyes, trying very hard to ignore the flutter in your chest. “You’re really confident about this whole ‘marry my best friend’ plan, huh?”

“Well, yeah,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You already know all my bad habits. You’ve seen me cry during Disney movies. And you still voluntarily talk to me. That’s basically marriage.”

You laugh, but it comes out a little breathless. And for a second, the air shifts again. Warmer. Realer.

You look away first. “Well, lucky for you, I’m still very single.”

“So am I,” he says, too quickly.

You glance at him.

He shrugs. “Just in case you forgot.”

You say nothing for a moment, then snort and grab another dumpling. “Desperate.”

“Punctual,” he corrects. “I’m just early to the party.”

You grin, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Yet here you are,” he says, nudging you with his shoulder, “eating dumplings on the couch with me. Like we’re an old married couple already.”

You pretend to gag. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But your heart’s doing somersaults, and you don’t say anything else. Neither does he. You just keep eating, bickering like always, while the clock ticks a little closer to thirty.

=

It’s a warm Saturday evening, and somehow yet again you’ve ended up as Seungcheol’s plus-one to another one of his company dinners. You’re in heels you kind of regret, a dress you only half-liked, and a social setting you definitely didn’t choose for yourself.

You swirl your drink as you stand near the edge of the patio, watching Seungcheol charm a group of engineers like it’s his side gig. He’s got his sleeves rolled up, that confident manager air about him, and he laughs in that way that makes people lean in.

“God, are you two sure it’s still platonic?”

You flinch at the sudden voice beside you. Turning, you find Joshua sipping casually from a glass of wine, looking far too amused.

You squint at him. “What?”

“You and Seungcheol,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve seen married couples with less natural chemistry.”

“We’re childhood best friends.”

Joshua raises an eyebrow, unbothered. “Exactly. That’s how half the dramas start.”

You give him a deadpan look. “This is real life. Not a weekend drama.”

“Real life where he brings you to every event, stares at you like you’re the human version of a warm blanket, and calls you at midnight because his oven makes weird noises.”

“That happened once.”

Joshua smirks. “Uh huh.”

You turn back toward the patio, eyes finding Seungcheol again who’s already looking in your direction. You catch him mid-smile. He gives you a nod, a small tilt of his head like you good? And you answer with the smallest nod of your own like always.

Joshua sees it. Of course he does.

“I’m just saying,” he says, raising his eyebrows as he sips again. “If you two get married, I’m not shocked. I just better be invited.”

“You are so dramatic.”

“I’m observant. There’s a difference.”

Before you can protest more, Seungcheol makes his way toward you, hand brushing lightly at your waist without even thinking about it.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, “they’re about to do the speeches. You good to come in?”

You nod. As you walk off with him, Joshua raises his glass behind you, smug.

“Totally platonic,” he says to no one, sipping his wine like he called it first.

As you and Seungcheol walk away from Joshua, his hand still casually resting at the small of your back, he leans in and murmurs, “What did he say this time?”

You don’t miss a beat. “He’s asking if he can make a speech at our wedding.”

Seungcheol falters for half a step. Just one. But you catch it. And it makes you grin.

“Wow. You’re so generous. Letting him speak at our wedding.”

“I know,” you sigh, dramatic. “I figured since he called this three years ago, it’s the least I could do.”

“Fine, but no guitar performance. He’ll pull that angel boy act and have the whole room crying.”

You snort. “You’ll be crying.”

“At our fake wedding?”

You shoot him a look. “It’s not fake if we made a pact. Legally binding pinky swear. Remember?”

“Oh, I remember,” he says, too smooth, too smug. “August’s coming fast.”

“Nervous?”

He shrugs, casual. “Not really. If I’m marrying someone, might as well be the person who already bullies me like a spouse.”

“Flattery,” you say, “will get you nowhere.”

“But food delivery might?”

“…Fair.”

He laughs, nudging you gently with his shoulder as you both step back inside. Whatever this thing is between you—comfort, tension, something else entirely—it settles back into place like it always does.

The drive home is wrapped in that easy kind of silence that only comes after years of knowing someone down to the bone. No pressure to fill the air. No small talk. Just headlights on the road and soft music playing low from the stereo, some old playlist he probably forgot was still on shuffle.

You’re curled slightly toward the window, watching buildings blur past. Seungcheol’s hand is steady on the wheel, tapping lightly to the beat of the song. You’ve been to dinners like this a hundred times now, been in his car even more, but something about tonight feels quieter. Heavier. Not in a bad way, just... heavier.

So you say it. Quiet. Careful.

“Hey, just—if we actually do it,” you start, still looking out the window. “Like actually get married… do you think we’d be… good at it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. And for a second, you wonder if maybe you shouldn’t have said anything at all. You almost take it back, make a joke, change the subject, say you were just messing around.

But then he glances at you, one hand still on the wheel. Voice low, thoughtful.

“You mean it?”

You meet his eyes for a brief second, then look back out the window. “I guess I’ve just been thinking about it more lately. Thirty’s kind of creeping up.”

He chuckles softly. “It’s not creeping. It’s sprinting.”

You smile, but you wait. And after a moment, he exhales like he’s been holding something in for years.

“I think we’d be good at it,” he says finally. “Like... weirdly good.”

You glance at him again, heart suddenly louder in your chest.

He continues, keeping his eyes on the road. “We already do half the stuff anyway. Eat together. Talk about work. Know each other’s habits. You let me whine about my deadlines. I pick up your coffee order without asking. You yell at me when I don’t stretch after the gym.”

You snort. “Because you complain about your back like a grandpa the next day.”

He shrugs. “Exactly. See? That’s marriage material.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling now. Quietly.

Then, he adds, a little softer this time, “I think if we ever did it... it wouldn’t feel fake.”

That part makes you pause. You feel something lodge in your throat, not uncomfortable but... careful. Fragile.

You glance over at him again, and he’s still focused on the road but there’s a tiny smile on his lips, one he doesn’t even try to hide.

You breathe out slowly. “Yeah. I think so too.”

The silence comes back but now it’s warm, golden. Full of all the things you don’t say out loud.

And you just let it sit there between you, glowing.

The car hums quietly beneath you, tires soft against the road, headlights cutting through the dark. Outside, the world moves past in sleepy pieces streetlights, shop signs, a couple holding hands at a crosswalk.

You look out the window again, thinking. Letting his words from earlier settle in your chest like stones on still water.

Then softly you ask, “You don’t think it’s risky?”

He glances at you, just for a moment.

You keep going, voice quieter now. “Like... if we’re really considering it, if either of us seriously thought about going through with it someday... Would it even be worth risking all of this?”

You gesture vaguely toward the space between you, toward the years you’ve known him, the friendship that’s always just been.

“Cheol... we’re good like this. We’re us,” you say, still not looking at him. “And if we tried and it didn’t work, if it ruined everything... I don’t think I’d know how to lose you.”

The words hang in the air. Soft. Exposed. But you know him. You could tear your heart open mid-sentence and he’d never flinch, never throw back a pretty lie just to make you feel better.

He’s never been like that. Never sugarcoated things with you. And that’s why you ask because he’s your best friend. Because with him, you never have to pretend.

There’s a long pause. He makes a turn, one hand loose on the wheel. Then he says, gently, “No. I don’t think it’s not risky.”

You nod slowly, almost expecting that.

“But,” he adds, and this time, his voice is steadier—anchored, warm—“I think it’s a different kind of risk.”

You glance at him, quiet.

He continues, eyes still on the road. “We’ve already done a thousand things most people wouldn’t survive. Growing up together. Watching each other date other people. Crying over dumb things. Fighting about real things. Still choosing to show up again and again.”

“And if we ever crossed that line,” he says, softer now, “I wouldn’t do it unless I was sure it was worth it. Unless I was sure I could love you the way you deserve.”

You don’t know what to say.

He glances over again, eyes meeting yours briefly in the dark. “And if we stayed like this forever? You’d still be my person. Nothing would change that.”

You nod once, then look away, eyes stinging—but not from sadness.

Just the truth of it.

“Okay,” you whisper, barely audible.

=

It’s another lazy evening in Seungcheol’s apartment. hoodies, mismatched socks, takeout containers littering the coffee table like it’s a routine. And it is a routine.

He always over-orders.

“Why do you do this?” you ask, poking at the third untouched side dish. “Do you think I secretly have four stomachs?”

He shrugs, already two bites into his third dumpling. “You say that, but you still finish everything eventually.”

He tosses a napkin at you, and you retaliate with a spoon. Somehow, this is flirting. Somehow, it always has been. But then the laughter dies down and there’s a beat of silence, the kind that nudges at something unsaid.

You stare down at your food, playing with the rice. “Hey… can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course.”

You hesitate. Then: “Do you remember Arin?”

His chewing slows. “Yeah.” His tone shifts—cautious, but not cold. “Of course I do. Why?”

You take a breath, not looking at him. “You were really serious about her.”

He doesn’t say anything, so you keep going.

“I never told you this, but… she said something to me. Back then. When you two were dating.”

His brows draw together slightly. “What do you mean?”

“She said I was too attached to you. Too dependent.” You shrug, like it doesn’t still sting. “Said it wasn’t normal for us to be this close. That it made her uncomfortable.”

There’s a pause. You keep your eyes on your plate.

“That’s why I started pulling away,” you admit quietly. “I didn’t want to get in your way. Or… prove her right.”

Seungcheol’s quiet for a long moment.

“That’s why you avoided me?” His voice is softer now, like he’s trying to piece it all together

You glance at him, then look away again. “Yeah.”

He exhales, disbelieving. “We fought about that, didn’t we? I thought you were mad at me for something. I didn’t understand what I did.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “But you wouldn’t have understood back then. You’re not a girl.”

He shifts beside you, something heavy moving behind his eyes. “Try me.”

You finally look up at him. “She made me feel like I was not supposed to exist in your life while she was there. Like I was the reason your relationship wasn’t working. And I started thinking maybe she was right. Maybe I was being selfish. So I just… stepped back. Gave you space.”

His expression falters, jaw tightening slightly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you were happy,” you say simply. “Or I thought you were. I didn’t want to be the reason you weren’t.”

He’s quiet again, hands resting on his knees.

Then, more to himself than anything, he mutters, “God… I thought I lost you for real that time.”

Your chest tightens. “You didn’t.”

“I felt like I did.”

You both go quiet again, sitting with the weight of what wasn’t said back then. It lingers in the room like steam off the takeout, clinging to the walls.

Then, softer this time, he says, “You weren’t selfish. Not once. If anything, I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known something was wrong.”

You smile faintly. “You were in love.”

“Doesn’t mean I stopped knowing you.”

Jus to break the tension, you look down at the food “Still think you ordered too much,” you mumble.

“Still think you’re full of it. You’re finishing the japchae.”

You’re mid-bite when you feel it, his eyes on you. You glance up, and Seungcheol’s just... watching. Quiet, serious. That steady way he looks when something’s turning over in his head.

Then he says it, low and sure.

“If she really loved me… she would’ve understood.”

You blink, caught off guard.

He doesn’t say it with resentment. There’s no heat, no bitterness. Just the simple truth of it. And something about that stings a little more than anger ever could.

You try to shrug it off. “It’s not the same thing. I mean, I get it. I’d probably be annoyed too if my boyfriend had a permanent plus one.”

He doesn’t let that slide.

“No,” he says firmly. “That’s not fair.”

You look at him again, and now there’s something sharper in his expression. Not angry—hurt. Frustrated.

“You’ve always been fine with my exes. Even the random flings. The girls I didn’t even bring around that much. You never made it a thing. You never made me choose.You were always so nice to them, you wanted to know them, be their friend”

“And now you’re telling me someone made you feel like you didn’t belong, like you were a problem and you just took it?”

You go quiet.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks, softer now. “Even after we fought. You just let me believe you were done with me.”

Your throat tightens. You pick at the edge of a napkin.

“Because she was someone you wanted,” you say finally. “And I’m just… me.”

He blinks, like he wasn’t expecting that.

You manage a breathy laugh. “Best friend since diapers, backup plan by thirty. I didn’t want to mess that up by being dramatic.”

He sits back, runs a hand through his hair. “God,” he mutters. “You really thought I’d pick someone over you?”

You don’t answer.

His voice is quiet again, but stronger. “She made you feel like you were less. That’s not love.”

You finally meet his eyes. There’s no teasing there. No light jab to make it easier to swallow.

Just Seungcheol. Solid. Steady. Honest.

“She made me feel like I had to choose. You never did that to me. Not once,” he says.

He exhales, softer now. “I wish I’d known.”

You shrug again, but this time it’s a little heavier. “I didn’t want to be the reason something good ended for you.”

His gaze flicks over your face like he’s memorizing it. And then he says,

“If she couldn’t see how important you were to me, then she wasn’t good for me in the first place.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but not uncomfortable. You just sit there, side by side, the space between you full of things that finally got said. You try to keep your face neutral, to blink it away, to bite the inside of your cheek like it’ll ground you. Like it’ll keep the sting in your eyes from spilling over.

But your voice gets caught somewhere in your throat.

