#will probably post this somewhere else but here it is for now

[nanpecan]

₊✩‧₊˚once more to see you˚₊✩‧₊ pt 6

{nanami x f!reader}

pt 1.  pt 2. pt 3. pt 4. pt. 5

˚₊✩‧₊summary: You’re a manager at Jujutsu Kaisen and you’ve now had two three four extremely intimate encounters with grade 1 sorcerer Nanami Kento, but who's keeping count.... You're preparing for your morning date at your place when you get some unexpected company.

˚₊✩‧₊tags: nanami x fem!reader, nanami gets a little jealous but don't worry bc I can't stand miscommunication tropes, explicit smut towards the end (mdni)

˚₊✩‧₊word count: 8.6k SORRY LOL

˚₊✩‧₊author’s note: lemme start by saying im sorry for taking so long to post the next part but i have been going through it :D i am so grateful for all the positive feedback and messages i've gotten in my absence, i've missed my fellow nanami freaks, so this one is for all yall<3 also i posted this on A03 yesterday...i just feel like its faster posting it there bc im lazy. thank you to everyone for reading!

taglist at the end and feel free to let me know if you want off or if want to be added!

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After about thirty minutes of scrubbing you came to accept that the pink frosting stain wasn’t going to come out of your shirt. You sighed and put down the wet fabric. Another shirt lost to your shenanigans with Nanami. You laughed to yourself as the realization hit you. You’d lost three shirts in the last four days…you should probably plan to go shopping soon. You grimaced, maybe you should have saved that extra money you’d sent your mother earlier in the week. 

You went around your apartment cleaning here and there, you had found it in better shape than you remembered, but compared to his apartment you felt that yours was definitely lacking in cohesive design. Your eclectic furniture was a little bit of every style, the art on your walls didn’t really follow a theme, you just framed things you liked. You tidied up more than you think you ever had and smiled as you looked around. It may not have been much, but it was home. You felt safe here. 

The building as whole was another issue. You’d frowned when you had seen the elevator was still out of order. Nanami would have to take the seven flights of stairs just like you had. You looked down at your phone, maybe you could reschedule? Meet somewhere else to have breakfast? No, he had been looking forward to seeing your apartment. It was such a silly thing but you could tell he really wanted to. You wiped down your kitchen countertops one more time before cleaning the small dishes in your sink. 

You were planning on going to bed a bit earlier than usual. You were going to prep breakfast to make some pastries for him in the morning. It had been a while since you’d baked. You looked around, satisfied at your cleaning streak. You decided to shower before continuing, maybe you’d be able to catch anything you had missed afterwards.

You stepped out of the shower and walked up to the sink. What a crazy few days you’d had. You hadn’t really had the chance to be alone and process everything. You stared at your reflection as you wiped the mirror. You’d never really thought of yourself as someone worthy of being desired. An odd thing to admit, but you had also never really had the luxury of having the sort of life where that would matter. The world of Jujutsu Sorcery was a fast paced one and every day could be your last, so you often found yourself discouraged from participating in things people your age did. Dating, partying, traveling…it's not like you could afford it either. The only reason you’d really ever gone out was because of Akari. She would invite you to go out to places where she could relive her delinquent youth. She was also the reason you had gone on any dates in the first place. That reminded you, you needed to text her and see when she was free to hangout. You had a lot to catch her up on. 

You walked out to your living room and sat on the couch, picking up your phone. It suddenly dawned on you that you had never gotten Nanami’s number. You seemed to remember Akari saying she gave him yours. You opened your messages and scrolled to confirm. 

Something made a noise in your kitchen. 

Your blood ran cold. Was it an intruder? A curse? Had something broken in? You slowly reached under the couch and pulled out a baseball bat. You sat up and looked towards the noise, but didn’t see anything. A cup holding your washed silverware had been knocked over. Okay…maybe it had just come unbalanced. You got up holding the bat up and slowly approached the kitchen. You cautiously made your way around the counter looking down and jumped. 

It was your neighbor's cat. 

You sighed in relief and lowered your bat. “Messi, what are you doing here?” You picked up the orange cat who meowed in return. “How have you been? It’s been a while.” He meowed again. “Really?” Meow. “I’ve been good. I met someone.” Meow. “Well he was someone I already knew.” You walked out of your apartment, cat in tow, and made your way next door. Your window had a tear in the screen and Messi had made a habit of going through it and somehow prying open your window (which didn’t lock) and wandering into your place. You didn’t mind, you had actually set up a little water bowl for him in your apartment. 

You knocked on the door. “Hi, it’s Y/N. I'm returning Messi, I haven’t been home for a couple of days, so I don’t know how long he’s been in there.” 

You heard some shuffling and suddenly an older lady opened the door. You had never seen her before. She looked at you and then at the cat. “Keep the damn thing.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Y/N?” You heard a familiar voice from behind the lady, your neighbor. She made her way to the door and you saw she was crying. She took the cat in her arms and held him close, starting to cry again. “Thank you.” 

“Is everything okay?” 

“Osuke had his second trial today and was convicted,” she said through tears. Osuke was her husband.

“That stupid lawyer, I should curse his entire family,” the old lady muttered. You had a feeling she was Osuke’s mother. 

“I’m so sorry, is there anything I can do to help?” you asked. You had known about the trial, it had been ongoing for a couple of months now. He had been arrested after being framed for a robbery. The story you had been told was that his boss had been the one to frame him. He was a bottom tier worker, and the perfect scapegoat for the crime. 

“No, thank you though,” the woman said. 

“You can take the damn cat. She’s moving out of here. After the lawyer’s fees and the loss of his income she’s moving in with me, I don’t want to take care of that thing,” the older lady said.

“I’ll take care of it, please,” the woman cried. 

The lady grumbled something else and went back inside. “Thank you for bringing him back.” She wiped her tears and offered you a hug. “We’ll be out by tomorrow, I can't afford the rent. I’m already behind on the last two months.” 

“Don’t worry about it. I hope everything works out. You have my number, call me if you need anything. Anything at all.” You smiled at her and she nodded and closed the door. 

You stood alone in the hallway. Everything was so silent. You heard the women arguing again and you sighed. You went back into your apartment, sitting on your couch again. You hoped everything would work out for them. The couple next door had been so nice. Osuke and Makiko and their cat Messi, they’d lived here longer than you had. You sighed and rubbed your temples. There really wasn’t much you could do for them.  

You reached for your phone again and went to text Akari. 

-sorry i meant to text you earlier, and then i got distracted again. messi was in my apartment and scared me to death. -when are they going to fix that damn window for you? -i don’t mind, i love that cat.  -but if he can get in so can other things, my skin is crawling just thinking about it  -someone is on the road to getting uninvited from my place.  -no way, you owe me from all the times I’ve let you crash at my place -damn…speaking of, when is your next free day? we need to hang out.  -i can do the day after tomorrow, i have a half day, does that work? -perfect, i’m also just coming in in the morning -you can tell me all about your adventures with the old man. have you said yes to being his girlfriend yet? -he hasn’t asked me yet -boooo

You started typing when you received a notification from an unknown number. 

-Did you make it home okay?- It read. You smiled.  -is this who I think it is? -Y/n it’s me, it’s Nanami Kento.  -then it is who I thought. I did make it home safe, I found my neighbor's cat in my apartment so I’m glad I came to check, they’re moving out tomorrow morning. -So you’re free now? -…yes ? -That’s good, get some rest. Have a good night. I'll see you tomorrow.

Hmm you thought he was going to ask something else. You looked at the clock. It was 7:53, earlier than you thought. I should probably get started, you thought to yourself. You pulled yourself off of the couch and went into your kitchen. You would make your dough tonight and let it proof overnight. 

Overnight proofing is the best way to make bread. 

You were shot back into a memory. 

The best things in life are worth waiting for you know. And what’s better than fresh bread? Nothing! Ask anyone that comes in tomorrow, I dare you.  

You smiled fondly as you rolled the dough into a little acorn shape before rounding it out and setting it in a glass bowl. 

As you finished up you checked the time. You had gotten done pretty quickly. You just needed the topping for the melon bread, which you could make as the oven heated up in the morning. You checked your pantry one last time for brown sugar and you realized you didn’t have any. You frowned. You’d run out for some in the morning. If you didn’t go to bed soon you weren't going to want to get up in the morning.

You sat for a moment and noticed the silence again. It’s not like it wasn’t ever quiet around here, but maybe after the events of the last four days something about being alone bothered you. It surely hadn’t before.

You moved into your bedroom and lay on the bed. You usually felt stuffy in here, that’s why you preferred to lay out on the couch, at least it seemed more of an open space compared to your bedroom. But now it felt nice. You felt safe. 

You stared at your ceiling. “Maybe I should call him,” you said out loud to yourself. You closed your eyes and imagined his smile. The way his perfect teeth shone, the way his nose crinkled a bit when the corners of his mouth lifted, his lips on yours. You swallowed and opened your eyes. If you let your mind wander any longer you’d be in trouble. You groaned in frustration. You missed him, how pathetic. You had always been one to make fun of how quickly people in your field tended to get together, but here you were. 

You heard your neighbor and her mother in law faintly arguing through the walls. You frowned trying to think if there was really nothing you could do. 

You had too much “compassion”, you had been told by one of the old professors at Jujutsu Tech. There’s no way to save everyone and to try is to doom yourself. You scowled as you remembered what he had said to you. The arguing died down and you hoped to yourself they worked it out. At least they had each other going through this. Things were tense now but hopefully they’d adjust. You made a note to check in on them tomorrow. You went to set your alarm when you remembered Shoko had wanted you to stop by her office early in the morning. You groaned and set your alarm for earlier than you had intended. Nanami said he’d be by around 7, it would have to be a quick breakfast as you wanted to get to the school by 8, you hoped he didn’t mind. You finally drifted to sleep. 

You groaned as your alarm woke you up, but you quickly sat up and went to wash your face. You needed to split the dough, and lay the cookie topping over it and let it proof for another 30 minutes at least. You could run out to your corner store while they sat and you preheated the oven. 

As you opened the door to exit, you almost tripped on a pile of items placed in front of your place. Cat toys, a litter box, cans of cat food, a small bed, and a note. 

Messi got out again last night and I’m afraid we just don’t have time to look for him. I think he’s better off with you anyway. I’m sorry for the inconvenience. If it’s too much I've contacted a shelter that would take him. Here is the number. 

You frowned a bit. You loved Messi but you didn’t want a cat. You dragged the items into your apartment and quickly went out the door. You’d deal with this later, you were already running behind.

As you stepped back into the hall, winded and trying to catch your breath after returning and climbing the seven floors, you looked up to see a man in a suit knocking on your neighbors door. This wasn’t your man in a suit, quite the opposite. 

You approached him cautiously. He had jet black hair, his suit was dark, and he reeked of alcohol. 

“Please, just let me apologize- I did all I could. I won’t charge ya any money, just please, I’m sorry.” He stumbled as he continued to knock. You were going to have to get past him to get to your door. There was no avoiding him. 

“Excuse me,” you said, announcing yourself behind him. The man turned to look at you. His eyes were tired and sleepy, he had deep bags under his eyes and his sharp nose was red. He was definitely drunk. “If you’re looking for the residents, they’ve moved out.” 

“What?” 

“They’ve moved out, what did you need to tell them?” you asked.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You’re sorry?” 

“I need to apologize to them. Osuke was jailed. It’s not fair. The whole system is corrupt. I should-” 

“Were you their lawyer?” you asked. 

“Yes,” he turned back and started pounding on the door again. “Please let me speak to you!” 

“Tell him to stop that before I call the police!” an old man from down the hall had stuck his head out of his door to yell. 

“Sir, no one is in there. You have to go, it’s too early to be causing such a ruckus,” you said. 

“I need to apologize,” he whined. You noticed a buzzing coming from his pocket, his phone was ringing. 

“Do you need to get that?” you asked. 

He pulled the phone out of his pocket and handed it to you before turning back to the door. The caller ID said Shimizu. You grabbed the man's shoulder and pulled him away from the door as you answered with your other hand. 

“Hello?” 

“Yes, hello… is this Higuruma’s cellphone? Who’s speaking?” A woman spoke on the other end. 

“Ah, he just handed me his phone. He’s very drunk and knocking at someone- I think maybe one of his clients' doors.” 

You heard her curse, “Would you be able to tell me where he is? I apologize for the disturbance, I’ll come by to get him as soon as I know where to go.” 

“Ah, yes-” he pulled himself from your grip and started going towards the door again. “Sir-” 

“There is no justice!” he cried out. 

You stared at him a bit shocked, what was he on about? You told the woman your address. 

“I can be there in around 25 minutes. Would there be any way you could keep him put? I apologize again for the inconvenience.” 

“I’ll try my best…” you looked at the man as he collapsed onto his knees, staring forward at the door. You walked over to him and handed him his phone. “Shimizu is on her way to get you,” you said. He just stared. You looked at your apartment and sighed. “Would you like to wait for her inside?” You pulled the man up to his feet and unlocked your apartment. You held the door open as he stumbled inside. You reached inside and grabbed a couple of cans of cat food to hold your door open. The last thing you wanted was for Nanami to get the wrong idea.