Because it’s rare. You and Seungcheol sure, you talk all the time. About work, about terrible reality shows, about how the local convenience store changed ramen brands and ruined his life. You can tell him anything.

But moments like this? Honest. Raw. Without a joke to shield it?

They don’t come often.

And now, here you are, shoulders curled in, eyes blurry, trying to act like you’re fine when you’re very much not.

He notices, of course he does. He always does.

“Hey…” he says gently.

You try to play it off, sniffling as you look away, muttering, “I’m fine.”

“You’re doing the thing,” he says quietly. “Where you pout and pretend you’re not about to cry.”

“I’m not,” you say quickly, voice cracking right at the end, betraying you completely.

And instead of teasing you like he normally would, he shifts closer, turning fully to face you now “You’re not back-up,” he says, firm but soft. “Or my back-up plan. Or my safety net.”

You keep your eyes trained on the food containers in front of you, lashes wet.

“You’re my person,” he says, and your heart just—aches. “Remember?”

You nod slowly, still not trusting yourself to speak.

He nudges your knee with his. “Hey. Look at me.”

You do, reluctantly. Your eyes are glassy and your lips are pushed out in a small pout, like you’re five seconds away from sobbing or swearing or both.

He softens at the sight of you. Reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist. “I mean it.”

“Then why do I feel like I don’t matter as much sometimes?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just lets that sit there. And then his hand slips down, fingers curling around yours.

“You matter more than anyone,” he says, quiet but sure. “You always have.”

It hits you like a wave. That it’s true. That he means it. And suddenly it’s too much. the tension in your chest, the quiet ache of all those years where you questioned your place beside him, the guilt from pulling away, the fear of what-ifs.

You cry. Not loud or messy. Just soft, silent tears that slip down your cheeks before you can catch them.

He doesn’t let go. He doesn’t rush you either. Just lets you sit there in the quiet, fingers still laced with his, your shoulder slowly leaning into his.

“I got you,” he says simply.

And you believe him. Maybe more now than ever. You sniff once, trying to pull yourself together, wiping quickly under your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie like that’ll erase the whole emotional breakdown you just had.

Seungcheol watches you, still holding your hand loosely. Then he smiles—that smile. The soft one, the one where his eyes crinkle a little and his dimple shows up just barely. Warm. Gentle. Familiar.

And then, without warning, he reaches out and pinches your cheek.

“Yah,” you protest, batting his hand away, “what was that for?”

“For being cute,” he says casually, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

You scowl through the remnants of your pout, cheeks still warm and damp. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but I’m your person, remember?” he says, cheeky now.

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels lighter. Your heart feels full.

“Here. Mandu. To replenish your tears.”

You blink. “Are you feeding me dumplings as emotional support?”

“Yes,” he says, entirely serious. “Doctor’s orders.”

You laugh, watery and small, but real. You reach out and take one, letting the warmth of it settle into your palm.

“I really hate you sometimes,” you mumble.

“No, you don’t.”

You don’t.

You couldn’t.

=

It had actually been… kind of perfect.

The community outreach event turned out to be more fun than you'd expected. You weren’t exactly thrilled when Seungcheol texted “Be ready at 8, no excuses 🙄🐶” the night before, but now?

You were glad he dragged you.

The animal shelter was filled with wagging tails, tiny paws, and enough puppy breath to cure anyone’s burnout. You spent the day giving belly rubs, walking hyper dogs around the yard, and feeding stray kittens who meowed at you like they’d known you for years.

Seungcheol, of course, made friends with the loudest, goofiest-looking dog named Daegu. He tried to convince you both to take a selfie. Daegu licked your face. Seungcheol almost dropped his phone from laughing.

You’d smiled all day. Laughed too much. Teased him endlessly when he almost cried because one of the old dogs leaned on his leg.

And now… it was quiet.

The sky outside the car window was a soft shade of pink and gold, sun starting to dip. The hum of the road filled the silence as Seungcheol drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. The kind of silence that should’ve been peaceful.

But then, from his side, he hears it.

A sniffle. Small. Shaky.

He turns slightly, confused. “Wait—are you… are you crying?”

You immediately look away, hand flying to your face. “No.”

He leans forward, grinning. “You are. Oh my god—are you seriously crying right now?”

“I—Shut up,” you mutter, voice wobbly. “It’s just… it’s so sad, okay?”

He laughs, but it’s gentle, not mocking. “You played with dogs all day. What part of this is sad?”

You try to explain, but your voice cracks again. “Daegu doesn’t have a home, Cheol. He just wants love. He was so happy and he still has no one…”

“Oh my god,” he says again, this time through a breathy chuckle, pulling the car into a stoplight. “You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?” you pout, wiping your face with your sleeve.

“The thing where your heart explodes and you act like it’s my fault.”

“It is your fault! You dragged me there! You let me bond with Daegu and now I’m emotionally unstable!”

He’s still smiling as he unclicks his seatbelt.

“What are you doing?” you ask warily.

He opens his arm and says simply, “Come here.”

You blink at him. “We’re in a car.”

“Come here,” he says again, already leaning a little toward you. You scoot over, sniffling. He wraps one arm around you, tugs you gently in until your head rests against his shoulder.

“There,” he says. “My very emotionally compromised best friend. Crying over Daegu the dog.”

“He has abandonment issues,” you sniff dramatically into his hoodie.

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, chuckling. “You and Daegu are the same.”

You punch his chest weakly but you don’t move. And you both pretend it’s just another joke. Just another hug. Nothing new.

But maybe it is. Maybe it's something.

“When we get married… can we adopt a dog?”

There’s a tiny pause.

Then you feel his chest shake with a quiet chuckle. “We’ll adopt two.”

He doesn’t say anything about how you said when—not if. Doesn’t call attention to the way your voice had gone soft, hopeful. Like it was a plan, not a hypothetical. Doesn’t tease you for crying over a dog named Daegu like it’s the most heartbreaking thing that’s ever happened.

He just keeps driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly on your knee now, thumb moving in slow, absent circles.

He doesn’t say it, but the way he looks at you—like he’s already imagining the two of you in a small apartment with mismatched socks on the floor and two loud dogs causing chaos—says enough.

You breathe out slowly, eyes closing for a moment. The sadness is still there, but quieter now. Softer. Wrapped in something that feels suspiciously like home.

“Two dogs,” you murmur.

“Big ones,” he says immediately. “None of that pocket-sized barky fluff.”

You roll your eyes against his shoulder. “One big, one tiny. We compromise.”

He laughs, low and easy. “Fine. But the tiny one wears sweaters.”

“Obviously.”

It’s late when Seungcheol finally slumps into the bar booth across from Joshua, tie already yanked loose, sleeves rolled up like he’s fought a war with deadlines and lost.

Joshua raises his glass with a grin. “To surviving another week of pretending we know what we’re doing.”

Seungcheol clinks it lazily. “Barely.”

They sip. Talk about work. Someone in Joshua’s department tried to microwave salmon again. Seungcheol had to deal with a supplier who thinks "urgent" means "next month."

Eventually, because Joshua always circles back, he raises a brow over his drink.

“So, you and her.”

Seungcheol doesn’t even flinch. “She’s my best friend.”

Joshua lets out the most dramatic sigh known to man. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

Joshua leans in, quieter now. “Look. I’m not saying it has to be some big movie moment. I’m just saying... if the line between friendship and love is already blurred, maybe stop pretending you don’t know where your heart actually is.”

Seungcheol lifts his head slowly, looking at him. “Is this the part where you ask to be the best man?”

Joshua grins. “Already working on my speech.”

Joshua is relentless. He leans back like he’s letting it go. lets Seungcheol take a breath, picks up a fry, chews like the conversation’s moved on. And for a moment, Seungcheol thinks he’s safe.

But then Joshua looks at him again with a too-innocent smile. “Alright. Fine. Let’s say I believe you.”

Seungcheol narrows his eyes. “You don’t.”

“Let’s just pretend I do,” Joshua continues smoothly, ignoring him. “She’s your best friend. You grew up together. You pinky swore under the influence of tequila and glow sticks, whatever. Let’s say I accept all of that.”

Seungcheol sighs, suspicious. “Okay…”

“Then why aren’t you dating anyone?”

That lands like a slap made of reason and accusation. Seungcheol blinks.

“You haven’t dated anyone since her last ex. Since things went to hell for her and she stopped smiling for a whole month. Since she barely came out of her apartment, and you were suddenly too busy to go out with anyone else.”

Seungcheol stiffens slightly.

Joshua tilts his head. “So? Why aren’t you dating?”

“I was just—busy,” Seungcheol says, way too fast.

Joshua stares at him.

“Work’s been—”

“Bullshit,” Joshua cuts in, laughing without humor. “You’ve had girls lined up since day one, man. You’re good-looking, stable, semi-functional—”

“Thanks?”

“But somehow,” Joshua goes on, “every time something starts to get serious, you ghost. You find an excuse. Or—” he pauses, like the punchline’s too good—“you cancel because she had a bad day, or she needed help assembling a bookshelf, or she got food poisoning and you spent the night at her place making her congee.”

“It’s her favorite” Seungcheol mutters

Joshua slams his glass down. “Exactly. So you’re telling me it’s all just coincidence?”

Seungcheol rubs the back of his neck, finally admitting, quietly, “I didn’t want to leave her alone.”

Joshua softens just a bit. “I know.”

Seungcheol exhales. “She looked like she was holding herself together with duct tape.”

“And you were the duct tape,” Joshua says, not unkindly. “So let me ask again. If she’s just your best friend… why haven’t you let anyone else get close since?”

Seungcheol doesn’t answer. He just stares into his drink, like maybe the bottom of the glass will explain everything he doesn’t know how to say.

And Joshua doesn’t press just leans back, more gentle now. “You don’t have to say it, you know. But maybe it’s time you stop acting like you don’t feel it.”

And Seungcheol… still doesn’t say a word.

But he’s thinking about it. Harder than he wants to admit.

=

It’s a different day, but the weight of that conversation with Joshua hasn’t quite left him.

He tells himself he’s fine. You’re still you. He’s still him. Nothing’s changed.

Except maybe... everything has.

Seungcheol lies on his couch, one arm slung over his eyes, half-watching the ceiling fan spin in lazy circles like it holds answers he doesn’t have. His phone is on his chest, silent. No messages from you. not that you need to message. You were just here last night, eating the leftover pasta he overcooked and yelling at him for folding your hoodie sleeves wrong when you did laundry at his place.

Just like always.

But now every interaction feels... different.

But ever since the pact came up again, it's like someone flipped to a page in his life he didn’t know he’d been avoiding. And now it’s wide open, bold and highlighted, underlined in red.

Thirty.

He never used to care about that number. But now it’s staring him down like a blinking countdown clock. Not because of pressure but because it’s not just some hypothetical pact anymore.

Because when you looked at him that night, crying over Daegu the shelter dog, and mumbled “when we get married” instead of “if”… 

You meant it.

And the terrifying part?

He didn’t hate the way it sounded. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t correct you.

“We’ll adopt two,” he had said.

Like it was always meant to happen.

He presses his palm to his face and groans.

The front door buzzes. He startles, sitting up too fast. When he checks the intercom, it’s you.

Of course.

You’re in joggers and a loose shirt when he opens the door, holding a plastic bag.

“I brought strawberries,” you say casually, brushing past him like you live here.

“And ice cream. I didn’t know what mood you were in so I got both.”

He stares at you for a beat too long.

You pause, frowning. “What?”

He blinks. “Nothing.”

You eye him suspiciously. “Did you nap too hard again?”

He watches you pad barefoot into his kitchen, already putting things in the fridge like it’s second nature. Like you belong here. And that page in his mind turns again so loud it’s deafening.

You're still you. He's still him. But now he’s starting to wonder if maybe the reason neither of you have crossed that line… is because deep down, he was waiting for the page to flip on its own.

And now that it has?

He’s not sure he can keep pretending he’s not reading every word like it’s been written just for the two of you.

You continue on chatting, unaware of the turmoil going on in his mind “—and then this guy from the client’s team, literally asked me if I could ‘pretty up’ the presentation slides to make them feel less ‘intense.’ Like what does that even mean, Cheol?”

Seungcheol stands by the door, frozen as he watches you breeze in like the storm that you are ranting, expressive, completely unaware that the very air in the room changes when you're in it.

You open the produce bag, eyes lighting up. “Oh my god, these strawberries are so red. I knew they were gonna slap.”

He’s still standing there when you rinse them in the sink and start cutting off the tops with a familiarity that makes his heart squeeze painfully.

You go on about your day, laughing now. “And then Eunha messaged me right in the middle of the meeting to say she thinks our client’s VP is hot. Like ma’am, we are literally fighting for a budget extension, focus.”

You pluck a strawberry from the bowl, turn to him casually, and hold it out with one hand. “Ah.”

He doesn’t move at first but you’re already looking at the strawberry, not even at him, like this is just any other Thursday night. Like feeding him fruit mid-conversation is as normal as breathing.

So he leans forward, still dazed, and takes the bite. Your fingers brush the corner of his mouth without thinking.

And this.

This is when it hits him.