Once inside you rushed over to your kitchen to check on the bread. The man walked around not looking at anything in particular, but just moping. “Have a seat,” you motioned to the small table and chairs. He sat down and you turned back to your baking, unpacking the sugar you had just bought. You quickly grabbed a plate and spread the sugar, then you rolled the diamond patterned tops in the sugar. You placed the six little buns you had made back on the baking sheet. The oven still had a couple of minutes before it was ready. 

You turned back to the man and were shocked to find him staring at you. “You just let a strange drunk man into your apartment, while alone?” 

“I left the door open…” you muttered. “Besides, I think I could take you in a fight. I’ve dealt with worse.” He gave you a questioning look. “Would you like some water? Some tea? Coffee?”

“Water.” You poured him a glass and walked it over to him. He began rubbing his temples with his hand. He seemed to be sobering up quickly. You grabbed a couple of crackers from your shelf and handed them to him too. 

“Eat something, get a grip before your friend comes to get you.” 

You heard the oven ding and you walked over to put the pasties in the oven. You set a timer for twenty minutes. Looking at the clock you had about 30 until Nanami showed up, probably less since he seemed to be pretty punctual. You turned back to the man and saw he had chugged the water and was gingerly taking a bite out of the crackers. You started cleaning up the kitchen, putting the bowls in the sink and clearing off your small drying rack. 

“Who is coming to get me?” he asked.

“Ah, your friend, I think her name was Shimizu,” you answered. He muttered something under his breath. “More water?” you asked. 

He nodded. You went over with a pitcher and filled his cup, this time sitting down across from him. “Thank you,” he said quietly. 

“So…there’s no justice in the world, huh?” You asked. He frowned. “I don’t think that’s something I’d want to hear from my lawyer,” you eyed him curiously. 

“I apologize for my outburst.” 

“No, no I understand. From what I know Osuke was innocent. It must be frustrating to lose a case, especially when what happened was so unfair.” You thought back to the old woman grumbling about the lawyer. “That old lady was very angry, I can’t imagine that’s easy on you.” 

His hand gripped the cup tightly. “People have no sense of understanding right or wrong. Everything is so black and white to them. But there are so many complications before you can see one or the other clearly.” He stared at the cup. “Most only see the bad, the ugly, that’s the easiest thing to pick out, the easiest to understand. I think most people assume that others are inherently bad, so expecting bad things to come from them is second nature.” You stayed silent as he contemplated his words. “It doesn’t help when your client looks like a bad guy, it’s an uphill battle, but I try I really do.”

He sighed, taking a drink of water before continuing. “ If I lose a case, it's easy to blame me. I'm much more tangible than blaming some higher power for not being in your favor. No one wants to believe that I do this out of a want to help others, they see me as wanting money, as taking advantage of those in dire situations. They only ever see me as greedy when I lose. Another bad guy. I want to help, but when it comes down to it, who am I to a jury, to a judge? I’m another bad person, defending a bad person who did a bad deed. They think if they were truly innocent I wouldn’t have to work as hard, I wouldn’t have to find such cunning ways to prove their innocence, but I try. Not out of trickery or malice, but because I want to believe that not everyone is bad. But again and again people only see me as a bad guy defending bad people, and I'm afraid I'm losing sight of what this all used to mean to me.”   

You looked at the cup he was holding. “I see…” you thought about everything he had just said. You thought a part of him was just feeling sorry for himself, but other points he made were valid. There was a time when you thought everyone in the world might have been bad too. “When I was sixteen…I left my home because of an incident,” you started. “I was alone and scared and I thought that it had happened to me because I was bad.” You frowned slightly as you recalled the events. “And because I thought I was bad, I justified a lot of the things I did. I snuck onto buses and trains to get to Tokyo, away from where I was because I didn’t feel like I deserved to be there, I didn’t deserve to be close to my family. And I stole…a lot…not big things, not precious things, food mostly. I was hungry and had no place to stay and I saw others do it…and so I became ‘bad’. I became what I thought I was, what I believed the world wanted me to be.” You looked up at him, he was staring at you trying to figure out where you were going with this. “But then I met someone, someone who was good, someone who only ever saw the good in people no matter what and that…changed me.” 

“Who did you meet?” he asked. 

“I went to a bakery,” you smiled fondly and looked down at your hands on the table. “I had known about it since I arrived in Tokyo, the line was always out of the door by 7 am, but I had never had the chance to go in. I mean, I never even had the money for it and the owner, she was this sweet old lady and even though I was already stealing food from other places, I felt like if I stole from her I would be too far gone. 

But as it goes, the more I stole, the more I felt entitled to, and after a month of fighting it, I finally gave in and made a plan.” You shifted in your seat, you had never told anyone this story. “I made a plan, and woke up early, to be one of the first in line. I was sixth or seventh outside the door, and when I finally got to go in I felt like crying, it smelled so good and it was so warm. She greeted everyone with such kindness and it was just her that day. I had seen a granddaughter with her before, but this morning it was just the lady. 

“I pretended to look around, considering what to buy. I let people go in and out before I finally decided on a single piece of Melon bread, delicately wrapped in plastic. It was the most beautiful thing I think I’d ever seen. I grabbed the piece and tucked it under my arm and started heading towards the door. I turned to check if anyone had seen me and I saw her staring at me.” You laughed and shook your head. “She was just staring at me and her eyes went to the piece of bread I had tucked under my arm and you know what she did?” You looked up at him. “She looked back into my eyes, smiling the whole time, and said to come back soon. I ran out of there, terrified for my life. I thought she was going to call the cops, but there was something about her smile that just seemed so genuine. 

I think I got about ten steps down the road before I stopped. The guilt was too much, I felt sick to my stomach. I didn’t deserve to have something so nice. I was bad, and I had done a bad thing.” You scrunched your nose. “I went back immediately. I pushed past the people in line and went right up to her and I handed her the bread back. She looked at me confused and just shook her head. ‘You can have it, it’s your first time here right? Take a seat, let me know what you think of it.’” You laughed and covered your face with your hands. “I sat down and just cried while I ate it. I bawled, like people stared at me out of concern.” The lawyer stared at you. “When I finished she came up to me and asked how it was. I started apologizing profusely and she just handed me another one, and asked if I’d like to learn how to make my own,” you shook your head incredulously. 

“She offered me a job and a place to stay. I still don’t understand how she was able to see right through me.” You heard the timer go off and you shot up to get the bread out of the oven. You smiled as you saw how perfectly the six little buns had crisped up. You transferred them over to a plate and grabbed one for the lawyer. You placed it in front of him. “There are bad people out there, but there are also good people. There has to be a natural balance otherwise everything would fall apart, don’t you think?” You looked at him as he stared at the pastry before him. “I can see that you really care about your clients. Even if this was a bit inappropriate to do, drunkenly asking to speak to them and all, but the right sentiment is there.” He pressed his lips together into a thin line. “The world needs more people that are willing to look past everything and find the good. I hope you can keep doing that.” 

You heard laughter from the hallway and looked over the lawyer’s shoulder at the open door to see Nanami and a sharply dressed woman stepping out of the stairway. The woman suddenly looked at you and then at the lawyer. “Higuruma!” She quickened her step towards your place. Nanami followed behind her. “Pardon my intrusion,” she said as she entered. She stomped up to the man checking on him before turning to you. She bowed slightly. “I apologize for his behavior. This is completely out of character for him, I don’t know what he’s thinking. I’m sorry-” 

“It’s okay, he explained some of what’s been going on. Do you work with him?” 

“Yes, my name is Shimizu, I’m a colleague of his, I’m also a lawyer.” 

“I’m Y/N, sorry we have to meet like this.” You turned your attention to Nanami who was staring at the man. “Sorry our breakfast plans got thrown around a little.” 

Shimizu turned towards Nanami and then back to you. “Ah, I see...” She smiled at you. “I’ll take over now, thank you again for your help. Here’s my business card, let me know if there’s ever anything you need.” You took her card and smiled. Fancy, you thought to yourself.

“Wait,” Higuruma said. “Have my card too,” he felt around his pockets for them but couldn’t find anything. 

“Don’t tell me you lost your wallet,” Shimuzu said, annoyed. She pulled out another card and handed it to you. “Here’s his card as well.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Thank you for listening to me…” Higuruma looked like he was trying to remember your name.

“Y/N,” you repeated. 

He smiled at you. “Wait!” he said again as Shimuzu started pushing him out. “My melon bread…” he muttered, turning back and grabbing it off the plate. Shimuzu sighed and continued to push him out. 

You watched the two bicker as they went down the hall and into the staircase. You became aware of Nanami’s eyes on you. You reached down to move the cat food out of the door frame and let the door shut. “If I ever got called to fetch you out of some stranger’s apartment after you had a drunken night out, I don’t think I’d be as calm as she was,” you said. You turned back to him after he hadn’t said anything. “I hope you’re not getting the wrong idea. I helped him out and we just talked.” You frowned. “I feel like saying that makes me seem more guilty, but I don’t even know why I’m defending myself here.” You turned to him and stared for a bit. “Are you mad at me?” 

His eyebrows furrowed. “No?” 

“Oh.” You turned back towards the door. “You were just being so quiet…I mean I heard you guys laughing…the lawyer lady, Shimizu. She was really pretty. She looked so professional..” You smiled half heartedly. “You looked good together.” You muttered. You frowned as you realized how ridiculous you sounded. “Anyway…” you turned towards the kitchen and started walking to the counter. “I made some pastries this morning. It’s not much, but we’ll also have to be quick because I forgot I promised Shoko I’d meet her early. So I only have time to change and then we probably need to head out. Sorry for rushing things.” you frowned again. “I should have told you to stop by earlier, but I got a little distracted.” 

“Are you jealous?” 

“M-me?” You felt your face grow red. “No-no I’m not- why would you- why would you think that?” you laughed awkwardly. “I was just saying she’s super pretty and I’d just never heard someone laugh with you like that before I mean other than me- but I mean I guess I don’t really know you-I mean I know you but not like I know you now- and she’s-I mean she’s super pretty you have to admit-“ 

“I wasn’t a fan of the way he asked for your name at the end of your conversation,” he said looking down at his wrist and fiddling with his watch. “I know that look he gave you… I’ve given you that look.” 

You smiled and felt relief. “Seems like we’re on the same boat.” You shook your head and went over to him, looking up with a playful frown. “Was she really that funny?” 

“She was the only one laughing, I don’t think anything I said was particularly interesting.” 

You thought back at the way her eyes had turned from you to him and back to you. Oh I see, she had said. “She was into you,” you wrapped your arms around him. “I’ve done that before, laughed like an idiot at someone who’s not funny because I thought they were hot.” 

“Have you done that with me?” He asked. 

“No, you’re actually funny. It’s never forced with you.” You looked up at him again. “It’s your fault, you’re so handsome. We have to do something about your face.” 

“Well then, what do you suggest we do about yours?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“He was quite taken with you.” 

You made a face and shook your head. “Men will rant about their problems to you and then think they’re in love just because you listened.” 

“Did he rant about his problems? His alcoholism? His brutishness? What was he thinking coming into someone’s apartment in that state? He’s lucky he didn’t-“ 

“He was having a rough time of it actually. I do feel a bit bad.” You turned back to look at the door and then the cat items. “He was my neighbor’s lawyer. They’re a young couple, the husband was arrested on some unfair charges and he seemed devastated by the outcome.” 

“That’s not very professional.” 

You shrugged. “I think it’s been a long time coming. Hopefully my pep talk keeps him back on track for a while longer, but I have a feeling he’s going to snap one day,” you said darkly. “There was something unhinged in his eyes.” 

Nanami pulled you back and hugged you tightly again as you buried your face back into his chest. He smelled nice. 

“Speaking of my neighbors. Do you like cats?” 

“I don’t dislike them.” You nodded, backing out of his arms. “Why?” 

“They left me in charge of their cat, Messi. Well not left me in charge, it’s more like they gave him to me. They left me all his stuff, he got out of their place yesterday before they left and somehow he always ends up at my place.” 

“How does he get in?” 

“Oh I guess I should show you around my apartment. Though there isn’t much to look at.” You ran a hand through your hair as you looked around. You pointed at where he was standing, next to the table. “Dining room, living room, kitchen, bathroom door, bedroom door, ta da!” You smiled cheekily as you pointed back where you started. “Bet that’s the fastest you’ve ever had a house tour, huh.” He looked around slowly, taking in the frames on the wall, the knick knacks on your shelves and the books piled all over the place, stacked not so neatly. “It’s- it’s really not much but it’s home,” you said feeling a little insecure again. Maybe you should have cleaned more. 

“It’s lovely,” he said. “It feels very much like you.” 

“Thanks…” you said. Your eyes went to the clock in your kitchen and you perked up. “Oh wow, is that the time…” 

“May I see your bedroom?” He asked. You felt your face go red again. 

“Oh, sure,” you started walking towards it. “I need to change anyway, hope you don’t mind.” 

“Never.” You felt the blush grow and your stomach get tingly. 

You opened the door and gestured briefly. “This is it, again it's not much... I think the bed is too big for this space, but it’s comfortable.” you went around to your closet pulling out a pair of black slacks and a white button down. You laughed to yourself. “That pink frosting was not coming off of my shirt. That’s two shirts you owe me, Kento.” 

“I’ll have to make it up to you,” he said as he looked around the room. “What about this weekend? Are you free? I could take you shopping.” 

You laughed again, “You’re like the main lead in a drama series. You’re too much, you know that?” 

“Sorry?” He offered. 

You smiled at him.“Thank you, but I’ll take a rain check on the shopping. I can get my own stuff. I’m hanging out with Akari on my half day, but Sunday I’ll be free,” you said as you buttoned your pants. “That is if you want to meet up on Sunday… if you’ve available.” 

You turned to him and saw him blush this time. “Sunday…works.” You smiled victoriously as you walked over to him in just your bra. He stared at your face and you nodded briefly as if to give him permission to look. His eyes trailed down. “It’s a shame we have to hurry to campus. Are you sure Shoko can’t wait.” 

“She’s doing me a favor by offering to teach me, I can’t do that to her,” you said. He placed his hands on your hips and pulled you forward. You looked up expectantly and he planted a soft kiss on your lips. You smiled. 

You finished getting dressed and you felt his eyes never leave you as you moved around. He walked behind you out of the room and into the kitchen where you proudly showed him the bread you had made. 

“This is a very secret recipe, I doubt you’ll ever have one as good as this.” He looked down at the bread and smiled fondly. He picked up one of the little buns and slowly bit into it. You watched his face carefully for a reaction. You saw his eyes water slightly as he savored the treat. 

He smiled and nodded. “Good.” 

You were a bit confused. “Yeah…you okay?” He seemed to be lost in thought. “Kento?” 

He smiled again and blinked a few times. “Yes, sorry, it brought up some memories. This is very good, Y/N.” 

You smiled, deciding to not push it. “I worked at a bakery for a short time.” You looked at the buns. “They're good but you should have tried the ones where I learned… I guess people are masters for a reason.” He nodded and continued to eat. 

“Did you want coffee or-” Suddenly your phone rang. You pulled it out of your pocket and read the name, Shoko. 

“Hello?” you answered. 

“Hey, Y/N. I’ve been called out to do something so I won't be at the school this morning. Is there any way you could come in during your lunch?” 

“I think that should work,” you said. Nanami looked at you curiously. 

“Great, see you then.” 

“Ooo~ is that Y/N?’ you heard Gojo’s voice in the background before she hung up. 

You looked at your phone and then back up at Nanami. “So it looks like we have time after all, Shoko just rescheduled.” You sighed and leaned against the counter. “Sorry for rushing you before. Did you want some coffee or anything? I need a little pick me up.” 

He shook his head, “Sit down, you’ve had a long morning. Do you mind if I make us some coffee?” 

“I can make it for you, it's no problem-”

“I insist. It’s the least I can do,” he said with a smile. You smiled back and nodded. 

“Fine, let me atleast get the ingredients out for you.” 

“I’m sure I can find what I need,” he said, gesturing for you to go sit at the table.

You obliged and sat down with a happy sigh. You watched as he moved around the kitchen, looking for ingredients. The coffee, the sugar, etc. You smiled as he grumbled to himself as he searched for items and he would occasionally look over at you for some guidance. You pointed at your cup drawer and he looked over at you as he pulled out two mugs. He held one in his hand and read the text. 

He frowned. “I used to work at this company,” he said. 

“Ah, I got it as a freebie after signing up for their newsletter or something like that, I don't remember now.” You laughed, “I wonder if you were at that event. It must have been around the time you worked there. Before I had this apartment I used to rent one close to their headquarters, so I would walk by almost daily. We were so close and had no idea.” 

Nanami smiled, bringing over two cups of coffee and the tray of bread. “I don’t think you would have liked me then.” 

“What do you mean?” You took the warm cup from him. 

He sighed as he sat, “I feel as if I was a soulless shell of a man focused on money”

“Was?” you teased. 

He gave you a look, “Am I still?” You blew on your cup and smiled slyly. He smiled, “I guess I am still focused on money, but soulless?”

“Definitely not, I can tell by the way you made this coffee,” you said, taking a sip. He shook his head and looked down at his cup. He had taken the one with his old company logo. 

“Would you have liked me?” He mumbled. 

“Probably not, if I’m honest,” you said bluntly. You smiled, “I hate stiffs in suits and I don’t have much money so I doubt you’d have given me the time of day anyway.” 

“Stiffs in suits? Isn’t that what I am now?” 

“At least you’re helping people, now. That company always had a fishy vibe, there was always a tan blonde man in sunglasses who would try to pick me up with bad English phrases.” You scrunched your face. “Sound like someone you know?” 

He laughed. “Unfortunately I know who you’re referring to.”

The two of you finished up your breakfast and Nanami offered to do the dishes while you tidied up. You wiped down your counters as he rinsed the cups. You moved on to the table. 

Laying on the table were the two business cards the lawyer had handed you. You examined the sturdy ivory rectangle and the elegant gold lettering of the man’s business card. Hiromi Higuruma, it sounded like a name out of a tv show. You looked up and saw Nanami staring at the card in your hand with disdain. You smiled, laughing a bit at his expression. 

“Here,” you reached out and handed him the card. “Hold on to this for me, you never know when I might need a lawyer.” 

He begrudgingly took the card and scanned the writing, the scowl still on his face. “I’ll keep you out of trouble.” He tucked the card into his pocket. 

“Did he really bother you that much?” 

“Please, enough about him,” he said with a sigh.

“I kind of like that you’re jealous,” you teased. “Anyway, what are you so worried about?” You reached out and put a hand on his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.” You felt his cheek grow warm as a blush came over his face.

Nanami looked down at his watch, he seemed to be calculating something in his head. “We have about thirty minutes until we have to leave right?”

“Yeah, why?” 

He suddenly moved closer to you, putting his hand on either side of the table around your waist. “Should we make use of our morning?”He gave you a cocky smirk as he gently moved one of his hands under your chin, tilting your face upwards.

You felt your face burning now. “What can we even do in only half an hour” 

He tilted his head as he thought. “Well we really only have twenty minutes,  I would allow us another ten to compose ourselves.”

“Do you think that’s enough?” you asked, laughing. 

He shrugged as he brought his face closer to yours. “We can make it work.” He closed the distance between you, delicately placing his lips on yours. He was so warm, so soft. You pulled him closer, placing your hand on the back of his head and lacing your fingers within his silky blonde locks. His lips moved softly against yours, his hand gently placed on your back as he settled himself between your legs. You pulled back for a second and looked up at him. His lips were glistening with your mixed saliva and face was flush. You smiled. 

“Seeing as I haven’t really had the time to do laundry, and the fact that I’m down a couple of shirts, and that we have a record of being…messy. I propose we move this to my bedroom.” 

He smiled and nodded. He placed another soft kiss on your lips before backing up to let you move forward away from the table. 

“I’ll try to not let it become a habit.” 

“What?”

“Ruining your shirts.” 

“To be fair you only ruined two, the other one was that monster.” You shrugged, “Some things are just inevitable.” You turned towards him once you were in your room and started unbuttoning your shirt. “Should we set a timer?” you joked. 

Nanami set his blazer aside and loosened his tie. “We can be quick about it. We made do in that bathroom.” 

You felt your cheeks go red, “Oh my god,” you buried your face in your hands and sat on the bed. You heard him chuckle and you looked up. He placed a hand down onto your cheek and you smiled at him. He slowly lowered his face down towards you and kissed your forehead. He pushed you onto your back as he finished unbuttoning his shirt. You shifted your weight as you reached down to pull your pants down. You slipped them off of your legs and suddenly felt him grab your right ankle. He smiled coyly as he placed it up onto his shoulders, you felt your face go red as you looked at him. He held your leg firmly as he lazily unbuttoned his pants and shuffled them down to expose himself. You felt your heartbeat quicken as he moved forward and ran his cock over your underwear. He moved forward, placing his knees on the bed as he brought your legs up onto his thighs. He picked up your left leg and pressed it against his side as he moved forward to kiss you. You groaned as you felt your right thigh stretch against his chest. You moved one of your hands onto his shoulder and the other laced into his hair bringing him closer. Your tongues danced as you desperately kissed him. He continued to buck his hips, running his cock over your now soaked panties. He grunted at the friction and quickly moved back suddenly. You whimpered again as your leg moved back up with him. He let go of your left leg and moved it over opening your legs wide before him. He looked up at you, his pupils wide and his mouth wet with your spit. He swallowed hard as his eyes trailed down your body. “Y/N…I don’t know how to explain what you do to me…” He licked his lips as he thrust his hips forward against your clothed cunt. “I apologize in advance if I’m being too rough.” He looked back up at you. “Please let me know if I’m too rough..” He moved a hand down and pushed aside the wet fabric easily. 

He pressed his tip lightly against your opening. You moved a hand forward and pressed it against his abdomen stopping him momentarily. “Kento…” 

His head snapped up to meet your eyes. “Yes?”

There was a desperation in his gaze that made you feel a warmth in your chest. “It’s okay.” You moved your hand back and lifted your arms over your head. “Be rough with me, please…” you moaned and arched your back as you felt him dip a little deeper inside you. 

Nanami quickly grabbed your other leg and pressed it back against you as he moved forward and buried himself deep inside of you. You let out a yelp, which was muffled by him devouring your lips. He pushed his hips roughly against you, desperately, quickly, as he held your legs further back. You were folded over yourself and you felt the head of his cock bully the deepest parts of you. You gasped everytime he pushed into you, becoming a mumbling mess under his touch. He slipped an arm behind you and brought you closer to him and you gasped at the change in position. He had you trapped in a mating press and all you could do was mutter incoherently. “Kento!” you cried, tears forming in your eyes from the pleasure. He moved his mouth from your lips and trailed sloppy kisses down to your jaw and into your neck. You felt him bite your skin gently before latching onto the side of your neck. He was going to leave a mark, you were sure. You moved your arms forward and hugged his large torso towering over you. He wasn’t slowing down and you were reaching your limit. You dug your nails into his back and you heard him hiss as he released your neck. He smiled snarkily before moving to the other side of your neck and biting down on it. You dragged your nails along his back again and he bit down harder. You cried out as he desperately moved his hips with more force, his knees slipping and forcing him deeper as he temporarily let his weight drop on you for an instant. You moaned loudly and clenched your entire body as you came. He grunted into your ear as he thrust his hips one more time before releasing with a roar. 

You were both breathing heavily as he stayed inside of you for a while longer, twitching against your contracting walls. He kissed your face gently as he tried to catch his breath and you smiled, closing your eyes and enjoying the feeling. After some time he finally moved back, releasing your legs which had been trapped between the two of you. He took a moment to massage your thighs in his hands. You hummed in appreciation. 

You felt him move back and pull out of you. You winced as you felt warm liquid ooze out of you. You pointed to your bedside table and he quickly fetched a handkerchief to clean you up. 

“I might have gotten carried away again.” 

You laughed and sat up sorely. “It's only 8 am.” You mumbled. He smiled at you and you saw his eyes trail to your neck. You put a hand over the spots he had leeched on to. He smiled satisfied as he made his way off the bed. 

“I’m going to take a quick shower…would you like to join me?” You nodded and scooted off of the bed. You looked at him as he turned his back towards you and winced. He turned to look. “What? Is something wrong?” 

“Your back,” you said with a frown. “I didn’t realize how hard I was scratching.” 

He peeked over his shoulder at the sharp red lines. “Nothing you can’t fix,” he said. He went over to you and scooped you up in his arms. 

After your quick shower together you went back into your bedroom to get dressed. You looked in the mirror at your body. He had left a mark at the base of your neck, just low enough to be covered by the collar of your shirt. You looked at his reflection in the mirror and saw he was staring with a smile on his face. “I might have been caught up in the moment, but I made sure I was careful.” 

You smiled back and looked at the mark again. You looked back up at him. “This…this doesn’t have anything to do with you being jealous does it?” 

He blinked and you saw his eyebrows furrow slightly. “No,” he huffed, fiddling with the cuffs of his sleeve.. “Why would you- No, I’m not-”

You laughed. “Sorry, I had to tease. I love when you get flustered.”

He sighed and came up behind you, leaning down to rest his chin on your shoulder. “Do you have the lady lawyer’s card? What was her name? Shimizu? I think I should hold on to her card as well.” 

You frowned and leaned your head into his. “I knew it. You’re leaving me for her.” 

He laughed and wrapped his arms around you bringing you closer to him. He buried his face into your neck and took a deep breath. He pressed a kiss into your shoulder before moving up to kiss your cheek. “We should get going.” 

You turned to look at him. “Okay.” He took your hands and lifted them to his lips to give them a gentle kiss. 

“Make sure Shoko doesn’t go too far, she has a habit of getting carried away…”

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

pt 1.  pt 2. pt 3. pt 4. pt 5.

˚₊✩‧₊thank you for reading my way too overly complicated fic, i have so much planned and its all really self indulgent but I'm glad I can share it with other nanami lovers. i'll try to be better about posting the next part without a three month ghosting period, but in my defense the end of 2024 was out to get me....anyway much love to you all and as always if you saw a typo, no you didn't -Nana

˚₊✩‧₊ taglist: @wrldtups @rjreins @phattyboo90 @tnyblacklesbo @silkija @justwantedachange @inthedarkshadows000 @nniiyyaa @starkmila09 @sikuthealien @wifenanami @bloombb @kentos-glasses @inciteterr0r @naturalismi @kimkimoruo @thatvintagefanboy @lavenderdaydream97

[the-scarecrow-of-aus]

Based off this pic and this post about Steph finding out danny can make eldritch tentacles.

(Pt.1 because tumblr keeps posting instead of saving drafts)

A 'Net' problem

Danny has a big problem... or a bunch of 'smaller' problem's.