All at once.

The conversations. The warnings. Every girl he’s dated in the past, from the short flings to the ones he thought might last, every one of them echoing the same thing when they walked away.

You only give half of yourself.

You don’t let people in all the way.

You say you care, but you’re never really there. Not fully.

He thought they just didn’t get it. That he wasn’t the problem. That they were asking for something he couldn’t give yet. But now, watching you chew your strawberry and move on like nothing just cracked open in the middle of his chest, he understands what they meant.

It’s not that he doesn’t have the capacity to give himself to someone completely.

It’s that he already did.

It was you.

It’s always been you.

You're over there now, peering into his snack cabinet, still talking. “Also, you’re out of those seaweed crisps again. I swear I bought, like, three bags last time.”

You’re not even looking at him.

You have no idea. You don’t know that in the middle of your casual rant, in this ordinary kitchen filled with mismatched mugs and your scent clinging to his hoodie on the chair—

He’s falling apart quietly.

Because this feels like home, and it’s not his.

It’s yours.

It always has been.

You turn around with a bag of chips, half-pouting. “We need to grocery run this weekend, by the way. Or else I’m gonna starve and it’ll be your fault.”

You don't even say if you're coming over. You say we. Like it’s assumed.

And maybe that’s the thing. You’ve never had to ask for space in his life, because you already live in it.

And for the first time in years, Seungcheol is completely speechless.

He doesn't say a word as you plop onto his couch and toss him the bag of chips.

Doesn’t respond when you yell from the cushions, “Put something on, and if it’s another action movie I’m walking out.”

He just moves. Slowly. Quietly. Heart pounding in his chest as he sits beside you, watching the way you tuck your legs under you, the way you grumble about his remote always being sticky, the way you fit here without even trying.

And as the opening credits roll on some cheesy romcom you insisted on, all he can think is—

How the hell did I not see this before?

And worse—

What do I do now that I have?

=

The night air is soft, cool against your skin, the kind of evening that makes the city feel quieter than usual. You and Seungcheol are walking side by side, bellies full from the ramen place you both pretend to be tired of but always end up at anyway.

He’s holding your umbrella, even though it’s barely misting now, and you’re nursing a cup of milk tea, chewing on the straw like you’re deep in thought.

He’s doing it again.  Walking beside you, hand in his pocket, eyes drifting toward you like he forgot what he was about to say.

And staying quiet.

You’ve noticed it. For weeks now.

He still argues with you about dumb things. Still rolls his eyes when you steal the last piece of meat. Still dramatically sighs when you ask for "just a sip" of his drink and finish half.

But then he gets quiet.

Not the relaxed, comfortable kind of quiet that’s always existed between you two, but the thinking too hard kind. The staring at you like you rearranged the stars and he’s only now catching up kind.

And tonight? It's more noticeable than ever.

So you stop walking.

He takes two more steps before realizing you’re not beside him anymore. He turns back. “What?”

You squint at him, arms folded around your milk tea. “What’s up with you?”

He blinks. “What?”

“You’ve been weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

You level him with a look. “No. Like… actually weird. You’ve been all in your head lately. Staring off into space. Being all quiet for no reason.”

He tries to play it off. “Maybe I’m just finally at peace around you.”

You give him a flat look. “That would require inner peace, and I know for a fact you don’t have that.”

He chuckles under his breath but doesn’t deny it.

You step closer, lowering your voice, more serious now. “Seriously, Cheol. If something’s wrong, just tell me.”

He looks at you.

And there it is again. that look. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he’s in the middle of some grand realization and doesn’t know where to start saying it out loud.

You nudge his arm gently. “Did you break something in my apartment?”

“No.”

“Are you seeing someone?”

“No.”

“Did you kill someone?”

“I plead the fifth.”

You smile a little, but it fades as you meet his eyes again. “Then what is it?”

He hesitates. Breathes in like he’s about to say something then lets it out slowly instead.

“I just…” He rakes a hand through his hair, gaze dropping to the sidewalk before lifting to you again. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

“Well, there’s your problem.”

He snorts.

You wait.

And finally, he shrugs one shoulder. “About us.”

Your chest tightens. “Us?”

He nods. “Yeah. You and me. This. Everything.”

You blink, caught off guard by how serious he suddenly looks.

“I don’t know,” he says, quieter now. “It’s like… something shifted. And I’ve been trying to figure out if I’m imagining it, or if it’s always been there and I just wasn’t paying attention.”

You’re stunned into silence. He lets out a breath, eyes still on you.

“I’m not trying to be weird,” he says. “I just… I think I’m realizing things a little late.”

And somehow, even with all the vague words and hesitation, you understand exactly what he means.

The pact.

The silence.

The way he looks at you now, like he’s already halfway in love but too scared to say it outright.

You look down at your cup, the condensation cold against your fingers, and when you speak, your voice is soft

“So… are you still figuring it out?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“I think I already did.”

And suddenly, everything is different.

And nothing is.

=

That night, Seungcheol waited.

When he finally said it—“I think I already did,”—he expected more.

A follow-up. A question. Something.

But you didn’t ask.

You just looked at him and gave him this small, unreadable smile. The kind that didn’t reach your eyes. Then you turned, walked a few steps ahead, and never looked back.

And after that?

There was silence.

Not the easy, comforting silence that had always existed between you.

This one was sharp. Foreign. Laced with something heavy.

At first, he thought maybe you just needed time.

You texted less said you were busy. He understood. You were always swamped with work, and he didn’t want to be overbearing. He gave you space.

But then the excuses started.

You couldn’t make dinner. You were out of town. You were tired. You were “catching up on deadlines.”

Until the excuses stopped altogether—and you just stopped replying.

Stopped showing up.

Stopped being you with him.

The worst part? Your birthday passed, he sent you a message, even tried to call but nothing. Just silence. He even drove by your office but your co-workers just said you left early. Then his birthday passed. 

For years, since you were kids, you would always be the first one to greet him like it’s your yearly goal. Sometimes he’d wake up and you’d be there singing happy birthday so loud and so off key at 7am in the morning. 

But this year? Nothing. 

Now it’s been weeks.

He’s tried to play it cool. To wait you out. Because if he pushes, you’ll shut down. He knows that. You’ve always needed to come to things in your own time.

But tonight, it all breaks.

Because tonight, he runs into you by accident.

A friend of a friend invited him for dinner. One of those events you used to drag him to. He’s not even sure why he said yes. Maybe part of him hoped.

And there you are.

Looking like nothing’s wrong. Sitting two seats away from him, smiling like you haven’t been avoiding him like the plague. You greet him, polite. Like a stranger. Like months, years of friendship aren’t stretched out thin between you both.

And maybe that’s what finally snaps something in him.

So when you’re both out on the sidewalk after dinner, ready to go your separate ways, he speaks up.

“You’re really not gonna say anything?”

You stop mid-step. Slowly turn around. “About what?”

He stares at you. “Don’t do that.”

You lift a brow. “Do what?”

“Act like you don’t know.”

You sigh, looking away. “Cheol, I’m tired.”

“I know you’re tired,” he says, voice tight. “You’ve been tired since the night I told you the truth.”

You pause, just for a second. Then you keep walking. “It’s late.”

He follows. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“You’ve been ghosting me,” he snaps, louder now. “Don’t lie.”

You turn then, sharply. “What do you want me to say?”

He stops.

And for a second, neither of you speak. You just stare at each other under the streetlights, years of friendship hanging dangerously by a thread.

“I told you how I felt,” he says quietly. “And you walked away.”

You look down, throat tight. “Because I didn’t know what to say.”

“You could’ve said something. Anything.”

“I didn’t want to say the wrong thing.”

“Since when are you scared of saying the wrong thing to me?”

“Since I realized this might ruin everything!” you shout, finally

And now your voice is shaking. “You don’t get it, Cheol. You don’t get to drop that on me—after all these years, after that stupid pact—and act like it doesn’t change everything!”

“I never said it because of the pact,” he says, eyes locked on yours. “I said it because it’s the truth.”

“But it feels like it’s because of the pact!” you bite back. “It feels like you’re settling for something safe. Familiar. Me. And I can’t be that.”

“You’re not safe,” he says, stepping closer. “You’re everything. You’re the only person who’s ever really seen me. You think this is me settling?”

You laugh bitterly. “Then why now, Cheol? Why not all the other years? Why not before we hit a stupid deadline?”

“Because I was stupid,” he says, raw now. “Because I was blind. Because I was scared, and I thought we had more time.”

You’re breathing hard now. So is he. Neither of you move.

Then you shake your head slowly, voice small. “I’m not willing to lose you over a maybe.”

His mouth parts slightly, like that one hurts. Because it does.

You blink fast, like you’re trying not to cry. “We’ve always been us. Don’t you get it? If this goes wrong, I don’t just lose a boyfriend—I lose you. And I’m not ready for that.”

Silence stretches out.

“I thought I meant more to you than just the fear of losing me,” he says quietly.

“You do,” you whisper. “That’s exactly why I can’t risk it.”

He nods, jaw clenched, stepping back like he’s swallowing every word he still wants to say.

“I guess I don’t get a vote.”

You don’t answer.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “Okay. Message received.”

And then he turns.

You don’t call after him.

You don’t run.

You just stand there, tears stinging behind your eyes, watching the person who knows you best walk away, for the first time not knowing if he’ll come back.

That night, the moment you closed your apartment door behind you, the weight of everything came crashing down.

You didn’t even make it to your room. You slid down to the floor right there in the entryway, your knees pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself like that could hold the pieces together.

And then you cried. Not the quiet, pretty kind.

It was the kind of crying that shook through your bones, tore through your chest like it had claws, and made your throat burn from trying not to scream.

You’ve been through heartbreak before. Bad dates. Good relationships that fizzled. Almosts and not-quites but nothing ever felt like this.

This wasn’t just a breakup. it was the unraveling of something you thought was unshakable. A bond that had been your constant. Your foundation. The one thing in your life that never had conditions, that never threatened to leave.

Until now.

And the worst part?

The only person you wanted to call to make it all better

Was him.

Your phone was right there. Just a few inches away.

It would take two seconds to open his contact. You still had a text thread filled with memes and old photos and inside jokes. You still had voice messages of him reminding you to eat, of him singing horribly in the car, of him just being there.

And you reached for it. You really did but your hand stopped halfway because what would you even say?

Your vision blurred again as you curled tighter into yourself. You’d always been able to call him for anything.

Late-night breakdowns. Victories. Bad dates. Stupid fights with your mom. Times when the world felt too heavy. Times when it felt too light.

But this? This silence?

This was the first time he wasn’t the one to hold your pieces together.

Because you were the one who broke them.

And now you’re left with the weight of a love you never got to hold properly, and the echo of a goodbye you never really wanted to say.

=

You don’t even hear the door open.

Not the first time your older sister knocks, not when she uses the spare key, not even when her footsteps echo through your quiet apartment.

You only notice someone’s there when the blanket cocooned around you is suddenly ripped away, and you let out a tired, raspy, “What the hell—?”

“Get up,” Hyeri says flatly, standing over you with her arms crossed and her judgment radiating like a mom in a sitcom.

You squint up at her from the couch where you’ve been buried for... days, maybe. Time has stopped meaning anything. “You can’t just invade people’s personal space like this.”

“I can when they’re clearly rotting in the dark like a Victorian ghost.”

You groan and reach for the blanket again, but she holds it up like she’s taunting a dog. “Nope. Get your ass up.”

“What are you even doing here?”

Hyeri sighs. “I was in the neighborhood.”

“You live three hours away.”

“Okay, fine.” She sits down at the edge of the couch, eyes scanning the room ”Cheol called me.”

That makes your stomach flip, and you hate how your heart clenches the second you hear his name. You say nothing. Just pull your sleeves down over your hands like a child, lips pressed together.

“He didn’t say much,” she adds. “Just said I should check on you. That was weird enough.”

She looks at you carefully now. “He always shows up when you’re not okay. He’s never asked me to do it before.”

You feel the tears threaten again, and you press your face into the couch cushion, voice barely audible. “Can you not.”

Hyeri sighs again, softer this time. She reaches over and tugs gently at your hair, the way she used to when you were kids and hiding under blankets after nightmares.

“You look like crap,” she says, even gentler now.

“Thanks.”

“You smell like instant noodles and poor life choices.”

“That’s fair.”

She’s quiet for a second before speaking again, more serious. “What happened?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. The second you try to form words, your throat closes up.

She watches you for a moment, then gently pushes some hair away from your face. “He didn’t tell me anything. Just that you weren’t okay. And the way he said it… I don’t know. It scared me.”

You close your eyes, and your voice cracks when you finally whisper, “I think I broke it.”

“Broke what?”

You swallow. “Me and him.”

Hyeri goes still. And then, gently, “Was there even a you and him?”

You let out a soft, choked laugh. “That’s the thing. I don’t know. Maybe there was. Or maybe it was just… everything but the name.”

She doesn't push. She never does when you start unraveling like this.

You keep going, the words spilling now. “He told me how he felt. I said nothing. I ran. And now I miss him so much I can’t even breathe properly but if I try to fix it and lose him anyway, I don’t think I’ll survive that.”