His parents had forcefully dragged him off on a road trip, now while he was used to this in the grand scheme of things, they had sprung it on him mid week as he was in school and completely ruined the test he needed to take to graduate school.

Now he's Left behind his friends, his ghost hunting gear, Jazz, who had managed to not be found as his parents drove 'into' the school in search of him and his phone, which was crushed under the G.A.V's treads when it crashed through his classroom wall.

Danny, close to breaking point has had enough.

-

They had been chewed out at the latest ghost Hunter convention for the insensitivity of the ecto-'dream catcher' and on their beliefs that colds and flu were work of the evil ghosts. (One of the organisers had literally thrown a medical textbook at maddie in anger)

They had sequestered themselves in the lab for a week as a result, not bothering anybody. But, being the infamous 'Dr. Fentons' that they were, they had just focused on the positives and ignored the negatives. This included reading the book thrown at them and getting even more insane ghost hunting ideas as a result.

So now they were in new jersy tracking down the The Jersy Devil because: 'according to the book, it was good mental health to have a positive mindset with a goal' and 'he's gotta be a ghost Danno, how else do you explain the stories?' (Danny: "literally anything else but a ghost!")

What could be considered a positive was they had apparently dismantled the dream catcher, judging by the familiar parts found stacked by the lab doors everytime he or jazz had tried to look in on their parents. what they had done with the parts later however, danny didn't know.

He stared vacantly out of the window until something caught his eye, a city limits sign:

Now entering Gotham!

'Crap!' Thought danny, he knew batman didn't like outsiders but he especially didn't like meta outsiders who's rogues followed after them. Considering how he had left, skulker at the very least would probably start chasing after him.

"Dad, why are we in gotham? I thought we were after the jersy devil?" Jack just laughed "we are my boy! What better place for a ghost to hide then gotham, he even has the inhabitants fooled by calling himself the Batman! We're not fooled though, that ecto scum isn't getting away from us!"

Danny frozen in shock, felt the dam in his mind finally breaking, he took a deep breath to calm himself and was rubbing his face in his hands before responding calmly...

"I'm not bailing you two out of jail when this blows up in your face... and I'm definitely not intervening when the justice league comes after you. Can you drop me off somewhere near a library? I don't want to be implicated in this and honestly, I need to catch up on the school work I'm missing out on because you dragged me here".

Maddie, confused about Danny's frigid mood smiled and tried to offer him an ectoblaster "what are you talking about dear? We're not committing crimes, its a scientific study. Besides, You're already a genius in the scientific community! Are people giving you a hard time about it?"

Danny swatted away the blaster and glared at his mother, replying icily: "genius? I was in one magazine about communicating with Delilah the purple backed gorilla, I'm barely passing school because you both keep causing me so much trouble, and nothing about your 'scientific study' would 'ever!' pass an ethics board. Now let me out or I'll let myself out!"

"Nonsense Danno, it's easy to graduate public school, i did and i was barely there when your mother and i weren't hunting ghosts. besides, we need an extra gunner to help us catch the damn ghost, especially if he has backup in the area!"

'Theyre not going to listen' danny thought angrily, if they were willing to attack the gotham vigilantes on a ridiculous idea, then they were too far gone and would not be going down quietly, 'no way in the realms am i going down with them!'

-

As part of one fluid motion, danny, looking out the front window to gauge his timing and safety, unbuckled his seatbelt, got out of the chair to maddies confusion and punched the emergency eject button above the GAV door.

The door hatch forced itself open in a tearing of metal as it tried to deploy both a slide and a inflatable water raft painted with the fenton logo and jacks face. Both were torn away by a street pole catching them.

Danny, grabbing the detatched door frame stepped out of the vehicle without a second look at his parents. The plate door landed, letting danny surf across the road drawing a wave of sparks as it was drastically slowed down from the high speed GAV.

The curb came up quickly catching the door and danny jumped away, gracefully tucking and rolling as he hit the pavement, proceeding to rise and move into a side street away from the surprised pedestrians with limited loss of momentum.

In true gothamite tradition they quickly lost interest as danny didn't seem to be a new villain attacking them and wrote it off as just a 'wayne kid' kidnapping attempt.

Danny weaved through the side streets making sure his parents wouldn't be able to catch him, his first job was to find the library, he needed the resources for his classwork and his parents were too dense to actually try and find him there.

Three inquiries of passers-by later (and two shut down mugging attempts) danny reached the gotham library within an hour or so, the cool quiet confines beckoned him to relax.

Danny reached the front desk and called to the librarian on duty, a red head woman in a wheelchair typing away at her computer "excuse me ms, I was wondering if there's a police hotline to get information directly to the batman?"

The woman looked up at him and quirked an eyebrow in amusement "more urgent the dialing 911?"

Danny snorted at the bizzare knowledge that was his parents "if I wanted to get laughed at and marked as a prank caller sure, my parents are considered crackpots in general, mad scientists at best, with emphasis on the 'mad', is there a number?"

-

Barbara stared at the guy waiting at her desk, he was calm but seemed resigned to something troubling him. "I could ask around but most contact with the bats goes through commisioner Gordon or Bruce wayne, would you like me to try and get a number?"

The guys face scrunched up in distaste at Bruce's name "ew, I'd rather not deal with rich frootloops if possible, you never know whats in their basements. does the commissioner have a number I can call?"

Barbara chuckled in amusement, quickly sound-byting the conversation to the family group chat "you don't know who I am do you?"

Danny didn't even blink before responding "you're the pretty red head librarian who reminds me of my sister, so hopefully your not a rogue in disguise. other then that its not my business, can you contact him or not? we've got time till sundown and the batman comes out, but notifying him sooner is better then later".

Barbara still grinning pulled out her phone and dialled a number, Jim answered his daughters number after the second ring "oh thank you for the distraction from paperwork, what's up?"

"Hey dad, I've got someone here who wants to talk to the commisioner about urgent information for the batman, think you can help?" There was a dramatic sigh from the phone "and here I thought you were calling just to say hello, are they on the level?"

"Well... he looks like wayne-bait but doesn't trust rich people, also said his parents are considered mad scientists, might be related"

The line was filled with a deep groan "ohhh christ, I think I know who it is... *sigh* put him on".

Slightly concerned, she handed danny the phone who held it awkwardly, not used to the thin smartphone. Silently she tapped into the line.

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is Jim Gordon, am I right in assuming you're Daniel Fenton? I've been getting traffic reports on your parents driving for the last hour".

Danny sighed "yes, that's them sir, Dannys fine. just so you know, it's gonna get worse before they stop".

"Worse then driving a tank at high speeds through packed gotham streets? We've already got squad car's in pursuit" Danny looked Barbara in the eyes as he replied

"here's where i get marked as a prank caller sir... worse like they are actual ghost hunters and now think the jersy devil is a ghost... and that it's also batman" Barbara, thinking of Boston brand held in a snort but the amusement drained as she looked at the seriousness of dannys face.

"I don't know if you get news from amity Park Illinois commissioner, if you did you would know theres a weather report segment regarding if my parents are out driving... the ghosts there are the real deal and can cause physical damage, worse is the fact that my parents have weapons capable of harming people and destroying buildings in their pursuit of ghosts, Worse is they blame the damage they cause on the ghosts theyre hunting".

"I... see, any suggestions?"

"Yeah, Tasers won't work through their hazmat suits and I would suggest meta dampening collars but honestly, they'd break them down for parts before you could blink. they will not listen to you unless they think you believe in their ideology and the GAV can pretty much survive tank rounds"

Danny took a long breath and let it out before continuing "look, anyone whose died for more then a minute or two will start to show up on their scanners, they'll be searching hotspots like graveyards or old houses for the big sensor spots. I'd ask that you don't listen to their ideology regarding ghosts because my parents have caused enough damage to the undead that I'm failing high school trying to keep the peace... oh!"

Danny twitched as if he'd remembered something important "I apologise in advance, I know batman doesn't like meta's in the city but I wasn't given a choice in the matter. Unfortunately some of the amity park ghosts might follow me to gotham, if it happens I'll try and get them out of town before they can cause harm, but I'm more into damage control then making people happy".

[thesoulshyperrealaslacreatura]

O Concurso Anual de Tortas de 2023

– Começamos agora esta edição do nosso concurso de tortas com algumas palavras do nosso convidado especial!

Da plateia, emergiram enormes urros pela mensagem da anunciante (a qual, estando sob contrato terceirizado, não esperava tanta agitação vindo de um concurso de tortas de 7 envolvidos). Começando a gravação, mais berros. Assim que a equipe de realização do evento – também terceirizada – ligou o projetor, fugiu o mais rápido possível para trás do palco a ver se seus abafadores de som funcionavam mesmo. Começaram a entender o motivo de os terem recebido em primeiro lugar.

– Sejam todos muito bem-vindos ao Concurso Anual de 2023 Oficial da Comissão Mundial de Tortas. É uma honra ser o convidado especial desta edição. Como vocês bem sabem, eu estou, no momento, sob pena por homicídio doloso, então agradeço sinceramente que a minha presença tenha sido considerada tão importante a ponto de a Comissão montar toda uma infraestrutura pra eu poder discursar aqui. Todo mundo, uma salva de palmas para a Comissão!

Todos os participantes ficaram de pé para comemorar com perfeita compostura – inclusive o convidado, cuja cabeça não coube completamente na câmera. Logo voltaram a seus assentos, agora ainda mais unidos que antes.

– É… nossa, eu nem sei o que dizer. É…

O detento começou a chorar em risos de comoção – toda a audiência compartilhava do mesmo sentimento e, em seu próprio tempo, foram apertando os olhos e lacrimejando.

– É que… é… – agora ele já gaguejava sem mais força para completar uma ideia sequer, inspirando, na plateia, diversas mãos a serem levadas ao peito.

Ele respirou fundo, agora considerando retomar certa estabilidade em sua fala. Tentou acalmar suas tragadas de ar; desavermelhar o rosto; relaxar as sobrancelhas e tudo mais.

Começou a chorar profundamente, em uma tristeza miserável. A gravação subitamente parou enquanto ele se curvava em si mesmo. A plateia batia as pernas conjuntamente para celebrar o convidado como se faz para uma estrela de rock.

Passados dois minutos sob um ritmo surpreendentemente consistente em um chão de madeira que parecia prestes a explodir, uma assistente de organização novata teve que ser forçada pelo resto da equipe para fazer o anúncio final, já que ninguém mais queria fazê-lo. Com extrema hesitação, proclamou:

– Que comece a- a- é a avaliação das tortas! Sim, é... – Ao ouvir os mesmos urros, correu-lhe principalmente um pensamento: “Eles devem gostar mesmo de torta.”

Ela estava certa. Eles gostavam mesmo de torta.

Todos os presentes assumiram suas posições e se puseram a esperar – com visível antecipação no rosto – até às 10 em ponto. 9:59. 9:59. 9:59. 10 horas – como autômatos, voltaram a se mexer.

Os juízes se aproximaram das simples decorações da primeira tenda: alguns adesivos com desenhos de morangos virulentamente sorridentes os convidavam a desfrutar do que uma plaquinha de madeira chamava de “Torta de Morango Salgada da Vi”. Uma moça de avental se aproximou entusiasmada.

– É uma torta de morango, só que eu coloquei uma boa dose sal.

– Pera aí! Você é novata, dá pra perceber... – Um dos juízes, um senhor altíssimo e bem vestido, repreendeu já direto enquanto anotava em seu bloco de notas.

– Tem que se introduzir primeiro, viu? – Um outro juiz de sandálias de péssima qualidade explicou rindo.

– Ah, desculpa, claro. – Ela parecia ter ficado vermelha que nem um de seus morangos.

Para ultrapassar as tensões, o de sandália lançou mão de um comentário qualquer:

– Eu tô achando que você seja a Vi, não? Fica calma que é bem comum não pegar a pegada de primeira. Mas a gente aqui quer ver não só a torta, mas a experiência como um todo pra avaliar, viu?

– Queremos avaliar se há concórdia no momento de apreciação da torta. – Sua colega de galochas enunciou didaticamente.

– Mas é, a gente pede o nome de todo mundo, mesmo que já saiba. – O de paletó comentou acenando a cabeça, blefando quanto ao fato de entender o que era concórdia.

– Bom, é, eu- eu sou a Vi, de Vitória, e a minha avó também se chamava Vitória, só que com “i”. E como a receita era originalmente dela deu pra manter.

– Então seu nome não é com “i”?

– Não! – e, vendo os rostos confusos dos juízes, contorceu a direção de seus pensamentos a ver se sairia algo que soasse compreensível de sua boca – Não porque sim, no caso! Escreve com “i”, é...

– Então... – O quarto juiz, que até então esteve mandando mensagens no celular, tentava finalmente se atualizar com relação ao que tinha perdido.

– Então que eu não sei porque eu disse aquilo.

– Haha! Entendo. Gostei de você. – Ele falou, não tendo esclarecido nada, mas, olhando pela primeira vez as decorações, apreciando os desenhos.

Ela ficou ainda mais vermelha.

– Bom, como eu disse agora faz um tempo, é de morango com uma boa dose de sal.

– Ah, é? Fica bom isso? – o mesmo juiz, que Vi estava finalmente percebendo ter uma feição avoada por natureza, tentou chegar direto ao assunto enquanto brincava de balançar seus brincos. Era a hora de impressioná-los.

– Sim, uai. É receita de família. – E, estendendo aos juízes um conjunto de talheres e um pedaço bem decorado, completou o convite – Façam as honras.

Tentando se adequar ao fato de terem recebido pratinhos muito pequenos – e mentalmente descontando isso da nota de apresentação e serviço – os avaliadores partiram ao primeiro corte. Na tentativa de seccionar uma garfada que contivesse uma quantidade adequada de morangos, podia-se ouvir o singelo som do garfo perfurando delicadamente uma camada amortecedora de creme. Só de se estar passando pelo creme, a mente já se distraía ao pensar que em alguns instantes teriam um bom punhado dele preenchendo a boca assim como seu aroma já preenchia suas narinas, e–

TAC!

Acabada aquela camada, a força extra dos avaliadores repartiu com demasiada facilidade o resto da torta até o talher colidir com o prato de plástico – disso o som de tamborim. Curiosos, atentaram-se mais particularmente às fases da composição, a perceber que havia uma porção praticamente oca entre a cobertura e o fundo; em seguida, um som contínuo. Granuloso. Som de ampulheta? O correr do tempo revelava a verdadeira natureza da torta...

Vazava sal como se viesse de um pacote furado – sal pristino, inalterado – aglomerado no interior da estrutura da torta. Parecia que não acabaria nunca. De fato, os examinadores não esperaram o sal terminar de escorrer ao prato até colocarem a torta na boca. Remexiam com a língua os pedaços de morango enquanto sentiam todos os grãos se moldando ao redor de seus movimentos. Ao engolir, a distinta irritação na boca do sal puro que não tinha acompanhado o resto da comida pela garganta – acumulando-se embaixo da língua e em outros cantos. Os juízes olharam-se uns para os outros:

– A combinação do nome com a especificidade da receita já te dá de cara um certo destaque quanto a o que você está prometendo com sua torta. – A juíza de galochas apontou enquanto escrevia algo furtivamente em seu caderninho.

– É eu até gostei sim. – O juiz de paletó falou ajustando a coluna, já que se curvava para comer ao invés de só levar o prato até sua própria altura.

– Muito obrigado, senhores.

A competidora se virou para o único que não comentou nada, esperando que parasse de coçar as pálpebras para emitir uma opinião qualquer.

– Se eu puder, bem, perguntar o que você achou?

– O quê? Ah! Boa, até... É! Eu gostei, sim!

O de sandálias levantou a mão, e assim que recebeu a atenção da Vi retrocedeu o movimento. Lançou uma pequena dúvida:

– Posso só fazer um... adendo?

Ela acenou que sim. Ele prosseguiu:

– Seu creme estava muito úmido; se a sua apresentação não deixasse clara por si só a sua falta de experiência, isso já teria te entregado. Ele estraga completamente a temática e honestamente te faz parecer um pouco covarde por não se comprometer com a clara estrutura em dois atos – do normal ao absurdo – quando você tenta amenizar com uma cobertura aguada dessas. Ou a sua avó estava ocupada demais te mimando pra realmente fazer algo de excelência ou você impôs suas próprias inseguranças à receita dela e eu não sei o que te faria parecer pior. De qualquer forma é profundamente indigno, é o que eu quero dizer.

Contraindo todos os músculos que pudesse para não começar a chorar, Vitória procurou desesperada a reafirmação dos juízes anteriores. O de paletó começou, ajustando a coluna:

– É eu gostei eu só, não sei... também. Ele falou bem.

– Bom eu... uh. Eu achei legal, pessoalmente. – O de brincos falou com uma enorme dificuldade de focar nos olhos da mulher. – É... – Nenhum dos dois inspirou muita confiança.

– Mas muito obrigada por participar, querida. Foca aí no seu nicho que daí ano que vem você traz algo melhor, na certa! – E, com essa fala, a mulher de galochas gesticulou a todo o grupo para que fossem à próxima avaliação.

Vitória acenou que sim com a cabeça; de maneira alguma voltaria para o ano que vem. Voltou para um canto da tenda pensando se valia a pena conter o choro.

O bem-vestido, que tinha demorado um pouco para acompanhar os outros, se curvou novamente para lamber o dedo com um pouco do sal – que seguia escorrendo. Ao ver a moça no chão, se perguntou por um segundo se seria apropriado dizer algo, e concluiu que o melhor seria não falar nada. Infelizmente para ele, Vitória já tinha levantado o rosto e agora o encarava diretamente, à espera de ouvir mais algo desmotivador; ele teve que corresponder a essas expectativas com o que quer que lhe parecesse minimamente encorajador:

– Você fica bonita aí, assim.

Sentindo-se orgulhoso de ter acolhido a uma novata em sofrimento, passou os dez dedos pelo sal corrente ao mesmo tempo com os olhos fixos nela, a tentar preservar a atmosfera amigável que construíra. Antes que aquele rosto coberto de lágrimas esboçasse alguma reação que contradissesse a ideia de que estava fazendo um ótimo trabalho, o homem se aproveitou de sua altura em relação à tenda para cortar a linha de visão entre eles à medida que se descurvava, e começou chupar cada um de seus dedos da esquerda para a direita. Pegou o prato de sal ao sair, deixando escorrer por onde passava.

A tenda seguinte não tinha decoração temática. A cena era de uma barraquinha de feira comum com um papel marcado em texto Calibri: “Torta de Maçã Sapiente”. Galochas e sandálias, tendo avistado a placa, se apertaram juntas no passo – era um nome de levantar expectativas. Em seguida, balançavam pelo ar um par de brincos e uma gravata tentando não atrasar o andamento do evento.

– Então… – Olhando os dois homens que chegaram cansados de correr, a mulher operando a barraca estendeu pra eles copos plásticos d’água com tema de Halloween.

– Muito obrigado.

– Ah, eu estava precisando disso. Fofa. – Pegou seu copo e passou a lavar as mãos, cujas palmas estavam inteiramente lambidas com traços de sal que aparentemente teria conseguido consumir ainda que no meio de uma correria.

Ficaram todos à espera do brincos acabar com o copo, já que sua glote soltava uma aberração de ruído a cada gole. A apresentadora da vez ficou encarando diretamente o pescoço dele, o que originalmente era para tentar entender como seria capaz de produzir um som assim – “originalmente”, pois logo se distraiu com seu colar místico, que se parecia muito com o que ela tinha perdido na edição passada do concurso.

Tentando encaminhar a participante novamente, o de sandália fez de limpar a garganta e acabou se engasgando um pouco, forçando-o a se servir por conta própria de água também. A mulher seguiu mesmo assim:

– Bem, eu vou só começar mesmo… Vocês já devem ter lido, vocês sabem o que é. Eu realmente pensei nesse projeto como uma extensão das ideias do ano passado, sabem?

– Mas então ela é um ser vivo. – O juiz de sandália começou sua rodada de interrogações enquanto massageava delicadamente seu pescoço.

– É. Ela é profundamente contemplativa e especialmente preocupada com o fato de que estamos meramente em um texto. Mas ela é uma torta, só.

– Daí ela tem ansiedade?

– Sim, eu fiz com que ela tivesse.

– Tipo, na receita?

– Não, por trauma.

– Que trauma?

Ela ergueu os ombros e olhou pro lado, bocejando no ombro da própria jaqueta de couro. O de paletó bocejou logo em seguida. O de sandálias quis bocejar, mas apertou os lábios forte – soltou um pequeno “Desculpa” que ninguém ouviu – e retomou suas perguntas:

– Se a gente comer, ela vai sentir?

– Talvez. Não sei. Acho que não. Sintam-se livres; ela não vai reclamar de qualquer jeito, é só uma torta.

Após todos compartilharem um mesmo olhar, buscando permissão nos olhos dos outros, consideraram-se liberados para fitar a torta com vigor. Rapidamente enfiaram os garfos por entre a massa e recheio a trazê-los saborosos para a boca. Seus rostos davam a entender que estavam gostando. A torta não estava gostando tanto.

O de paletó balançava os braços de um lado pro outro, antecipando o que estava prestes a dizer:

– Tem um recheiozinho de doce de leite. Amei!

O de brincos embrulhou toda a boca, preparando-se para engolir algo grande, como se faz com um comprimido. Logo seguiu a cabeça toda em um arco para trás, endireitando a garganta. Assim que passou pelo pescoço, o homem comentou, em tom misto de curiosidade e tristeza:

– O meu tava com uma pedrinha...

– Ela faz isso às vezes.

Os juízes todos acenaram a cabeça em compreensão. Assim que engoliu seu pedaço, o juiz de sandália finalmente deixou solta a pergunta que estava formulando desde que viu a placa:

– Você parou pra pensar sobre as implicações éticas disso?

– Sim!

– Que bom! – E pegou uma garfada da borda, sua parte favorita na grande maioria das tortas.

A juíza de galochas segurou um pensamento por um tempo, até ter certeza de que sua contribuição fazia sentido.

– E, vem cá, não pensou em decorar com o Frankenstein, ou algo assim?

– O monstro?

– Não, o doutor. Vincular a torta com um ícone cultural forte já dá uma familiaridade, sabe? Primeiro que você já tem a estética de terror gótico. Daí o pessoal vê um cara meio merda que criou vida só pra fazer ela sofrer e você pode apelar para tipo, “você quer ser um merda que nem ele”?

– É, as pessoas querem ser merda hoje em dia. – O juiz de brincos apontou, mesmo com a boca cheia de torta, enquanto ligava o celular para tirar uma foto do pedaço que comia.

– Eu não... – O juiz de paletó fez esse comentário com o que parecia ser muita sinceridade, o que fez com que a própria moça se sentisse pressionada a colocar a mão em seu ombro enquanto ele pegava um bocado de cada uma das tortas em seu prato.

– Mas daí você não pensou da torta gritar não, ou essa sua compaixão feminina não conseguiu aguentar? – Ele questionou sem levantar seu olhar; estava ocupado tentando impedir que o sal – ainda vazando do pedaço anterior – se espalhasse pela torta atual.

– Quê? Uh… – Ela tentou ignorar o comentário e estender um prato novo, um que não tivesse sal jorrando dele, mas o avaliador nem percebeu seu gesto. Ao ver que a pergunta era de interesse dos outros juízes também – estando agora todos a encará-la com forte olhar de intriga –, recuperou-se para dar uma explicação. – A questão é que… elas costumavam poder falar direitinho, só que as tortas de quando eu tava acertando a receita rapidamente obtiveram acesso a um banco de dados compartilhado que formou meio que um subconsciente coletivo… o que significou que elas começaram a armazenar informações sobre quem as comeria para tentar aperfeiçoar sua habilidade de manipulação, então…

– Oh!

– É… eu tive que mandar minha mãe pra uma terapia por um tempo.

– E o gato, como é que tá lá o Torresmo? – a juíza fez questão de perguntar antes de terminar de anotar em seu caderninho temático de éguas (completo com uma capa de duas delas no meio de um salto ao cair da noite).

– Tá bem! Teve uma infecção urinária há um bom tempo mas já se recuperou!

Todos os juízes fizeram cara de compaixão pelo Torresminho. Mesmo sem perceberem, o fato de que não o puderam ver este ano já os tinha predisposto a descontar do fator de entretenimento. Em seguida, a juíza continuou com o questionamento:

– Mas então o banco de dados lá, elas ainda fazem isso?

– Sei lá.

Recebida a resposta, ela fingiu estar fazendo uma anotação, mas estava terminando de fazer um esboço de uma nova égua, tentando ajustar os músculos das pernas para fazer parecer menos com um cachorro. O de sandálias assumiu, e continuou a conversa:

– Devo notar, só, que o meu pedaço tinha um trechinho que parece que ficou preso na forma. Isso já começa a estragar a experiência de eu mesmo poder arruinar um ser vivo, entende?

– É... meio como uma banana, né?

– Mais ou menos isso.

Ela acenou a cabeça, indicando que entendeu as críticas, apesar de não ter nem prestado direito atenção a quem falou cada coisa; fez só uma nota mental indicando “mais banana”. Olhando para o de paletó, que parecia colocar um pouco do sal que saía – ainda – do pedaço anterior por cima da torta de maçã, quis perguntar:

– E você? O que achou no final?

– Eu gostei muito do seu vestido, fica justo em você.

– Ok? – Ela ignorou o comentário e focou no acessório que lhe parecia familiar – E você aí, do colar de cristal?

– Oi? – O de brincos olhou para baixo, em confusão, até perceber que era, de fato, ele mesmo que usava o colar. Quis corrigir e dizer que não era de cristal, e sim, por sua própria avaliação, um material policristalino, mas se reorientou a dar uma opinião sincera – Ah, eu. Eu não entendi a maçã... por quê?

– É, eu coloquei casca de banana, mas ficou com gosto de maçã. – Estava prestes a complementar sua frase com a hipótese de que ele teria, de alguma forma, pegado o colar dela na última edição do concurso, sobre a qual estava ficando mais e mais certa, mas antes:

– Ela perde pontos por isso? – o juiz olhou para o de sandália a esperar sua decisão. Foi respondido em pouco tempo:

– Saber que não foi por intenção dela é meio triste, já que maçã é bem pecado original, sabe?

– Se bem que maçã não é o pecado original, é outra fruta. – A juíza de galochas comentou, partindo a desenhar outro cavalo fêmea; tinha decidido que as duas estariam se beijando.