Hyeri looks at you, something tightening in her face. She’s still the same older sister who used to patch up your scraped knees and lie to your parents when you got caught sneaking out but now, she sees you as more than just her baby sister. 

She sees a girl completely wrecked by the kind of heartbreak that doesn’t even need a relationship title to destroy you.

“I’m not gonna give you a dramatic speech,” she says after a while. “But I know you. And I know you don’t fall easy. So if you let this go, it better be because it wasn’t real not because you were scared it was.”

You blink hard. A tear slides down your cheek anyway.

Hyeri sighs, then tugs the blanket back over you. “I’m gonna make you something that has a vitamin in it. And then we’re gonna shower. And maybe open a damn window.”

You nod weakly. “Okay.”

As you lie there, the ache still heavy in your chest, you realize something else. He knew you wouldn’t call but he made sure someone came anyway.

Hyeri watches you.

Really watches you.

And for the first time in a long time, she sees you as something other than the stubborn, sharp-tongued little sister who always had a comeback. Who used to stage dramatic breakups in your room only to be fine the next day. Who bounced back, every single time.

But not now.

Now you're quiet. Small. Curled up in on yourself like a house with the lights off.

And crying again. Not out of impulse. Not for show. But in that quiet, soul-deep kind of way that says something inside you has cracked wide open and you don’t know how to close it again.

And she hates it.

Because even though she’s your older sister, even though she used to be the one you'd run to with scraped knees and middle school drama, she knows that this is beyond her.

This isn’t a boy you had a fling with.

This is Seungcheol.

Your constant.

Your person.

You and him have always been a unit. Never one without the other. Always in the same stories. Always in the same breath. From scraped knees to college finals, to grocery runs and hospital emergencies. He was the other half of every sentence you spoke. The shadow behind your laughter. The one who always knew what kind of day you had just by the way you closed a door.

And now here you are, broken without him.

So she doesn't try to give more advice. Doesn’t try to fix what she can’t reach.

Instead, she quietly says, “Come here.”

You hesitate, then scoot toward her, and the moment she opens her arms you fold yourself into them like you’re five again.

And you cry. God, do you cry. 

You bury your face in her shoulder and it all comes out again. Your body trembles with it, fists curling in her shirt as the words keep coming out in jagged whispers between sobs.

“I messed everything up.”

“I miss him.”

“I don’t know how to go back.”

She holds you tighter, rocking you slightly, her own throat tightening now too.

Then, softly, she says, “You know you’re only scared because it’s worth something. Maybe everything. If it didn’t matter, you wouldn’t be like this. You’d bounce back like always. But you’re not. You’re wrecked. And if I know anything about Seungcheol…” she pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes gentle, “he’s just as wrecked as you are.”

You try to speak, but your voice comes out small and cracked. “He probably hates me now.”

Hyeri actually laughs. A warm, disbelieving kind of laugh. “God, no. You really don’t remember?”

You blink at her.

She smiles, shaking her head a little. “You were, what? Eight? Nine? That one summer, you spilled paint all over the living room carpet. Bright green. Looked like Nickelodeon slime.”

You blink, a vague memory surfacing.

She grins, nostalgic. “Eomma stormed in asking who did it, and you were crying, freaking out. I was upstairs, I checked and saw you two. Seungcheol just looked her dead in the eyes and said, ‘It was me.’”

“Eomma didn’t even question it. She told his mom and he got grounded for two weeks. No bike. No sleepovers.”

Your jaw drops slightly. “Wait, that was him?”

“Yup.” She brushes your hair gently back. “He didn’t even blink. Just took the fall because you were panicking and crying and he couldn’t stand seeing you upset.”

You stare at her, stunned.

“Tell me, little sister,” Hyeri says gently, tucking a blanket around you now, “does that sound like someone who could ever hate you?”

And suddenly, you’re crying again.

Because even after all this, after all your fear and silence and the walls you threw up between you, ome part of you still knew:

He’d never hate you. He might be hurting. He might be angry.

But he'd never stop being him.

Not with you.

And maybe, just maybe… that means it isn’t too late.

=

You told yourself you were just going to take a walk.

No plans, no destination just air. Movement. Something to pull you out of the black hole you’d been sinking in.

But your feet carried you here. To his street. To the building you’ve walked into a hundred times, always without hesitation.

Now, you’re frozen. Standing across the street, staring up at the familiar windows like they might blink and tell you what to do. Like maybe the universe will write your answer in neon against the clouds.

You don’t move.

The sky darkens, but you barely notice. Not even when the first raindrops fall.

You just stand there, heart a wreck in your chest, because this was never supposed to be hard. Not with him. You never thought there’d be a day when even the idea of seeing him would make your throat close.

And then the rain comes in full soft at first, then harder, steadier. Soaking through your hoodie, clinging to your skin.

Still, you don’t move.

Not until you see the door across the street swing open, and him—Seungcheol—stepping out into the lobby.

He’s got earbuds in, a parcel under one arm, checking something on his phone as he walks toward the concierge desk.

He doesn’t see you at first.

But then he glances up and his eyes skip past you

Then double back. He freezes. Like his brain short-circuited trying to make sense of what he’s seeing.

And then he moves.

He runs.

The doors swing open again, and he’s out, dodging the puddles, eyes wide and wild and locked on you. He doesn’t stop to think. Doesn’t say your name. He just grabs your wrist and pulls.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” he says as you stumble after him. His voice is sharp but you hear the tremble under it.

You don’t respond. Can’t. Your throat is already tight, the air around you thick.

He yanks the lobby door open, dragging you inside with him, rainwater dripping from both of you. The security guard at the front desk raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. He’s seen this duo before just never like this.

Seungcheol doesn’t stop until you’re in the elevator. Doesn’t let go of your hand.

He’s soaked. So are you.

Only when you’re inside his apartment, when he shuts the door and turns to face you, does he speak again.

“Are you out of your mind?” he breathes, pacing a little, running both hands through his wet hair.

“It’s pouring. You don’t answer for weeks and now you’re… what? standing in the rain like a scene from a drama? Are you trying to make me go insane?”

You’re still dripping. Still shivering. Still unable to say anything. And then your lip trembles. And your shoulders shake.

And suddenly, the tears you thought you were done crying break loose again silent at first, then full.

He turns just as you collapse to your knees, crying harder than you meant to, unable to stop even when your hands come up to your face.

You feel his arms around you before you can fully register it.

He’s on the floor too, pulling you close, arms strong and warm despite being soaked through.

“Hey. Hey.” His voice is quieter now. Rushed but gentle. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I got you. It’s okay. It’s okay, I got you.”

You cling to him like the lifeline he’s always been, sobbing into his chest, fists clenching the fabric of his shirt.

“I didn’t know what to do,” you finally manage, choking on the words. “I didn’t know what to do, Cheol—”

“You could’ve told me,” he whispers into your hair. “You didn’t have to go through it alone.”

“I was scared,” you say, the words ragged and broken. “I was so scared you didn’t mean it. That it was just the pact. That I’d lose you.”

“You almost did,” he says, not angrily—just honest. Just raw. “But not because of the pact. Because you shut me out.”

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight. “You don’t get it. The pact didn’t make me love you. I already did. I’ve been in love with you long before we made some dumb promise.”

Your eyes open slowly, wet lashes heavy. He cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he’s memorizing you.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he murmurs. “I didn’t want to lose you either. But losing you slowly like this? It’s worse.”

You stare at him. Breathless. Wrecked.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

He nods, swallowing hard. “I know. Me too”

His thumb brushes beneath your eyes again, slower this time. He notices everything, because he always does. The tears, yes. But also the dark circles that weren’t there before. The way your face is a little slimmer, like you haven’t been eating properly. The curve of your cheeks, those soft, round cheeks he’s always teased you for but secretly adored, faded now, like even your joy forgot how to sit there.

His chest tightens.

He wants to be mad. He should be mad. But he’s not.

His hand settles against the side of your face like it belongs there. His voice comes out low, barely holding together. “You haven’t been eating, have you?”

You glance down, embarrassed, and don’t answer. That’s enough.

He sighs, fingers brushing damp strands of hair behind your ear as he says gently, “You always get sick when you skip meals. You know that, right?”

You nod. Still avoiding his eyes.

He exhales shakily. Like he’s been holding in all the worry, all the nights he wanted to show up at your door but didn’t know if you’d even open it.

And then he says it. Barely a whisper. “Why did you shut me out?”

You flinch a little. He sees it, regrets asking it almost instantly. But then you finally look up and it crack something in him. Because all the anger, all the confusion, all the pain—it melts under the weight of how wrecked you look.

He sees it. Right there on your face. The fear. The guilt. The ache.

And that’s all it takes.

He closes the space between you two, hands cradling your face as he murmurs, “Hey. Hey, no. You don’t have to explain. I get it.”

“But—”

“I get it.” His forehead presses to yours again, grounding. Warm. “I see you, okay? I see how scared you are. And I’m sorry I put you in a place where you felt like you couldn’t tell me.”

You shake your head, voice trembling. “No. It wasn’t you. It was me. I just… I didn’t know how to believe it. That you meant it. That this—us—could be real. I thought the second I believed it, I’d lose you.”

“You didn’t,” he says quietly.

“I almost did.” And his thumbs catch every tear before they fall.

He looks at you for a long moment. His voice cracks a little when he says, “You’re still my person.”

He hugs you close arms tight around your back, chin tucked into your shoulder, heart pressed against yours like he’s afraid the space between you might open up again if he lets go.

“It’s okay,” he whispers over and over, voice so soft you almost miss it. “I’ve got you. It’s okay, I’ve got you.”

And then, finally, you whisper, voice hoarse and soft:

“I’m sorry.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face, brushing a thumb gently over your cheek again.

“I know,” he says, and for once, there’s no pain in his voice. Just warmth. Just truth. “I am too.”

“For walking away,” he adds, eyes searching yours. “For giving up too easily. I should’ve stayed. Should’ve talked to you. Not waited for it to fix itself.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he shakes his head gently.

“No, listen. I knew something was wrong. I knew you were scared. I just… I didn’t know how to help you if you didn’t want to be helped. So I backed off. I thought giving you space was the right move but—”

His voice catches.

“—it felt like losing you. Every day. Little by little.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper again, eyes filling with tears.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. soft, lingering, full of all the things you both haven’t had the words to say until now.

“Me too,” he murmurs. “But we’re here now, right?”

You nod slowly, resting your forehead against his again.

Quiet. But whole.

He chuckles, the sound low and warm, the kind that settles somewhere in your chest. You pull back just a little, your cheek still damp, your arms still loosely wrapped around him.

“Wait,” you say, your voice a little hoarse but lighter now, “did you really get grounded when you told my mom it was you who spilled the paint?”

He grins, wide and sheepish. “Two weeks. No TV. No snacks. My mom was pissed.”

Your eyes widen. “Why would you do that?”

He shrugs, brushing a strand of hair from your face like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You looked like you were gonna cry. I panicked.”

You laugh, even if it’s wet and shaky. “You panicked and decided to get grounded?”

“Was worth it,” he says, without skipping a beat

And that, that does it.

The smile you’ve been holding back finally breaks free, even through the lingering ache in your chest. You press your face lightly into his shoulder, half laughing, half trying not to fall apart again.

Then, quietly, you murmur against his shirt, “I’m sorry I said it so late…”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you again, brows furrowing gently. You meet his eyes.

“But you’re my person too, you know?”

He freezes, like those words hit somewhere deeper than anything else tonight.

You keep going, your voice barely a whisper.

“That day… when we walked away from each other… it was the worst day. I didn’t know how to breathe without you. But even then, even while I was hurting and confused and angry, the only person I wanted to call to make it better…”

You blink, fighting tears again, even as a soft smile plays on your lips.

“…was you.”

Something flickers in his eyes then something soft and deep and unshakably sure.

Like maybe all this time, he was waiting to hear that.

He exhales slowly, forehead resting against yours once more. “You’re never too late,” he whispers.

“And Cheol?” you mumble

“Mhm?”

“Happy birthday”

He smiles, like really smile. He leans closer, giving you another gentle kiss on your temple, your forehead, all while holding you like you’re the most fragile thing. 

“Happy birthday to you” he says back to you

After the storm of everything, he gently led you to the kitchen. Just warmed up some leftover soup, put rice in a bowl, and sat you down.

You ate slowly, quietly. He didn’t comment on how little, just gave you a soft, satisfied nod when you took the last spoonful.

Then he handed you one of his old shirts and a pair of sweats. You changed in his bathroom, and when you stepped out, he was already fixing up the couch with pillows and a blanket.

You stood there in the hallway, watching him.

And before you could even think to say it, he looked up and patted the space beside him. “Come here.”

You didn’t hesitate. Just you and him again.

You curled into him, tucked under his arm, your cheek pressed against his chest. He smelled like his usual laundry soap and faint traces of rain. He ran his fingers through your hair until your breathing slowed, until your tears dried completely.

And for the first time in weeks, sleep came easy.

You didn’t dream. You didn’t stir.

Just peace.

Just him.

And when morning crept in through the windows, soft and golden, Seungcheol stirred first.

Still groggy, he blinked against the light until he realized something.

You were there.

Not across the couch. Not curled up far away like someone unsure of their place. But right there, tucked into his side, face buried against his shirt, one hand resting on his chest like it never left.

And God, if he didn’t feel like something finally made sense again.

He didn’t move. he just looked at you. The sight undid him all over again.

You were here. Still his. Still you.

So he smiled, just a little and fell back asleep.

You stirred slowly, like surfacing from somewhere deep and warm. Your lashes fluttered against your cheeks as you stretched slightly, and that’s when you felt it

Warmth.

A steady heartbeat beneath your palm.

You blinked fully awake then, gaze shifting to the slow rise and fall of the chest beneath your cheek, the familiar smell of his shirt, the arm curled securely around you.

Seungcheol.

It came back all at once.

The rain. The fight. The breaking. The soft patching up.

It was the first time in weeks you’d woken up not feeling hollow. The first time you didn’t want to bury yourself back under blankets and disappear from the world.

Because he was here. Still holding you like you hadn’t almost lost each other.

You exhaled softly, forehead brushing against his collarbone.

And that’s when you felt it. his breathing shift, the subtle tightening of his hold, the way his hand moved slowly along your back. Then, his voice. Groggy. Deep and warm and laced with sleep.

“You’re awake.”

You nodded against his chest, your voice small. “Yeah.”

“Did you sleep okay?” he asked.

You nodded again. “Better than I have in a while.”

His hand stilled on your back. “Good.”

You looked up at him, finally meeting his eyes. “You?”

He smiled, soft and crooked, and something in you settled when he said, “Only because you were here.”

Your throat tightened, but not with sadness this time. Just something full. Whole.

“You still mad at me?” you asked quietly.

He shook his head slowly. “No. I think I’m just… glad you came back.”

You gave him a small smile, fingers gripping his shirt again like you were afraid he might slip away.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” you whispered.

His smile widened, gentler this time. “Good.”

And then because it felt natural, like breathing, like it had always been meant to happen—he leaned in and kissed your forehead.

“You’re stuck with me now,” he murmured.

You smiled into his chest, eyes closing again.

“Good.”

Just as you’d started to melt back into him, his warmth like a blanket you never wanted to leave—

BZZZ-BZZZ-BZZZ.

His phone explodes to life on the nightstand.

The buzz is so aggressive it practically vibrates the whole table, followed by a shrill ringtone Seungcheol absolutely forgot he set: a dramatic trumpet intro that blares through the peaceful morning like a marching band declaring war.

You both flinch.

Seungcheol groans, reaching blindly behind him while trying not to knock you off his chest. “What the hell—who calls this early on a Saturday?”

You peek sleepily toward the phone just as he squints at the screen and goes:

“…Hyeri?”

Your eyes snap open.

“Answer it!” you whisper-scream, suddenly very, very awake.

He fumbles with the phone and hits answer on speaker, just in time for your sister’s voice to scream through the phone like a banshee.

“WHERE THE HELL IS MY SISTER?!”

You both jump.

“Hyeri—” Seungcheol tries, but she’s already off.

“I WENT TO HER APARTMENT AND SHE WAS GONE. GONE, CHOI SEUNGCHEOL. NO SHOES, NO WALLET, NO PHONE. WAS SHE KIDNAPPED? DID SHE SNAP AND GO OFF-GRID? DID SHE JOIN A CULT?!”

You slap a hand over your face. “Oh my god.”

“She’s fine,” Seungcheol says, trying to keep his voice calm. “She’s here.”

“Here?! WHERE’S HERE?! DON’T GIVE ME VAGUE MYSTERIOUS BOY WORDS RIGHT NOW.”

“In my apartment,” he clarifies quickly. “She’s—she’s okay, Hyeri. She’s literally lying on top of me.”

You slap his chest. “Don’t tell her that!”

“Right. Sorry.”

There's a beat of silence. Then Hyeri speaks again, voice flat.

“Is she alive or did you just find a raccoon wearing her hoodie?”

You sigh and grab the phone from him “Unnie, I’m alive. Please stop yelling, my soul is already hanging on by a thread.”

“You ghosted me then when i came to check on you, you were gone! I thought I’d have to start calling hospitals!”

“I was—” you hesitate, glancing at Seungcheol, who just shrugs like you might as well tell her, you’re caught now. “—emotionally compromised.”

“And somehow that landed you in his bed?”

“…Technically, his couch.” you mumble then add

“Hyeri, I’m fine. We talked. We’re okay now. I’m okay now,” you say finally, voice softer.

There’s a pause on the other end. Then, more gently:

“You sure?”

You glance at Seungcheol, at the warmth in his eyes, at the way he’s still holding your hand like he’s afraid to let go.

“Yeah,” you say, a smile tugging at your lips. “I’m really sure.”

“…Okay. Fine. But I swear, if you ever pull a main character disappearance arc on me again, I will have you microchipped.”

“Duly noted.”

You hang up with a groan, tossing the phone onto the pillow between you.

Seungcheol’s grinning. “Microchipped, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “I was feral. She had every right.”

And just like that, the chaos passes,leaving just the two of you again.

Still tangled. Still warm.

Still yours.

=

Hyeri’s chopsticks freeze mid-air, eyebrows lifting as she leans in across the table like she’s about to hear state secrets.

“So,” she says, in that too-casual, too-predictable tone that makes you instantly suspicious, “I only know bits and pieces… but tell me the full lore.”

You blink, pausing mid-sip of your drink. “Lore?”

She grins. “Yeah, the Choi Seungcheol Origin Story. How did you—you—turn the scary, always-serious, grumpy-faced Seungcheol into a golden retriever who acts like he’s afraid to let go of your pinky?”

You nearly spit out your drink.

“He does not—” you start, flustered, but she cuts you off.

“He literally walked you to the bathroom earlier. Like. Escorted you. What is that?!”

You laugh, cheeks burning. “He was making sure I didn’t slip on the wet floor, thank you very much.”

“Uh-huh,” she says, smirking, “now spill. Come on. Give me the good stuff.”

You set your drink down, eyes flicking toward the buffet where Seungcheol is piling your shared plate with way too much garlic shrimp, as usual.

You lean in slightly, voice lower. “I don’t know how it started… like this thing. We were bestfriends, we still are. I just… we just realized we like each other too much to stay friends” you mumble

Hyeri nods along, already invested.

You continue, “He… uh. He was also my first kiss.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. Not really suprised to hear this “Really?”

You smile sheepishly. “In his defense, I was his too. We were like… I don’t know. Thirteen? It was raining. We were bored. Teenagers. Curious.”

She stares at you, eyes wide. “A kiss? That’s some Wattpad-level backstory.”

You shrug, sipping your drink again like you’re not sitting on a ticking time bomb of additional context. But Hyeri narrows her eyes.

“Wait,” she says slowly. “Wait wait wait—” Her eyes widen. “You’re not telling me something.”

You freeze. “I—what?”

She leans in dramatically, whisper-hissing like someone uncovering a conspiracy.

“Oh my god, you minx, you two did not—”

“WHAT!” you yelp, nearly knocking over your glass. “We were curious! And stupid! Teenagers do things!”

Hyeri gasps so loud the couple at the next table flinches.

“You did the things?”

You bury your face in your hands. “We were sixteen, we were… responsible”

She’s wheezing. “You- He- You two- OH MY GOD WHEN?! HOW??!”

“Unnie!” you hiss, eyes darting around. “Lower your voice! He’s gonna hear you—”

As if summoned by name, Seungcheol starts walking back toward the table, balancing three small plates with too much confidence and not enough concern for physics.

Hyeri grins like the devil herself. “Wow. Knowing what I know now, I cannot look at him the same. That man once cried during Frozen.”

You hiss, “If you say a single word—”

She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Relax but just know… I’m gonna make a toast at your wedding. And it’s gonna include this.”

Seungcheol slides back into his seat, setting the plates down. “What’d I miss?”

Hyeri smiles way too sweetly. “Oh, nothing. Just reliving childhood memories.”

You avoid his eyes completely as he hands you your garlic shrimp.

He gives you a suspicious look. “Why is your face red?”

Hyeri answers for you.

“She’s just emotional.”

You kick her under the table.

And from across the table, she just mouths: you minx.

“Wait—” she points her spoon at you like it’s a loaded weapon. “Don’t tell me.”

You freeze mid-bite. “Tell you what.”

“Don’t tell me it was at our childhood home.”

You blink. Say nothing. Her jaw drops.

“OH MY GOD.” She slams her spoon down so hard the table rattles.

“YOU TWO?? IN MY HOUSE?? UNDER MY ROOF?! I WAS THERE?!”

Seungcheol, who was innocently reaching for kimchi, pauses mid-air and looks at you like, did she just figure out—?

You wince. “Unnie, please lower your voice.”

“NO,” she yells, scandalized. “I WAS IN THAT HOUSE. I COULD’VE BEEN IN THE NEXT ROOM. I WAS LIVING MY LIFE THINKING YOU WERE JUST BICKERING OVER WHO GETS THE LAST DUMPLING BUT YOU WERE—YOU WERE—EXPLORING?!”

Seungcheol lets out a choked cough.

You cover your face. “It was just one time! We were just dumb and it was raining and there was that blanket fort we built in the—”

“THE BLANKET FORT?!”

You stop talking.

Hyeri slaps the table, utterly betrayed. “I HELPED YOU BUILD THAT FORT! I STAPLED THE STUPID FAIRY LIGHTS!”

Seungcheol tries to help, sort of. “Technically, we didn’t plan it. It was just a weird teenage moment—”

“Oh my god, you were weird teenagers in my house.” She grabs her glass dramatically. “How did you even go back to normal after that?! I’d be a ghost. I’d vanish. I’d change my name and flee the country.”

You groan into your hands. “Because we’re us. We were best friends. We just… didn’t let it get weird.”

Hyeri gapes at both of you. “You mean you had your weird little hormonal storm moment, kissed in a blanket fort in my living room, and then you… you two what? Acted on your intrusive horny thoughts then went back to watching cartoons and fighting over instant noodles like nothing happened?”

Seungcheol shrugs. “She beat me in Mario Kart like twenty minutes later.”

You smack his arm. “You let me win.”

Hyeri puts both hands on her head. “This is insane. This is actually insane. You two are the weirdest non-couple who’s clearly a couple I’ve ever seen.”

You and Seungcheol glance at each other. And that’s when Hyeri narrows her eyes and points between you.

“You’re together now, aren’t you?”

Both of you freeze. Then, perfectly in sync, you go, “Define ‘together.’”

She SCREECHES.

“You absolute menaces.”

Later you’re in one of his old shirts again, you flop onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. You’re scrolling on your phone when you hear him walking down the hall. 

He leans on the doorframe.

“So,” he says, trying very hard to sound casual, “you finally told someone.”

You don’t even look up.

“In my defense,” you say, deadpan, “she figured it out.”

He walks into the room, tossing the towel onto the chair, and quirks a brow. “Figured it out… after you admitted I was your first kiss, your permanent plus-one, and that we may or may not have defiled her blanket fort?”

You groan, faceplanting into the pillow. “She ambushed me! It wasn’t supposed to be a confessional!”

He laughs, dropping onto the bed beside you, his weight making the mattress dip. “You literally said ‘we were curious and stupid’ with a full dramatic monologue. I was across the restaurant. I heard.”

You peek at him from under the pillow. “And you didn’t come save me?”

“I was busy getting you garlic shrimp, which you still haven’t thanked me for.”

You roll onto your side, narrowing your eyes. “That shrimp was for both of us.”

He shrugs. “Details.”

You reach over and flick his forehead.

“Ow,” he mumbles, grinning, rubbing the spot.

There’s a pause then, just the quiet hum of the room around you, the air warmer now that it’s just the two of you again. No chaos. No teasing sisters. No secrets.

Just this. You. Him. Finally existing in the open, no longer just almost-something.

He leans back against the headboard, exhaling. “Feels kinda… real now, huh?”

“Yeah,” you murmur. “It does.”

He looks at you then, not just with the familiarity of years but with something gentler something brand new, but also always there. Then you reach over, intertwining your fingers with his.

“Still my person?” you ask.

He squeezes your hand.

“Always.”

He’s looking at you like he always does. soft, steady, like he’s memorizing every single version of you without even trying. Then he smirks a little, eyes flicking down to where your hands are joined before looking back at you.

“But now…” he says, leaning in just slightly, voice lower, warmer, “we can do this.”

And before you can ask, before you can even breathe

He kisses you.

Not like your stupid teenage first kiss in a blanket fort. Not like an accident, or a maybe, or a one-time thing.

But like a promise.

Like home.

His lips are warm and certain, and the second they touch yours, your heart stumbles over itself because this is different. Not scary, not confusing, not hypothetical anymore.

It’s real. It’s him.

You sigh into it, hand tightening around his, your other one curling into the front of his shirt like it’s second nature. He pulls you closer, deepens it just a little, like he’s been holding this back for too long.