– Mesmo assim, culturalmente, entende? – O de sandálias reiterou seu ponto, não mais olhando para a concorrente diante de si.

– Então eu perco pontos ou não?

– Bom, isso a gente vai discutindo no caminho.

– Boa sorte! – Gritaram enquanto já se afastavam na direção do próximo confeiteiro a avaliar.

– Ei! – Ela foi em disparada até os juízes, tendo pulado por cima de sua bancada. Não foi impressionante. Era uma bancada curta. Mesmo assim, eles todos olharam fixamente para a mulher, apesar de continuarem seu trajeto como de costume, pois já se tinham removido mentalmente de estarem em conversa com ela. A moça, agora cansada demais para articular ideias minimamente complexas, só garganteou – Colar! Meu! – e o arrancou diretamente do pescoço do juiz de brincos, levemente o engasgando.

Na mente de todos, tinham acabado de observar um roubo à plena luz do dia, mas não se importaram muito – o engasgado tossiu um pouco, levantando a mão ao peito, porém logo se ajeitou e seguiu com os demais. A mulher, agora com seu colar de volta, voltou para perto de sua confortável folha de papel com texto em fonte Calibri. Vendo a pilha de sal que tinha se acumulado ao redor de sua tenda, ela se abaixou, colheu um pouco, e lambeu a mão como gato. Só naquele momento parou para pensar no fato de que, aparentemente, tinha acabado com uma estética de terror gótico completamente por acidente. Refletiu um pouco mais sobre como fazer dessa estética algo mais “banana”. Como estava cansada, parou de refletir. Sal bom.

Dessa vez, andaram todos juntos até a mesa do próximo participante, anunciando sua torta misteriosa de limão com um poster especial feito sob encomenda por algum artista hyperpop. O juiz de paletó parecia particularmente animado, pensando que desses dois outros confeiteiros ele podia esperar coisas de um nível mais profissional.

– Oi oi, sejam bem-vindos!

– Gostei do poster já. – O juiz de brincos chegou já animado para o que essa barraca traria, lembrando-se de quem a operava.

– Eu não. – A juíza de galochas disse desapontadamente, como se isso não fizesse parte de sua avaliação e fosse só um comentário pessoal. Absolutamente fazia parte de sua avaliação, ele tinha acabado de perder pontos na categoria de estética e apresentação.

O juiz de sandálias não sabia o porquê, mas sentia uma fúria primordial com relação ao homem apresentando tortas à sua frente. “Que doido.” Não se lembrava do ano passado o suficiente para entender como conseguia ter tanta vontade de socar alguém, mas continuou com sua postura descontraída.

– Bom, essa torta é minha, claro. Eu não estou aqui para plagiar tortas né, haha! – Ninguém riu. Já tinha acontecido antes e foi uma bagunça para todos os envolvidos. – Mas sim, eu fiz essa aqui de limão porque o azedo é até que importante para o que eu quero alcançar aqui com ela, sabe... assim... é, haha...

– Vejamos, então... – o juiz de paletó anunciou enquanto se esticava para servir a todos um pedaço. – Mas o que que ela–?

Caiu duro no chão antes que terminasse a pergunta. Com ele, o pedaço de torta com sal, que se espatifou por inteiro, deixou uma pilha de sal que parecia se reabastecer conforme se espalhava por aí, lentamente crescendo em volume.

– Ah, sim. A torta te mata quando você encosta nela.

E, com um olhar confuso, os outros juízes tentaram entender a situação. Após um bom tempo processando, a de galochas finalmente superou a má primeira impressão do poster e deixou seu entusiasmo pelo potencial do que testemunhava assumir o controle da conversa:

– Ah! Agora eu entendi! Cê vai abrir um negócio de vender essas tortas, né?

– Sei lá, eu até- ha, é, tava pensando meio nisso, mas não tenho certeza.

– Vende, vende sim! O mercado de suicidas tá crescendo, sabe? É um bom negócio.

– Mas você não acha que um produto de uso único assim não limita as próprias vendas?

– Você não tem cabeça pra ganhar dinheiro, não? Olha... – ela foi virando seu caderninho de anotações até encontrar uma página que não contivesse éguas. – Pensa assim: da forma que vem o produto, daria pra expandir para um comércio adjacente meio mercenário, entendeu?

O homem avaliado parecia ter expandido ainda mais seus horizontes. De pensar no quão valiosa tinha sido já a experiência, deixou cair uma lágrima na torta, que se vaporizou instantaneamente ao atingi-la.

– Que foi? – A juíza perguntou, afastando o caderninho para que o choro não tivesse nem a oportunidade de cair sobre seus cavalos. O de sandálias pensou em fazer alguma piada sobre tirar o cavalinho da chuva, mas não sabia como.

– Não, nada... Sabe, é que. Meu Deus! Vocês realmente... Nossa. Antes das tortas eu realmente sentia que eu não tinha nada, e agora toda essa... ai…

Os juízes assistiram impacientemente o homem, que se forçou a respirar fundo ao encarar os olhos sérios que o rodeavam.

– Eu pensei nessa torta quando eu tava passando por umas… dificuldades, sabe? Então eu espero que se eu possa vender isso, ela fique sendo um símbolo de recuperação – tipo, eu que mato as pessoas agora, olha só...

– Ah! AAAAAAHHH! – O de sandália gritou alto, em um estado de êxtase que parecia ter desencadeado uma leve taquicardia. – Eu lembrei de você! Você é... cê é o cara que eu achei que era tipo o oposto de um übermensch, né? É por isso que eu quero te socar tanto... Ok. Tá fazendo sentido o meu cérebro agora.

Ninguém sabia exatamente como reagir ao comentário, de modo que o próprio comentador se colocou a progredir a avaliação:

– Já que a gente já está falando disso, é a terceira vez que eu tive que perguntar isso hoje, mas cê já não pensou sobre a moralidade disso?

– Ah, sim. Eu tive uma aparição divina há umas semanas já e Deus falou que tava ok.

– Então você acredita numa moral única e objetiva? – O juiz riu para si mesmo: “É, bem coisa de último homem.”

– Não sei. Ver Deus complicou um pouco as coisas, acho.

– E como é que Deus se parecia? – O juiz de brincos aproveitou para sanar uma curiosidade que teve enquanto admirava o colar em seu próprio pescoço, tendo já se esquecido do fato de que não era para estar mais lá. Ao olhar para cima, percebeu que tinha feito o avaliado corar em um vermelho preocupante. Parecia que estava prestes a explodir.

– Meio como você, pra ser honesto. Ha ha...

– Legal. – Ele não entendeu o que isso significava. Para se distrair, pegou um pedaço da torta. Cremezinho bom.

Tentando se manter calmo, apesar de odiar profundamente quando algum de seus colegas interrompia suas interrogações, o de sandália tirou uma folha do cabelo, sem saber exatamente de onde ela tinha vindo. Ao perceber que poderia seguir sua linha de perguntas, fez exatamente isso:

– Você teve que planejar muito pra fazer ela matar?

– Não, na verdade.

– Como é que você fez então?

– Eu só, sei lá, quis bastante?

Por entre três éguas discutindo sobre seus problemas matrimoniais, a juíza de galocha se certificou de anotar que o terceiro avaliado tinha força de vontade enquanto traçava uma reta entre “terceiro concorrente” e “ligar para o tio Henrique” com um símbolo de caveira.

– Só uma coisa, vamos ter que te pedir para limpar por si próprio o pedaço que ficou no chão antes que alguém pise por acidente. Até porque a gente alugou esse espaço aqui, entende?

– Claro, claro.

Os juízes deixaram o confeiteiro com um aperto de mãos. Estavam começando a ficar cansados. O de brincos, com pressa de acabar já, tentou se lembrar do que seria o protocolo:

– Que que a gente faz sobre o Pinheiros?

– Queima o corpo, ué?

Completamente sem querer, os dois tinham dado a mesma resposta a uma oitava exata de diferença. Isso pareceu fazer com que o material do colar, que era basicamente 75% monocristalino, brilhasse ligeiramente, mas seu portador estava preocupado com outro assunto.

– Não não, sobre as notas que ele daria para os outros concorrentes.

– Ah, isso? – O de sandálias pegou um pouco do sal que estava se empilhando agora quase até seus pés antes de continuar sua fala. – Eu já tenho isso preparado, deixa eu colocar eles pra rodarem um dos avisos. Pode indo para a próxima torta que eu chego para avaliar junto.

O juiz de brincos acenou compreensivo.

– É, vai indo você na frente, só, que eu acho que a minha galocha ficou suja com o pedaço que caiu. – Ela disse, abrindo o zíper na parte de trás do calçado para ficar só com as galochas internas. Essas eram vermelhas; as de antes eram transparentes.

O juiz restante estranhou as duas desculpas diferentes, mas seguiu adiante até a barraca mais bem decorada possível. Tantos e tantos de cartolina e glitter em roxos e dourados se faziam convites a um novo mundo; sem dúvida um novo mundo de sabores. As tortas de formato inconvencional prometiam uma experiência sem igual, cada uma decorada com sua própria pétala lilás.

Ao olhar para o homem por trás das tortas, uma ruga de curiosidade se formou por entre os brincos do juiz.

– Você foi o segundo colocado do ano passado, não?

– Pelos últimos 40 anos. Inclusive, onde está o vencedor agora?

– Em casa. Ele disse que tava num episódio depressivo.

– Que chato pra ele...

O juiz voltou para o celular, fazendo planos para depois, apesar de o senhor estar muito disposto a continuar conversando. Fizeram um longo silêncio. Ao perceber que estava sendo encarado diretamente, e temendo faltar com o profissionalismo diante de um ancião da arte de fazer tortas, tomou a liberdade de apontar para a pilha de sal que agora se estendia desde seu companheiro caído até seus pés e perguntar para seu avaliado:

– Quer?

A resposta veio na forma de um restringido balançar da cabeça para os lados esboçando um “não”, com uma curta explicação:

– Pressão sanguínea.

O de brincos fez que entendeu. Assim se dispuseram a esperar quietamente que todos os juízes estivessem prontos. A de galochas, enquanto chegava, já se colocava como a primeira a falar:

– Desculpa o atraso! Mil desculpas – O de sandálias ainda aproveitou para levantar as mãos como se fosse alvo da polícia. – Mas o que que cê tem para apresentar? Tô vendo várias tortinhas.

– São tortas de bomba. – O senhor anunciou sorridente.

– A gente não baniu explosivos há uns 20 anos, 22 ou algo assim? – O de brincos perguntou, pois jurava de ter um motivo significante por trás daquela decisão.

– Tecnicamente explosivos são permitidos, a questão é ser reconhecido no noticiário como um atentado terrorista. – O concorrente disse, levantando de sua bancada uma cópia impressa do excerto do livro oficial de regras da Comissão que se referia ao assunto. Ele logo enrolou o papel de novo e prosseguiu com sua apresentação. – Mas não, não são explosivos. É que um amigo me convidou pra ver ele participar do concurso de alguma coisa chamada bomba de chocolate, que eu fui ver só depois que era pra ser um doce. E, no espírito de tentar trazer algo de novo aqui para o nosso concurso eu não parei de pensar naquilo lá.

– Então isso é pra ser algumas dessas tais “bomba”? – O de sandálias disse, chacoalhando um dos calçados para ver se ele se ajustava de novo, pois estava prestes a cair.

– Não, são tortas mesmo. Mas eu preparei como se fossem bombas. Ó, sirvam-se, que vocês vão entender melhor!

Os juízes já tinham provado tortas menores em suas vidas, mas, por algum motivo, apesar de serem muito mais diminutas que uma torta normal, essas tais “tortas de bomba” pareciam ser do tamanho adequado para o que eram. Antes de sequer pensarem em aproximar da boca, tatearam tudo o que podiam do estranho quitute. Profissionais em obra: uma vista sem igual! Como seguiam as instruções da Comissão, seu método de avaliação para OTNIs era sincronizada até os centímetros e milissegundos. Jogaram o doce para cima uma vez, avaliando seu peso, e logo cheiraram toda a superfície em zigue-zague. Da avaliadora de galochas, surgiu uma pergunta crucial:

– A gente come a pétala?

– Não, acho que ela dá caganeira...

– Certo.

Parecia ser algo perfeitamente adequado, porém os juízes seguiam nervosos. Olharam-se em comunhão: fariam isso juntos, na garra! Colocaram a ponta das tortas por entre os dentes e, fechando os olhos, deram uma mordida. Tendo sobrevivido, olharam entre si, com a comida na boca, e passaram a língua por todas as diferentes fases do pedaço amostrado. Deixaram a saliva dissolver um pouco a massa, virando mais e mais uma pasta doce, até finalmente engolirem tudo. Usaram o momento de trazer guardanapos aos lábios como merecido descanso, na tentativa de compilar suas opiniões. O de sandália sentiu a necessidade de começar uma frase, nem que só para forçar seu cérebro a terminá-la uma vez que já a tivesse introduzido às pessoas ao redor:

– Nossa, é bom mesmo! É... é como se...

Não foi suficiente. Era indescritível.

– É tipo uma torta, só que–

– Bom, é uma torta, não? – O senhor insistiu.

– É? – O de brincos estava perguntando legitimamente. – Você tá com o trecho aí que fala sobre o que é considerado uma torta?

– Não, infelizmente.

– E cê tava com o sobre explosivos!?