When you finally part, barely inches between your faces, both of you are breathless and maybe slightly dizzy.

Your voice comes out small, teasing, “Well. That’s new.”

He chuckles, forehead resting against yours. “Took us long enough.”

You grin, still close. “Yeah. But we’re not stupid teenagers anymore.”

He smiles. “Nope. Now we’re just stupid adults in love.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoying.”

But you kiss him again anyway.

And the kisses? God, the kisses.

You don’t know why you’re surprised. You really shouldn’t be.

The man does everything with full conviction. he argues like he’s in court, hugs like you’re the last person on Earth, and kisses like the world might end in the next five minutes and he wants to make sure you remember him forever.

Bestfriend Seungcheol? He used to kiss your forehead. Your temple. Your knuckles. Quick, warm little things that said “I got you” without needing a whole conversation.

Boyfriend Seungcheol? Boyfriend Seungcheol kisses like he’s starved and you’re oxygen. Like he’s waited years for the green light, and now that he has it, he’s not pacing himself. He’s devouring every second.

He kisses you good morning, mid-laugh, between bites of food, when you're annoyed at him, when you're in the middle of brushing your teeth and yell "not now!" but he's already pecking your cheek anyway.

But it’s the ones after dark that live in your bones.

The kind that start slow, with just his fingertips trailing up your spine, his voice low as he says your name like a question he already knows the answer to.

He knows how your breath hitches when he kisses just below your ear, how you curl your fingers in his shirt when you want him closer but can’t say it out loud. 

He knows how to touch you like it’s not just about your body but about every version of you he’s ever loved—childhood best friend, teenage almost-mistake, grown woman who made his life feel whole again.

=

You’re awake first. That never happens. Never.

Normally, Seungcheol is the one who wakes up before you but this time, for once, the universe grants you the rare peace of watching him completely knocked out.

Well almost peaceful.

Except for the fact that he’s currently clinging to you like a human-sized sloth, one leg hooked over both of yours, arm heavy across your waist, and his face buried into the side of your neck like you’re a very cuddly pillow that smells like coffee and bad decisions.

“…Cheol,” you groan, voice hoarse, trying to wiggle. “Get off.”

He only groans in return, nuzzling deeper into your neck.

“Cheol,” you say again, poking his bare back.

He mumbles something completely incoherent, but it sounds suspiciously like “no I live here now.”

“You’re crushing me.”

“You’re comfy,” he whines

“You’re heavy.”

He shifts just enough to mumble, voice still muffled against your skin, “You know you can be sweeter to me in the morning.”

You roll your eyes. “After last night? Absolutely not.”

That wakes him up a little more. He peeks one eye open, lips twitching. “Excuse me woman?”

You scoff, “Excuse? You wanna try that again?”

“May I remind you,” he says, lifting his head just enough to smirk at you, “how you sounded just a few hours ago?”

Your eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He’s already smug beyond saving. “You were all—oh my god, Cheol—right there, yes—”

You slap a hand over his mouth. “Stop talking.”

He laughs against your palm, completely unbothered. “I’m just saying,” he says, words muffled, “you’re acting real tough for someone who nearly cried when I—”

You shove a pillow into his face.

He rolls back with a wheeze, still laughing, dragging you with him until you land right on his chest. “You know,” he says, arms caging you in again, “I love this version of you. Morning grumpy, still sore, pretending you’re not obsessed with me.”

You mutter into his collarbone, “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re mine,” he says smugly, kissing the top of your head. “So. Suffer.”

You groan dramatically into his chest, voice muffled. “This is what happens when you date your best friend.”

“Yup. Lifetime supply of premium cuddles and unwanted flashbacks to your own noises.”

You shove him again. He doesn't budge. Of course he doesn’t. The man is a human boulder when he wants to be.

“You used to be cool,” you grumble, trying to wriggle free again.

“I was never cool,” he says proudly. “You were just in denial.”

You pause, sighing. “Tragic. I dated my best friend, now I can never get rid of him.”

“Exactly.” He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your jaw “Now you’re stuck. Blanket privilege. Lifetime teasing rights. Access to the vault of embarrassing teenage stories.”

You sigh again, settling into him, hopelessly resigned. “This is what happens,” you repeat quietly.

“What?”

You glance up. “When you fall in love with your best friend.”

He doesn’t tease you then. Doesn’t say anything snarky.

Just tightens his hold on you, presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, and mumbles against your lips, “Best thing I ever did.”

[rynwrites4fun]

Love You Anyway (4) | Andrew Cody x Brother's Best Friend ! Reader

Summary: You start talking to Deran again after ignoring him over the duffle bag, though he has no idea that you know about it. Before long, you find yourself caught up in the chaos of Craig getting injured, blood and all, forcing you into a tense and unexpected situation.

Words: 5028

Warning: Nine-year age gap (late teens / late 20s) — Andrew Cody x reader are NOT together in the “Then” timeline, swearing, mentions of drugs, blood/injury

Authors Note: Oh my goodness, HI!!! It’s been a fucking minute. My job started up again and getting back into the routine of everything. I had a 3 day weekend so I finally found the time to write. Thank you for being patient! Next part will be the last of then THEN timeline and we will hop into the NOW (2016/2017) timeline 🙂‍↕️

Did anyone see Superman? That was my movie this summer. I saw it three times LOL. David Corenswet is literally one of the most gorgeous men I have ever seen in my entire life 😭. I actually liked Superman more than Fantastic Four. And this is coming from a Marvel fan and Pedro Pascal stan 💀 but I wrote a Superman fic if anyone is interested??? let me know.

also someone yell at me to watch animal kingdom im still on early season 3 LOL

I’ll try to update again soon. Enjoy - Ryn

THEN: BLOODY, 2008

“Hey!”

A jeep slowed to a crawl beside you. Craig was behind the wheel, one hand draped lazily over it, while Deran leaned out the passenger window, eyes locked on you.

You froze. For days now, you’d been avoiding him, ever since you found out what was stuffed inside those duffel bags. Sure, you’d said hi when you had to, kept things light, but whenever he asked to hang out, you dodged. Helping my mom with errands. Swamped with homework. Maybe another time.

Now, with him right in front of you, excuses weren’t going to cut it.

“You’re walking home?” Deran asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you say anything? I would’ve given you a ride.”

Craig snorted, not taking his eyes off the road. “I would’ve given her a ride. You don’t even have your license yet, idiot.”

“Same fucking thing, Craig,” Deran shot back before turning back to you. His grin softened.

“Hop in.”

You shifted your backpack higher on your shoulder, heart hammering. “I’m good, thanks.”

Deran frowned. “That’s a far walk.”

“I’ll manage.”

Craig let out a low chuckle, revving the engine just enough to make the jeep lurch forward a few inches, as if daring you to change your mind. Deran kept his eyes on you, searching your face for a crack in your resolve.

You tightened your grip on your backpack strap.

Craig drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, impatience bleeding through. “What, you planning on walking the whole damn way? We don’t go all day.”

The jeep idled beside you, its presence heavy, following your pace. You knew they weren’t gonna let up.

Deran leaned further out the window, his arm braced against the frame. “Seriously, what’s the deal? Are you mad at me or something?”

Your throat went dry. You kept your eyes forward, willing your legs to carry you faster, but your chest felt tight under the weight of his stare.

“No”

“Then what’s up with you?”

You ignored him, eyes fixed straight ahead as you kept walking along the sidewalk. The jeep crawled forward a few more feet before the sound of a door slamming made you glance over.

“Deran!” Craig barked from behind the wheel.

“Just give me a minute!” Deran shot back, jogging a couple steps to fall beside you.

“Hey—stop for a sec.” His hand landed on your shoulder, gentle but insistent, halting you.

“Seriously, what did I do? You’ve been avoiding me for days.”

You shifted under his touch, refusing to meet his eyes. He ducked his head, lowering his voice, trying to catch your gaze.

“I haven’t been avoiding you…” you murmured.

“Yes, you have,” he pressed. “We haven’t really talked since the day you hung out with Andrew. Did he…do something?”

“No. Of course not.” You enjoyed that day with Andrew.

Deran’s brows drew together, his mouth pulling tight. “Are you sure? ’Cause—”

“Andrew didn’t do anything,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to.

The words hung heavy in the space between you, Craig’s engine rumbling in the background.

Deran’s hand slipped from your shoulder, but he didn’t back away. His brows knit together, eyes searching your face like he could read the truth there.

“Look,” he said quietly, almost pleading, “I want to fix this. Whatever I did… or whatever’s going on… just tell me.”

Your stomach twisted. For days, the image of that duffel bag had haunted you. Money, jewelry, and a gun hidden in the duffle under his bed. You didn’t know why he had those things. You didn’t know what to think.

But looking at him now, so earnest and open, doubt crept in. The thought of him being capable of what you’d conjured up in your head felt impossible. It was Deran, your best friend, the boy who dreamed of getting out of Oceanside, traveling the world, becoming a pro surfer. The same boy who had laughed with you until your sides hurt, who’d always had your back.

Could he really be the person you imagined when you saw that bag? Could someone like him, someone so full of life and mischief, be capable of secrets like that?

You shook your head slightly, trying to push the image away. Maybe it wasn’t what it looked like.

A car honked sharply behind Craig, snapping both of you out of the moment. Craig slammed his hand against the wheel, leaning out the window to stick his finger at the driver.

“GO AROUND, ASSHOLE!” he yelled.

The other car honked again as it swerved past, tires squealing against the pavement.

“Deran!” Craig shouted, frustration lacing his voice. “Hurry the hell up!”

Deran glanced back at you, then over at Craig, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips. “Drive around the block!” he called, motioning for Craig go.

Craig groaned, muttering something under his breath as he turned the wheel, the jeep lurching forward to circle the block.

“Is it about me not being there when you got your acceptance letter? I know you told me you weren’t upset, but—”

“No, it’s not that.”

“I just feel like… I don’t even know,” he continued, running a hand through his hair. “Something’s off. You’ve been distant, quiet. I can’t tell if it’s me or… or what. Just… Please, talk to me. We’re graduating soon, and then you’ll be going off to college… miles and miles away…”

You stiffened, caught off guard by the raw honesty in his tone.

Deran stepped closer, lowering his voice, trying to reach you. “Angel… seriously, you can tell me anything. I mean it. Whatever it is, I won’t freak out. I just… I don’t want there to be this wall between us.”

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek, your mind spinning with excuses. It’s nothing. I’m overthinking. Maybe I imagined it all wrong.

Your gaze flicked past him, out to the street, to anything but his eyes. The urge to tell him the truth battled with the fear of what it might do—to him, to your friendship, to everything.

Finally, you let out a shaky breath. “It’s… I don’t know. I guess I’ve just been feeling… a lot lately. Graduation, college… leaving Oceanside… everything is changing, and I feel like I’m just… overwhelmed.”

Deran’s eyes softened immediately, the hard edge of worry fading. “Oh,” he said gently, reaching out to lightly touch your arm. “That makes sense. I get it, Angel. I mean, it’s a lot. I’ve been feeling it too. It feels like everything’s moving so fast, and I don’t know if I’m ready.”

You nodded, grateful that he believed you. Relief washed over you—but underneath it, the secret of what you’d seen in that duffel bag still pressed against your chest, heavy and unspoken.

“Whatever happens, it’s gonna be chill. We’re just gonna ride life straight on, full send, no bail.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his surfer talk.

“There’s that laugh… that smile,” he said, flinging his arm over your shoulder. The warmth of him pressed against you, grounding you, making the fear that had been gnawing at your stomach loosen, if only a little.

Craig had come back around again, pulling up beside where you and Deran stood. The sight of the familiar jeep brought a fleeting sense of normalcy, though your mind couldn’t stop spinning with everything left unsaid.

“You coming?” Deran asked, opening the back door for you, his hand resting on the frame, eyes searching yours. His voice was calm, patient, but there was an undercurrent of hope that made your chest tighten even more.

You hesitated, your gaze flicking to the car, then back to him.

Finally, with a shaky breath, you let yourself slide into the seat. The door closed with a soft thud behind you.

Deran hopped in the passenger seat. “Alright. Now… let’s roll.”

“You wanna come over and hang out for a while?” Deran asked, his voice casual.

“Sure,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant, though your stomach fluttered.

“Before we head home, I gotta stop somewhere—a slight detour,” Craig said as he drove, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than usual, eyes scanning the road.

Deran shot him a sharp, almost exasperated look. “Craig…” he muttered.

Craig muttered something under his breath.

“No! Are you stupid? Just take us home,” Deran snapped.

“I’ll be quick, I swear,” Craig replied.

Deran leaned back, arms crossed, eyes narrowing. “I don’t like this,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

You fidgeted in your seat, trying not to show how uneasy you felt. “Where are we going?” you finally asked, voice small.

Craig glanced at you, a flicker of guilt—or maybe hesitation—in his eyes. “Just… a quick stop. You’ll see.”

“It’ll be like, minutes too. Don’t sweat it,” Craig said, trying to sound casual.

The Jeep rolled into a rougher, sketchy part of Oceanside. Buildings leaned awkwardly, paint peeling in jagged strips, windows shattered or boarded up. Trash rustled along the cracked sidewalks, and faint graffiti stretched across walls like silent warnings.

Craig pulled the car up in front of a dilapidated building and twisted the keys in the ignition, letting them hang as he sat back for a moment.

You and Deran waited, making small talk, but the minutes crawled by. Five minutes became ten… then fifteen. The tension in your chest grew with every passing second. Craig still hasn’t come back.

“Is Craig okay?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Deran’s eyes flicked toward the building, his jaw tight. “I’ll be right back,” he said, rising from the seat. Without another word, he headed after Craig, his movements purposeful but cautious, leaving you alone in the jeep with your worry spiraling.

After several minutes, you watched in alarm as Deran hoisted his older brother up, both of them stumbling out of the building.

“Oh my god!” You quickly jumped out of the back seat and rushed over, helping Deran support Craig.

“What the hell happened?!” you asked, panic tightening your chest.

“I need you to drive!” Deran barked, his voice sharp as Craig groaned in pain.

Your eyes widened at the sight of the pool of blood soaking Craig’s once-pure white t-shirt, oozing as the seconds passed. Craig’s face was bruised, one eye already starting to swell, and blood trickled from a split lip, smearing down his chin. Deran, though steadier, had a darkening bruise forming along his jaw and a thin trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.

“W-what?! I-I don’t have my license—”

“Neither do I, but you have your permit—”

“Deran—”

“Now, Angel!”

Deran reached out and pressed the keys into your hand. As your fingers wrapped around them, a smear of warm, sticky blood from his hand coated yours, and some of it splattered onto your shirt.

“Here. Just drive. I’ve got him—you just get us moving,” Deran said, his eyes locked on yours, urgent and steady.

You climbed into the jeep, your hands trembling as you fumbled for the keys. The blood smeared across your fingers made them slip, but finally, you managed to turn the ignition, the engine roaring to life.

Deran got Craig into the backseat. Deran pressed firmly against Craig’s wound to slow the bleeding, while his other hand brushed against your arm, steadying you as panic threatened to take over. Craig groaned softly, his bruised face and split lip making your stomach twist.

“Just… drive,” Deran muttered, his voice tight but controlled. “No stops. Just get us out of here.”

You nodded, taking a deep breath, and pressed the pedal down. The jeep lurched forward, every second stretching as fear and the metallic tang of blood filled the air.

You drove the jeep in what you thought was the quickest route to the hospital.

“Where are you going?!” Deran suddenly shouted, his voice sharp, panicked.

“The hospit—”

“No!” Deran and Craig yelled in unison, voices tight with urgency.

You froze for a split second, confusion and fear warring in your chest. “What?! He needs a hospital!” you shouted looking at the rearview mirror at them. “You need a hospital, Craig!”

“No! Not yet! We’re not going to the hospital. We need to get home—now! Trust me, just follow my directions!”

Craig groaned,. “Angel… please… just do what Deran says. Home first.”

Your hands tightened on the wheel as you tried to process their words, your pulse racing. Fear coursed through you. You swallowed hard and adjusted the wheel, turning in the direction Deran instructed, every nerve on edge as you obeyed their urgent commands.

Deran called out directions, his voice tight and urgent, guiding you through winding streets and unfamiliar turns.

“Left here… no, wait… slow down—there’s a pothole… okay, now straight!” Deran barked, glancing down at Craig, who groaned weakly with each jolt of the jeep.

You followed his commands as best you could, nerves straining, until finally, the scenery shifted. The street signs and familiar houses came into view, and a small sense of relief washed over you. You knew this area. From here, you could navigate to Cody’s house without directions.

“I got it from here,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “I know the way.”

Deran nodded, pressing gently against Craig to keep the bleeding controlled. Every turn, every bump in the road still sent your heart racing, but knowing the route made the chaos feel just a little more manageable.

You pulled the jeep up to the house, tires crunching over the familiar driveway. Deran slammed his hand against the back of your seat as you hit the brakes hard.

Before you could fully react, Deran was hauling Craig out of the jeep, shouting for help.

You climbed out, still trembling, hands slick with blood.

Smurf appeared at the front door, her eyes widening at the sight of her sons. She caught a glimpse of you, dazed and shaken, but her focus quickly snapped back to Craig and Deran.

“Baz!” she yelled, panic threading through her voice.

Baz came running, swearing under his breath, and quickly helped Deran support Craig. You could hear the urgency in their voices as they guided him inside.

You follow behind, keeping your distance as they move like clockwork, like this has happened before. Nobody hesitates, nobody asks questions. Deran’s got Craig under one arm, practically hauling him forward, while Baz clears the way without a word. Smurf’s already barking orders, sharp and decisive, as if she’s directing a drill she’s run a hundred times.

They take him straight to the kitchen. Your stomach twists as Craig lays the island counter top. Someone’s already grabbing towels, bottles, anything that looks remotely useful.

You freeze in place, heart pounding. You knew you couldn’t do much. You didn’t even know what to do, so you stayed out of the way. You stayed quiet. Your legs carried you back towards until you found yourself in the living room.

You sank onto the couch, blood still clinging sticky to your skin. All you could do was sit, listen, and wait.

—

Andrew rushed home the second Smurf called, her voice clipped with urgency as she told him there was an emergency. He stepped through the front door, moving through the house until his gaze fell on you in the living room. He slowed, taking in the sight of you for a moment, before the sounds from the kitchen, raised voices, someone clearly in pain pulled his attention.

He kept slowly moving toward the commotion in the kitchen, but his gaze returned to you. You were staring down at your trembling hands, slick with blood, and at the dark stains spreading across your shirt.

The sight hit him instantly. His eyebrows furrowed, a sharp tension settling across his features as he struggled to process what he was seeing. You didn’t notice him there, watching, caught between concern and shock.

“Hey,” he says, getting your attention.

Startled, you looked up quickly, instinctively dropping your hands as if caught. Andrew’s eyes softened slightly, but the tension didn’t leave his face.

He just stared at you.

Fuck. That was all he could think.

Your chest heaved, each breath coming faster than the last. Your lips trembled, and the tears threatened to spill over, blurring the line between fear and helplessness.

That made Andrew move.

He crossed the room in a few strides, his hand reaching out before he even thought about it. He crouched in front of you, forcing you to meet his eyes. “What happened? Are you hurt?” he asked urgently, scanning your body for any wounds.

“It’s… Craig’s blood—” Your voice shook as your hands trembled.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” Andrew said, voice steady even though his jaw was tight. His thumb brushed under your chin, coaxing your gaze upward until your eyes met his.

Once he had you there, he took your trembling hands in his, not caring that they were smeared with blood. “Tell me what happened.”

“I—I… I don’t know.”

“Okay. Then tell me what you do know.”

You swallowed hard, voice shaking. “We were headed here, but Craig needed to do something—”

“We went to this sketchy building in the rundown part of the oceanside. He said he’d take 5 minutes. Deran and I waited in the car. Deran went in after him because he was there a while. When they came out, Craig was drenched with blood and beaten, as well as Deran but not that bad”

“I—I drove,” you admitted, “I was going to the hospital, but they made me come back to the house—”

He knew you’ve never been in a situation like this before, had probably never seen that much blood in your life.

“Hey… it’s okay,” he said gently, his voice steadying you even as his own heart raced. “You did the right thing. You stayed with them, you helped…”

You nodded shakily, blinking rapidly to clear the sting of unshed tears. Your chest still heaved as you tried to steady your breathing. Andrew’s hands remained firm around yours, grounding you, anchoring you.

“Come with me.” He stood, still holding your hands, and you rose, letting him guide you quickly through the house. He led you to his room.

“Go wash up. Bathroom’s through that door,” he said, nodding toward the doorway. “There are shirts in the top drawer of the dresser. I’ll be back in a minute.”

You nodded, still shaken, your fingers brushing at the bloodstains on your clothes as you stepped inside the bathroom. Your hands trembled as you reached for the sink, trying to steady your breathing.

Andrew made his way into the kitchen, halting at the sight before him. It looked more like a makeshift operating room than a place to cook. Bloody towels were scattered across the counters. A single bullet sat on a paper towel, catching the harsh kitchen light.

Craig perched on the island, nursing a whiskey bottle, stitches fresh along his side. Baz stripped off his gloves and tossed them onto the counter. Deran leaned against the wall arms folded tight, annoyance etched across his face. Smurf stood with the same expression, sharp and unimpressed.

“Well, it took you long enough. Better late than never,” she said, brushing past Andrew to grab herself a beer from the fridge.

Andrew’s voice came out tight. “What happened?”

Smurf popped the cap, took a sip, then leveled him with a look. “Your idiot younger brother thought it was a good idea to buy a bag of coke after picking up Deran and his friend from school.”

Andrew’s jaw tightened. “Are you serious? You almost got yourself killed over a bag of coke?”

Deran shifted against the wall, muttering under his breath, “Told him it was stupid…”

“No, he’s right. It was stupid—and the fact you put Angel—”

Before Andrew could continue, Smurf’s voice cut through the room, calm but edged like steel.

“Enough. It’s done. Craig’s alive, and we move on.” She tilted her beer in Andrew’s direction, her gaze flat, unforgiving. “You showing up late doesn’t give you the right to lecture anyone.”

Andrew’s jaw flexed hard, the muscle ticking as if he were biting down on every word he wanted to throw back. For a heartbeat it looked like he might ignore her, push back, but then—he swallowed it. He always did when it came to Smurf.

“Now, as for the girl…” Smurf’s eyes shifted, sweeping slowly across the room before landing on each of her boys one by one. The weight of her gaze was enough to silence even their breathing. “You make sure she keeps her mouth shut. Not a word. You handle it before I have to. Understood?”

A low chorus of mutters followed—agreement, obedience, whatever she needed to hear. None of them dared meet her eyes for long.

Satisfied, Smurf set her beer down with a dull clink, like a queen concluding her decree. “Now… clean my kitchen up.” She drifted out of the room without another word, leaving behind a silence heavy with the echo of her authority.

—

You looked up to see Deran standing in the doorway of Andrew’s room. You were sitting on the floor, back pressed against the bed. Your hands were clean now, wiped free of blood, and you were wearing one of Andrew’s T-shirts.

“Is Craig okay?” you asked, your voice still a little shaky.

“Yeah, he’s fine…” Deran replied, his tone cautious.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, stepping a little closer, concerned with threading his voice.

“Andrew brought me in here. He let me wash up and brow a shirt” you said quietly, still trying to steady your racing thoughts.

Deran sits himself beside you “Are you okay?” he asked, his voice gentle, searching for any sign of the fear and shock he knew you’d been carrying.

You ignored his question. “What happened?”

Deran exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair, clearly struggling with what to say. “It’s… complicated,” he murmured, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. “You don’t need to worry. Just… know Craig’s okay. That’s all that matters right now.”

“Why didn’t you let me take him to the hospital?” you asked, voice tight with frustration and fear.

“Baz knows how to patch a wound… He’s good at this stuff,” Deran replied, trying to sound casual, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

“Shouldn’t you guys go to the police? Press charges or something?” you pressed, your hands clenching in your lap. “Craig was seriously hurt, Deran. He could’ve—”

Deran ran a hand down his face, the weight of it all settling in his shoulders. “It’s not that simple…” He stops himself. “Look, there are things you don’t know, things you don’t want to get involved in” His eyes softened slightly.

“I don’t understand…”

Deran let out a slow, heavy sigh “I know it doesn’t make sense,” he murmured, voice tight with frustration he wasn’t directing at you. “But I need you to just trust me, okay?”

Deran’s gaze lingered on you for a long moment, the tension in his shoulders softening just slightly. “Just…you have to promise me you won’t say anything about what happened today with Craig. You can't tell anyone, and I mean it.”

Your throat tightened at his words, the weight of the promise pressing down on you. You swallowed hard and nodded. “I… I promise,” you whispered, though a knot of doubt twisted in your stomach. You wanted to trust him, but what had happened with Craig today and the memory of the duffel bag lingered in your mind. The deep unease reminded you that you’d stumbled into something far bigger than you fully understood.

Deran’s eyes lingered on you, searching, almost pleading. “Good,” he said quietly, his voice softer now, though the warning in it remained.

You shifted slightly, feeling the tension in your body settle into a new, restrained fear. You wanted to ask questions, to understand more, but something told you it wasn’t safe and maybe it never would be. Your chest still ached from the panic earlier, and your hands itched to scrub away the memory of the blood that had coated them.

The brother appeared at the doorway, with Craig, Baz, and Andrew lingering in the back. Craig’s bruised face was pale, the dried blood around his split lip now somewhat cleaned, but the jagged line of stitches across his arm and the swelling forming on his cheek made you wince.

“Sorry about earlier, Angel. Thank you for driving, too,” Craig said, his voice quiet but sincere, carrying a faint edge of embarrassment at how much trouble he’d caused.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you replied, your gaze dropping to the crude stitches Baz had done. The hack-job looked rough—threads uneven, some spots slightly puckered—but it was functional.

You stood up, and Deran mirrored you.