O confeiteiro desviou o olhar para a esquerda, escondendo uma risadinha ligeira em sua barba:

– Eu gosto daquele trecho, é humorístico.

Os juízes olharam para o senhor com fortíssimo estranhamento. Não entenderam se é porque já estava meio cego, ou se já não se importava mais, mas ele nem reagiu aos rostos de seus avaliadores. Deu um longo suspiro e começou somente a ruminar:

– Sabem, vocês, eu tenho participado desde a edição de 1973. Faz 50 anos exatos que eu comecei, e mesmo assim nunca ganhei! Já tá na hora, não?

O homem de sandálias, ao ouvir isso, se contorceu bem para coçar as costas enquanto pensou em alguma resposta vagamente apropriada.

– É, é. Vou ter que pensar mais, porque acaba que é bem... conceitual.

O senhor assistiu aos juízes se afastarem desconfortáveis – carregando para longe sonhos de mais de 50 anos – e manteve um semi sorriso inabalável.

– Muito obrigado pelo tempo de vocês.

Anotando o resto de seus pensamentos, os juízes se aglomeraram para enviar suas notas para o sistema de registro, que já determinaria o vencedor a tempo da cerimônia de premiação. Apertado o botão de confirmação do envio, o de brincos se voltou novamente para a bancada do confeiteiro para tirar uma dúvida.

– Pergunta, se um cara falou que viu Deus e que Ele se parecia com você, qual seria uma reação apropriada?

– Ah, eu acho que foi uma tentativa estranha de flerte. – A juíza respondeu, tendo se segurado todo esse tempo diante do que, para ela, era óbvio. Mas logo o concorrente complementou:

– Não, não, Deus parece com você mesmo. Eu posso confirmar.

– Legal.

Ela violentamente mordeu os lábios tentando aliviar o fato de seu palpite estar errado.

– Por sinal, eu quero te falar uma coisa. – O senhor falou.

– Falar com quem?

– A de galocha e sandália.

Os dois juízes aos quais essa descrição servia apontaram para si mesmos, confusos sobre com quem o concorrente queria falar, até se lembrarem que eram a mesma pessoa, e simplesmente usando um par de sandálias por fora das galochas vermelhas.

– Ah, o quê?

– Eu gostei dos seus desenhos de cavalos... Eu olhei alguns deles de relance e... achei eles bacanas.

– Ah, obrigada! Mas são éguas...

– O quê?

– São éguas.

– Certo, certo...

– Bom, às vezes são cavalos também, mas são principalmente éguas.

– Certo.

Ela começou a se perguntar se o homem tinha feito alguma expressão que não fosse aquele semi sorriso, até ele comentar:

– É que eu tenho um cavalo no meu sítio.

Ela já não sabia mais o que responder e meramente se afastou junto ao seu colega de trabalho. Sussurrou:

– Eu não vou muito com a cara dele.

– Homem estranho, né?

Ficou surpresa quando ele falou que precisava resolver algo com o confeiteiro que tinha matado o Pinheiros, mas a reação logo evaporou quando viu os dois indo juntos para trás de uma das tendas. “Ah, de fato é junho...” Aproveitou para mandar os desenhos de éguas para sua terapeuta, como tinha sido requisitado. As duas se entusiasmavam por esse tipo de coisa.

Passado certo tempo, assoviou para anunciar sua presença e convocou a gritos seu colega, indicando que voltasse para assistir à premiação. Assim que terminou, a oradora oficial do evento fez o mesmo para toda a plateia de antes 7, agora 6. Um a um, foram se encaixando nas cadeiras de plástico de frente ao palco.

– A gente tinha uma oradora oficial? – O de brincos quis saber.

– É que ela chegou há uns 3 minutos.

Ligaram-se as luzes. A oradora da Comissão, ainda um pouco ofegante, começou seu discurso:

– Sejam bem-vindos à cerimônia de premiação do Concurso Anual de Tortas de 2023. Primeiramente, como oradora oficial desta edição de 2023 do Concurso de Tortas, é com um grave peso no coração que anuncio a morte de um dos nossos juízes do evento, por favor, todos, um momento de silêncio por esse falecido profissional avaliador de tortas.

A apresentação passou rapidamente pelos slides já preparados para o luto dos outros juízes até chegar nas fotos do defunto. Por falta de opções, recorreram a fotos dele fazendo biquinho e em várias posições instigantes que a Comissão conseguiu extrair das conversas privadas dele com sua esposa. A plateia inteira ficou de pé em silêncio, por respeito à grande perda na comunidade mundial de tortas.

– Não imagino que precisemos descrever sua influência em como entendemos as tortas em seu verdadeiro potencial artístico para vocês. Por isso, não vamos. Mas planejamos honrá-lo de uma outra maneira. Recebemos, ao longo do tempo, diversas reclamações das mulheres participantes que seu comportamento trazia tendências inapropriadas. A Comissão gostaria de aproveitar para reiterar que sempre se propôs a construir um espaço de confecção de tortas acolhedor para todos os gêneros. Dito isso, decidimos honrar a memória do recém-morto por meio de um desconto simbólico de 3 pontos nas notas de todas as participantes femininas deste evento.

Uma mão se levantou na plateia. Era da que fez a torta que podia ser morta, que agora estava com sua atenção dividida entre a dúvida e um guia na internet chamado “Como deixar suas tortas goated e banana pilled em 5 passos simples”.

– Eu tenho ume amigue não binárie que às vezes participa, como é que elu ficaria?

– Ele não saberia o que significa, então provavelmente ele discriminaria contra, né? Elu pode perder 3 pontos também, que seja. – A oradora disse, não entendendo o que na arte de fazer tortas parecia atrair tanto desses LGBT. Estava irritando já. Ficou de perguntar para sua namorada depois. – Sem mais demoras, apresento a vocês o vencedor de nosso concurso, por favor, suba ao palco...

Na projeção para a plateia, o slide estava prestes a mudar, mas não sem antes fazer uma pirueta que o deixou picotado em mil pedaços espalhados pela tela como confete enquanto a animação de uma janela sendo aberta marcava a transição a um próximo slide. Vazio, claro. Ele primeiro foi preenchido de cor e modelos tridimensionais girando festivamente até aparecer, letra por letra, o texto: A – T – O – R – T – A

– Meu Deus, eu fiz uma torta, pode ser a minha! – Gritou o homem da torta de limão.

V – E

– Todo mundo fez uma torta, cala a boca! – Respondeu a confeiteira da que podia ser morta.

N – C

– Eu vou arrancar sua pele com um ralador! – Ninguém entendeu exatamente quem falou isso.

E – D – O – R – A – É – A – :

Efeitos sonoros de tambores rufando acompanhados de imagens de gatinho balançando baquetas.

– Torta de Morango Salgada da Vee! Nossa primeira vencedora mulher!

Vitória precisou ser convidada a se levantar, porque suas pernas, por si mesmas, estavam em firme dormência. Era ela mesmo? Então erraram o nome. Mais do que por felicidade, ela quis chorar de não fazer a menor ideia do que estava acontecendo.

A plateia, composta somente do resto dos concorrentes, aplaudia com compostura e dignidade.

– E agora, você tem direito ao seu desejo a ser realizado pela Comissão! Que seria...?

– Eu quero ir pra Disney! Eu posso ir pra Disney?

– Infelizmente, a comissão não permite o financiamento de voos desde 2001.

– Vocês podem matar o meu primo, então?

– Tem um motivo específico para isso?

– Não sei.

– Ok. Bom, espero ver todos vocês no nosso próximo ano de tortas.

Infelizmente, as operações da Comissão só continuariam até março de 2024, em que um escândalo internacional envolvendo um de seus maiores doadores provocaria uma investigação que revelaria atividades criminosas conectadas à Sociedade Global de Tortas e sua relação com diversas tentativas de golpe em múltiplos estados latino-americanos.

[kizzington]

Not aiming this at anyone specifically, but I’m genuinely so disappointed & annoyed at the fact no one in my real life circles bothered to reach out to me to check up on me regarding the recent Liam Payne/One Direction news.

[afterthelambs]

PLEASE spill the Makoto cop tea. I'm always down to hear people's thoughts on that

Thanks anon! I do my best to keep this blog positive-vibes only, but since you asked I will answer. Warning: DO NOT read this post if you do not want to see any criticisms about Makoto Nijima from P5 + discussions of police. This is not hate towards the character or her fans. It's just criticism for the writing choices and their implications for her.

Makoto Nijima does NOT want to reform the police. There's a mandela effect in the fandom where everyone seems to think she does, but rewatch her rank 10. Reform isn't mentioned at all. I'm so serious. What she actually says is this:

Within her confidant, the context is the host that was preying on her friend Eiko. Wanting to stop situations like that is good and makes sense 👍 The writers framed her decision to become a cop as a response to the most clean-cut black-and-white situation ever.

But here's the thing though: what happens when the lawless and the victims are the same people? Because in the real world, crime tends to concentrate among the poor and marginalized. The real world is not black and white. And I try to separate my personal experiences with the law from the media/art I engage with, but that doesn't work here because the game at large doesn't portray society as black and white.

There are a number of people in this game that do wrong because they have been hurt or are marginalized or did not receive proper help. A lot of mementos requests are about 'lawless' people and yet many are portrayed as 'due to systemic issues' or a lack of support or developing mental illness. It's also not a coincidence that Akechi is the most marginalized of all the phantom thieves and he was the one who did the most crime. There is deliberate social commentary here. People do not become lawless out of nowhere. They are shaped by their circumstances. And the game itself sympathizes with these people, focusing on changing/ helping them. The game's conclusion is that providing support and rehabilitation is the solution. Rehabilitative justice > Punitive justice.

Police wouldn't achieve that. Police in the game are framed as corrupt and incompetent at their core. Our protagonist is one of their biggest victims to demonstrate how they are weaponized against the weak. Even Sae Nijima at the end of the story has shifted to become a defense attorney rather than attempting to reform it (best character arc btw) because she recognized that the system is broken. And you can't even blame it just on Shido controlling the police because we see that the problems persist beyond him. By the end of the story they remain useless or outright harmful. The police do not help or rehabilitate, they only punish.

So no, this isn't me projecting my personal issues with cops onto the story because within the game's own story, law enforcement is not the solution. If it were a question of reform, we could debate about whether police reform is possible, but again: Makoto doesn't care about reform. It never comes up. According to the writers, she wants to be a cop because she thinks not enough lawless people are being punished. You can argue that her wanting to 'head an organization' means she wants to be in a position of power where she can reform them, but remember that police only enforce the law. They do not make the law. If reform was her goal she would be a politician. (I honestly thought that's what she was set up to be, since she was student council president and all but I digress)

Also a small detail, but notice how she mentions destroying the lawless before she mentions helping victims? It's super minor but I think it's indicative of the cop mentality. There's greater priority on punishing than helping.

I also dislike this conclusion to her arc because it's net zero character growth. You're telling me the character that was rebelling against corrupt adults' orders is now becoming a cop, the biggest bootlicking profession of them all? She started the story being a well-intentioned pushover, and she's ending her story being a well-intentioned pushover. And it doesn't matter whether she as an individual is a good person or not. All cops comply to be active participants in a system that is designed to hurt the weak and prop up the powerful.

TLDR: You do not help victims by punishing the 'lawless'. You help victims by helping victims. Period. Makoto becoming a cop is a contradiction of this and her own character arc. Either the writers did her dirty by not thinking this through or this is meant to be who she really is, and both those possibilities upset me.

[kasarian]

aiyo wala na talaga reach ko sa tumblr when it comes to art :') toughie, but eh lets see.

[loveletterworm]

I think an issue i've developed is that every couple years my standards for blog organization seem to rise but I still don't change the way I run my blog, so now a little over 2 years after moving to this blog in part for the purpose of starting fresh with my reblogs organized by topic instead of the giant scary blob i had for the better part of a decade before that, I am now experiencing mild frustration over the fact that my reblogs aren't tagged for the characters in them so i can't look through an ordered list of pictures of Scrombly Blober or whoever the hell i have to sift through like 200 random text posts i also made about the thing Scrombly is from. but if i consider setting up sideblogs so that i could more reasonably do this without convoluting the tag system on my main by having to account for every single different thing in the world at once then i get too hung up on the various logistical difficulties of such an endeavor and don't do anything forever.

[sceletaflores]

SINK IN ME WITH YOUR DOG TEETH!

ೃ⁀➷ pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ wc: 7.0k

ೃ⁀➷ contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, feral nasty unhinged logan yes god, logan only slightly losing his humanity but like it’s a lot less sad than it sounds, maybe some toxic relationship dynamics but who cares it’s porn, predator/prey dynamics, p in v, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, HEAVY scent kink (like don’t make me say it…but beware of some very subtle armpit stuff), pain kink, biting is just another form of sexual penetration guys, blood, so much come and come talk, creampie, squirting, this is just gross, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ nat's note: hi…hi y’all…so here’s the winner of the poll and i need everyone to just hear me out for a second! walk with me! this is probably the most unhinged thing i’ve ever written, like omg those tags. this upsetting depravity was inspired by this post by @stupidfuckingwindow and this post by @monimccoythings which both altered the chemical balances of my brain so fiercely i blacked out for a while and when i came to this was in front of me. merry christmas and happy holidays! take this not at all christmas themed fic as my present to you my precious angels. kisses!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics!

you notice a strange shift in logan...

There’s something off with Logan.