“I should head home,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

“I’ll drive you,” Andrew spoke up, his tone calm but firm. The room went quiet, all eyes flicking to him—the brothers exchanging subtle glances, reading the unspoken authority in his voice.

—-

The drive home was silent. You clutched your backpack tightly.

Andrew kept his eyes on the road, jaw tight, hands gripping the wheel, his focus absolute. The low hum of the car filled the space between you, punctuated only by the occasional click of the turn signal or the muted thrum of the engine.

You stared out the window.

Andrew’s hands tightened on the wheel for a moment, jaw flexing. He wasn’t angry at you, but at everything that had led to this, at Craig, that you had been caught up in the chaos he caused.

He pulled up to your house, easing the car into park. The engine hummed softly, filling the quiet, and he kept his hands on the wheel for a moment longer than necessary, as if reluctant to break the silence.

He pulled up to your house, easing the car into park. The engine hummed softly, filling the quiet, and he kept his hands on the wheel for a moment longer than necessary, as if reluctant to break the silence.

You didn’t move.

“You okay?” His voice was low, careful, but there was an edge to it—protective, patient, and just a little frustrated.

“No,” you admitted, letting the tears fall despite yourself.

You hiccupped, pressing your face into your hands, your shoulders rising and falling with each sob.

You’d held your tears back at their house. You didn’t want to cry, especially in front of Deran, but with Andrew, the walls you’d built crumbled. You let it go, letting the tears flow freely, unashamed and raw.

Andrew stayed quiet. He didn’t rush you, didn’t speak over the sobs. He simply let you release what you’d been holding in, giving you the space and safety to feel it fully.

“What you saw today, what you had to do, you shouldn’t have been a part of that. I’m sorry that happened,” Andrew said quietly, voice low but steady, carrying both regret and resolve.

You looked up at him through wet lashes, your hands still gripping your backpack.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he continued gently, tone firm but soothing. “Like I said earlier, you did the right thing. You stayed with them, you helped. You were caught in it, and that’s not on you. None of it is.”

You blinked, the weight of his words settling over you.

“But that’s exactly why I don’t want you around,” he added, honest but careful, leaving out any details that might expose the danger.

You frowned, frustration and confusion mixing in your chest. “I… I still don’t understand. What’s going on?”

What secrets were they hiding? you thought, a cold knot forming in your stomach.

Andrew’s jaw tightened, and he shook his head slowly, “You don’t need to understand any of it,” he said firmly. “Not now, not ever. What you need to focus on is graduation and preparing for college on the East Coast. That’s your life. That’s what matters. Everything else… don’t worry about it. Forget it. Okay?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat making it difficult to respond. His words felt final, like a door slamming shut. You wanted to push, to demand answers, but the set of his jaw and the steel in his voice told you it would be useless.

“…Okay,” you whispered, though the word felt hollow.

Andrew extended his hand. “Give me your phone.”

Confused, you unzipped your bag, pulled out your flip phone, and placed it in his palm. He flipped it open, his thumb moving quickly across the buttons. A moment later, he snapped it shut and handed it back.

“My number’s in there,” he said, his tone softer now, though still carrying that edge of authority. “In case you need anything.”

You stared down at the phone in your hands

“…Thanks,” you murmured, though the word felt small compared to everything you wanted to say.

Andrew gave a single nod, eyes forward again, already retreating behind that wall he carried so easily. For a moment, you wondered if he regretted putting his number in there at all.

“You don’t call unless you have to,” he added, the firmness returning to his voice. “Understand?”

You nodded, though uncertainty twisted in your stomach. You weren’t sure what counted as having to. You weren’t sure about a lot of things anymore.

Andrew finally reached for the gear shift “Go inside.”

As you stepped out, you half-expected him to call you back, to give you something more. But the car stayed quiet, Andrew barely shifting behind the wheel.

You closed the door gently and unlatched the gate, slipping through as it swung shut with a soft clang behind you. The walk up the path felt heavy, your fingers clumsy as you dug through your bag for the keys. At the door, you slid one into the lock and pushed it open.

For a moment, you lingered in the doorway, unable to stop yourself from looking back.

The taillights glowed red, then dimmed as Andrew pulled away from the curb. The car rolled slowly down the street, sunlight flashing off the windows before it turned the corner and disappeared.

LYA Tag: @obfuscateyummy @princesssunderworld @jumpingjackalope @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @alexandrathegreat3 @cozyfanficnook @livingavilaloca @oldmanbunnylover @trustme3-13 @qardasngan @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere @child-of-the-amis @cheekeym8s @aj3684 @sunfairyy @ravenouswild @feverxxdream @naxxsstuff @baileythepenguin @britt217 @wittyogredemon @lumpypoll @harmonetta @gigidacoolest

Love You Anyway | Then (1) (2) (3) (4)

[artstennisracket]

ik Patrick is known as like a serious freak/sex god but could you maybe write something cute with him and reader having some slow, romantic, I love you type sex pls? I feel like that hits 10x better idkk im in a mushy mood LMAOOO thank you if you ever do this btw🩷🩷

i hear you i see you and you are both correct bc my baby deserves slow sex too!!!!! he is so much more than just a rough sex machine so I hope I delivered! enjoy :)

pairing: stanford!patrick zweig x fem!reader

cw: nsfw(18+), slow sex, oral (reader receiving), fingering (reader receiving), p in v, short blurb, not proof read

Patrick is all talk. “He’s full of shit,” Art would always say, because he knew. He knew that Patrick would say things just to say things. To be perceived the way he wants to be received. And you heard the rumours.

His dick is huge

He only fucks rough

Most girls aren’t even able to walk properly afterwards

He’ll ruin sex for you because you’ll never fuck anyone who does it as well as he does

It feels like your being split open

And these rumours couldn’t have just come from nowhere right?

You found out in due time that these rumors were only half true. It happened half way through your second year at Stanford. You were actually friends with Art from the economics class you took together last year.

You knew Patrick and Art were close but you didn’t realize just how close they were. Anytime you went over to Art’s, Patrick was there without failure and they weren’t even roommates. You don’t mind, he was entertaining almost like comedic relief from the long study sessions you’d have with Art.

One day Art had stepped out to do an extra hitting session with Tashi before a big tournament coming up this weekend. Which left you and Patrick alone.

At first it was innocent, him sitting next to you on Art’s dorm bed because as you’ve learned Patrick doesn’t know what personal space means. But soon his hand was under your shirt and you don’t even know how that happened.

Those rumors swirling back to the forefront of your mind as your hand moved his lap. Yeah he was pretty big. But was everything else true? You didn’t mind finding out.

You end up with your back pressed against Art’s mattress and Patrick between your thighs. Placing soft kisses on your inner thigh as he works you open with his fingers. He was gentle. Really exploring your body in a way no one else had ever taken the time to. Even once he added his tongue it was still slow and passionate. Like he wanted to savor every part of you.

He liked watching your reactions. His eyes locked on your face as your eyebrows scrunched and your mouth dropped open when his thumb moved to your clit. He pulled away from your heat with his face and fingers wet with a mix of your slick and his spit.

When he shifts up to finally push inside you, you brace yourself for the roughness to come despite the soft sweet demeanor he had been showing you up until now. But the roughness never came. Everything felt so intimate. Waiting for you to adjust before he starts thrusting. Keeping eye contact the entire time, his hand brushing your hair out of your face before cupping the side of your jaw.

His strokes are slow and thoughtful, while still keeping a moderate pace overall. Studying your facial expressions to make sure confirm what you’re feeling is only pleasure. Getting verbal confirmation from your moans that mix with his own from how tightly you’re gripping him. Even when you do wince from the pleasurable pain of him stretching you out, he continues with soft reassurances, That’s my girl, Taking me so well and the one that really made your stomach twist, I know baby I know, but you’re doing so well for me.

His head tilting down so his lips can reach yours as he kisses you. Tongue licking against your bottom lip asking for entry which you oblige. Even the kiss is slow, like everything else has been tonight. A mix of lips and tangled tongues. He picks up his pace as you imagine he’s getting closer, so he slips a finger back down to your bundle nerves to make sure you finish too. Panting into each other’s mouths as you both cross the finish line.

Cuddled up in Art’s bed afterwards, you ask him about the rumors. He just shrugs, smirking lazily, “I mean I’m not an animal.”

“I think Art would beg to differ,” You shoot back, teasing.

He rolls his eyes jokingly, “And maybe I just like you. I take my time with things I like.”

You nod slowly, taking in that information, “How’d you know Art wouldn’t come back?

He shrugs again, “I didn’t. I’m sure he heard us and left. Better to not disturb.”

“You guys are so weird,” You half laugh shaking your head.

“Weird enough to do this again sometime?”

“Maybe with a change of location,” all you could think about was the fact that you should be nice and change Art’s sheets before he eventually comes back to his room tonight. But you continue your thought first, “but yeah I’d like that.”

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[dog-rose]

Pagan Tumblr here to say actually, this could count as an exercration!

an exercration is a type magical ritual that many culture practised including the ancient Egyptians, and those who practise Kemetic Religion today.

an exercration is essentially where you curse a concept or spirit to diminish its power. One old European exercration spell involved writing down the name of something like an illness on the bottom of a chair and having its name worn away by it’s scraping on the floor over time.

The ancient Egyptians would often exercrate a/pep in rituals, to heal or protect, or to curse whoever they were at war with.

But there’s a lot of very creative ways to exercrate, including writing down the name of a/pep and burning it or smashing a clay statue or burying a statue hammered full of nails… And I even remember community exercration a happening amongst the pagan community on Tumblr a few years ago! It was very fun to see ! :D

so blasting three rockets named for the representation of darkness that threatened to fell the sun god each night into the sun during an eclipse is probably the gnarliest fuckin ritual curse you could come up with.

anyway here’s ra (I think) as a cat cutting off old snakey bois head.

nasa: we're going to shoot three rockets directly at the sun during the total eclipse. for study and research purposes.

me: oh cool

nasa: we have named the rockets apep. this stands for atmospheric perturbations [in the] eclipse path.

me: oh cool

nasa: apep is also the ancient egyptian deity of chaos and darkness, who ceaselessly seeks to extinguish the sun. we launch these rockets directly at the sun in the name of apep.

me: oh... cool?

[bokettochild]

Time x Lullaby fake dating scenario

Yes, I am aware that that man is very much married to Malon, but hear me out!

When they were all a bit younger, before Lullaby became queen, her advisors were very insistent that she gets married, since, well, there's the whole matter of having an heir or whatever so that Hyrule's future is assured, since the royal family is, y'know, the only people able to seal back great evils with their powers and if they die before they have kids then the kingdom is totally screwed. And Lullaby isn't exactly what one would call a cautious, timid princess, so they were pretty worried.

Anyways, it's decided that before she can take the throne, she has to be married. Not expecting, she just has to be actually married to someone.

Time and Lullaby have no feelings of each other in the romantic way (maybe in the old timeline, if you want, but this one? absolutely not!) but Time is still in his wildish era and Lullaby is not keen on actually finding herself a husband because, well, she's got other things she considers more important than hunting down the right partner! Still, in order to have the power she needs to help Hyrule, she'd gotta be married, so she writes to Time with something along the lines of "can you marry me for like, six months, so that I can ascend the throne? Promise to divorce you with a nice settlement after, and you won't actually have to do husband shit, just pretend for the court. Also, I won't give you political duties, so you can just bum around the castle fr the whole time, how's that sound?"

And like, Time shows Malon, and she's a bit nervous about the matter, but she also hasn't confessed properly to him since they've become adults, so she's honestly just trying to be supportive and so she tells him to do it f he wants, and Time being a dense Link, he takes that as her thinking it's a great idea.

So yeah, Time is Lullaby's ex-husband now, and she refers to him as such. it's never "Link, I need you to come to the castle" it's "ex-husband, can I convince you to see me for a moment at my place?" and now that they're all grown, Malon actually thinks it's hilarious, and Time also commits to the bit. In private, Lullaby is "the ex-wife" or "my shrew" in contrast to Malon being "my beloved wife" or "my darling/dearest/mavourneen"

Malon and Lullaby also address each other as "ex-wife" and "current-wife", in a playful sort of way.

Lullaby's advisors were not pleased at being played, but they couldn't exactly dethrone her for divorcing her husband, especially when it was clear no heir was going to be coming anytime soon with him IN the picture, so now they just have to keep their mouths shut while their divorced queen rules solo, and the bets they can do is ask if/when she'll start looking for a new husband

The settlement money/alimony is, as promised, fantastic, and Malon and Time used some of it for their wedding. The rest is kept tucked away for when they have kids or if they fall on hard times. Additionally, Time got a nice portion of Hyrule Field (right next to Lon Lon) in the "divorce", so they also expanded the farm since then, and are doing quite well for themselves.

Lullaby did attend their wedding. People didn't stop talking about it for actual years. Some think she was regretting letting Time go, others just think she's oddly supportive. Some suspect there was some sort of affair, but nothing can be proved. Regardless, Time and Malon spent their first year of marriage enjoying reading gossip columns about it and laughing at all peoples' ideas on the matter.

Anyways, yeah. Happily divorced Lullaby/Time!