The changes were subtle, but you’ve been with him long enough now to pick up on them. And while he's always had a raw, untamed edge to him, a sort of wildness simmering just beneath the surface, this feels different.

It started with the way he would go quiet for longer than usual, like his mind was too far away for you to reach—lost to somewhere distant.

Logan has always been quiet, but this was a different kind of silence. Conversations that used to flow with ease now hang in the air, unfinished. All of his responses reduced to nothing but low grunts and clipped words.

And he was more territorial over you, so much more.

His hand has started to linger at the small of your back or the curve of your waist for a lot longer when you’re in public, his strong grip firm enough to remind you—and anyone nearby—that you’re his.

He would fume at even the slightest hint of someone else's interest in you, a low warning growl escaping his throat to anyone who spared you a second glance.

It wasn’t just the physical closeness, though. It was also in the way Logan has started to watch you—his sharp gaze a never ending constant. An all imposing, heavily looming shadow.

There were even times late at night when you thought he was asleep, that you’d find him staring at you in the dark.

Not the usual, protective gaze he’d have when he thought you were vulnerable, but something deeper, more intense. His breathing would be slow, measured, but there was this energy, this tension that hummed between the two of you.

The nights he did manage to sleep, he’d hold you close to him, his grip iron-tight, his face buried in your hair. If you tried to shift away, even for a second, he’d stir, his arms pulling you back with a quiet, possessive growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

There were bite marks on your neck when you'd wake up, small enough to pass off as nothing—at least, that’s what you tried to tell yourself, but each one felt like a brand. They were deeper, more deliberate.

Then there was the scent—his scent.

You swear it’s gotten stronger, more potent. It clings to you like a second skin, lingering in your clothes, your sheets, even your hair. An intoxicating blend of leather and pine and musk that makes your head spin.

Each time you left the house without him, he’d pin you to the mattress and rub himself all over you before begrudgingly let you walk out the door. His hands or his face running along the delicate skin of your neck, of your stomach, of your wrists.

Everywhere.

He was claiming you in ways—new ways—that left you both exhilarated and confused.

There were other things too, smaller but no less odd things that were starting to add up.

More and more of your clothes have slowly started to go missing over the past few weeks. Each morning when you open any of your dresser drawers, it seems like there are less and less filling them.

Shirts, shorts, socks, bras, panties. All things you’ve found shoved under his side of the mattress or tucked under his pillow. The most memorable hiding place was the front pocket of his leather jacket, your favorite pair of panties haphazardly stuffed inside.

You haven’t said anything about it yet, unsure if you should be concerned or amused.

It isn’t like he’s truly hurting anyone.

He’s just acting…strange.

A part of you can’t help but be drawn to it—the new intensity, the new rawness. There was something undeniably magnetic about the way he clings to you, like you're his anchor in a world constantly shifting beneath his feet.

You’ve seen Logan at his worst—bloody, broken, and lost. But this? It’s never been like this before.

Whatever it is, it has its claws in him deep, and by extension, you.

You just got home from a run, barely walking through the door and kicking your shoes off when a call of your name rings out from the bedroom.

Logan’s tone stops you in your tracks—low and rough, like gravel crunching underfoot.

Your reaction is nearly instant, breath hitching in your chest, heart skipping a beat as a warmth that has nothing to do with the temperature outside starts to pulse through you steadily.

It’s like you’ve become reprogrammed to respond to him this way, your body reacting before your mind can even catch up as his deep, familiar voice rolls over the sweaty expanse of your skin.

You drop your bag at your feet and slowly make your way to the bedroom, a bead of sweat trailing down your temple as you push the door open.

All the curtains are closed, the only light in the room a yellow glow that shines from your bedside lamp. 

Logan is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his palms, but there’s nothing casual about his posture.

His gaze is locked on you, dark and intense, tracking every step you take, like a lion stalking a gazelle as it drinks from a watering hole.

“Didn’t tell me where you were going.” His eyes gleam as the lamp’s rays reflect off of them, his pupils dilated so he can see you better in the darkness that shrouds your room.

You swallow hard, trying to be as nonchalant as you can as your feet carry you to your dresser. “I went for a run,” you reply, your voice a little too steady, a little too casual.

You tug open the top drawer, rifling around for a clean shirt with a little more focus than necessary to distract yourself from the way his eyes burn a hole into your back.

“You didn’t tell me,” Logan repeats, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that sends a shiver down your spine. “You know I don’t like it when I don’t know where my girl is.”

There’s a sharp edge to his words, but it’s not anger—it’s something far more primal.

The energy in the room crackles like a storm about to break, and you feel it in your bones, in the way your skin prickles under his gaze.

"I was only gone for an hour," you say, your voice measured, careful. "You were still asleep when I left, I didn’t want to wake you." 

You chance a glance over your shoulder, and the sight of him steals the air from your lungs.

Logan hasn’t moved an inch from his perch on the edge of the bed, but the sheer force of his presence keeps you rooted in place, heart hammering in your chest.

“Hmm, that’s real sweet, baby,” he drawls, sitting up straighter now, leaning forward.

The motion makes him seem larger somehow, shoulders broad and imposing in the dim light. His tongue drags slowly across his bottom lip, and the way his gaze rakes over you feels like a physical touch, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

Your fingers still in the drawer, fabric slipping from your grasp as your pulse pounds in your ears. You can’t bring yourself to look away from him, caught in the snare of his sharp, predatory focus.

You turn slowly, arms falling to hang limply at your sides. "I wasn't gone long."

Logan tilts his head, a low, amused sound rumbling in his chest as he rises to his feet with a fluid, deliberate ease that makes your stomach flip.

“Didn’t feel that way to me, darlin’.” His voice is a deep, gravelly purr. It sends a shiver down your spine. “Felt like forever.”

His eyes never leave yours as he crosses the room, the green completely swallowed by the dark black of his pupils as they seep into the color like oil spilling out over the surface of a lake.

You’ve never seen him like this before, so hungry.

"Logan," you say slowly, back pressed tightly against your dresser. "You're really starting to freak me out." 

Logan hums idly, head cocked to the side as he watches you. "I can hear your heartbeat." 

His tone is calmer now, but there’s still a dangerous edge to it, like a knife pressed just lightly enough against the skin not to break it.

Your pulse races, heat simmering in your stomach despite the slight edge of fear clawing its way through your chest.

He stops in front of you, so close that his scent invades your senses strong enough to make your knees feel like they’re about to buckle beneath you.

“There’s nothin’ to be scared of baby,” he mutters quietly, thick arms coming up to cage you against the dresser. 

Your hold on the wood tightens, your knuckles turning white with the strength of your grip.

It’s almost chemical, the way you can feel your body start to give in to him. The thought fills you with as much arousal as it does unease, a heady combination that churns in your stomach.

You muster up enough will to breathlessly nod in agreement, a quiet submission.

Logan’s lips quirk into the faintest smirk, his heavy gaze dipping to the curve of your neck, lingering on the rapid flutter of your pulse. “That’s my good girl.”

Any words you might say get caught in your throat as you stare up at Logan, wide eyed and steadily leaking wetness into the gusset of your panties. 

His nostrils flare, and a knowing sound rumbles from somewhere dark and low in his chest as his eyes flutter shut on a deep inhale.

Your thighs clench together instinctively, the overwhelming need to be filled wracking through your body like thunder.

When Logan opens his eyes again, there’s no trace of anything but pure animal need. The muscles in his jaw working furiously under his skin in time with the strain of his forearms still caging you in place.

“Yeah…” he trails off slowly, tone both condescending and soothing all at once. “I know you’re not all that scared, honey.”

He leans in, tearing a small whimper from your throat at the way his beard scrapes against your cheek as he crowds you.

His breath fans over the shell of your ear, hot and enticing as they brush against your skin when he speaks again. “I can smell how fuckin’ wet you are.”

Logan’s words send a sharp jolt through you, a broken moan falling from your parted lips as your cheeks heat up so fiercely it’s as if you’ve been slapped.

Your body moves without thinking, pressing up into his hard, unyielding frame like you can’t help it—and maybe you can’t.

“L–Logan…” Your voice trembles, a weak thing that dissolves in your throat as he noses along the skin of your neck.

His hands come down to rest on your waist, palms rough and possessive and warm and a perfect fit where they lay over your curves, anchoring you in place.

“Shhh.” His lips trail down your jaw, leaving wet kisses in their wake. “You don’t gotta say a thing, princess. I know what you need.”

Logan’s hands slip lower, cupping the backs of your thighs with ease before hoisting you onto the dresser like you weigh nothing. The sharp edge of the wood digs into your legs, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about the discomfort.

Your hands go to his shoulders without much of a second thought, nails digging into corded muscle as you try to keep your balance. 

Logan’s hands stay on your thighs, his grip strong enough for you to feel the power behind them without hurting you.

He noses along your sweaty skin like a hot-tempered hound, desperately inhaling greedy lungfuls of your scent wherever he can get it.

Behind your ear, in the crook of your neck, along your collarbone, the exposed swell of your breasts, dangerously close to your underarm.

He groans against your shoulder, a full body shiver jolting his frame. “Smell so fuckin’ good darlin’, drives me goddamn crazy.”

You can’t form a coherent thought, let alone a response. His mouth finally finds yours, claiming you with a ferocity that steals your breath.

Logan's tongue slides against yours, a messy, desperate kiss that has you moaning into his mouth, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him closer.

It’s filthy, fueled by nothing but raw need and desperation. Spit drips from your chin to trail down the length of your throat until it gathers in the valley of your breasts. Whether it’s his or yours, it doesn’t matter.

It’s a perfect mix of the both of you, lewd and messy in the way it claims your skin.

Logan breaks the kiss with a low moan, his chest heaving the same as yours as you both inhale harsh lungfuls of air.

His lips are red and raw, swollen in a way that your own must mirror. A string of saliva keeps you connected, drooping thinner and thinner in the space between you until it breaks under the weight of gravity.

Logan doesn’t give you long to catch your breath. His lips trail down your jaw and latch onto the sensitive spot just below your ear, teeth scraping against skin before he sucks hard enough to leave a mark. 

Your head falls back against the wall as his mouth moves lower, dragging the strap of your sports bra down with his teeth.

The way he’s acting—like a man crazed, like he needs you more than he needs air—has you dizzy with need. But there's a part of you that’s still trying to hold onto some semblance of control, to hold onto something familiar in the chaos.

It’s only then that you realize this may be a bad idea. 

Whatever this is, is clearly an accumulation of all the things you’ve noticed over the last couple of weeks.

Maybe indulging Logan will only make things worse, like giving in to him when he’s in such a state could be the tipping point to a much deeper and all consuming issue buried somewhere inside of him.

It can’t possibly be healthy for him to act like this, and it can’t be healthy for you to bask in it as much as you are.

“W–wait.” Your thighs slip shut, hands coming up to push at Logan’s shoulders weakly.

There’s no real force behind your ministrations and you keep your neck bared to him all the while, but he stops anyway, rearing back with a displeased noise. 

His face hovers inches from yours, and for a moment, you swear he looks almost pained—his brows furrowing, jaw tightening as though reigning himself in is a Herculean effort.

His hands remain on your thighs, trembling slightly as he keeps himself rooted in place, clearly fighting every instinct roaring through him to just take what he wants.

“You don’t want me to stop, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly, a stark contrast to the restraint in his expression. His thumbs stroke idly against your skin, his touch soothing even as his words drip with pure, feral confidence. “I can smell the way your pussy’s achin’ for it. I can feel it. You’re shakin’ for me.”

You are—your whole body feels like it’s on the verge of unraveling under his touch, your resolve crumbling faster than you’d like to admit.

Everything you were going to say gets clogged in your brain on the way out, leaving you silent as you hold his gaze.

You don’t even have the capability to feel embarrassed at the way you blanch, lost in the way his scent attacks your senses, in the rough drag of his palms over your bare thighs, in the way your lips still tingle from his kiss.

Logan sighs, long and all suffering as his hands come to rest on both of your shut knees. The impatient raise of his brow paired with the dissatisfied curl of his lips is enough to shake you to the core.

“Now, you gonna show it to me?” His fingers drum along your knee, his patience thinning. “Or am I gonna have to make you.”

And it may sound like one, but you know it’s not a question. 

It’s a choice.

Your mind races, hands clenching and unclenching on Logan’s shoulders as you weigh your options. His own hands squeeze your knees, just hard enough to let you feel it in your bones.

You spread your legs.

Logan doesn’t waste a second, dropping to his knees in front of you with a satisfied rumble and a predatory gleam in his eyes. His hands grip your thighs, pushing them even wider. Wide enough to make you feel exposed, vulnerable in the best way. 

Your head dips, chin falling to your chest as you watch the way Logan takes up the space between your legs. Your shorts are soaked, fabric so drenched that it’s melded to the shape of your cunt, your puffy folds on display for his greedy eyes.

“Fuck,” Logan breathes, his voice cracking like a whip in the quiet room. His hands find your waistband, and the dull sound of fabric ripping rings out.

The sturdy cotton tears like tissue paper in his hands, the scraps of your shorts falling carelessly to the floor, leaving you in nothing but the light blue panties you slipped on before your run. 

The way he gazes at the space between your thighs is feral, unrestrained, like he’s a man starving for his next meal—and you’re it.

“Look at that…” Logan mutters, almost to himself as he runs his knuckle along the wet cotton of your panties. His touch is featherlight, barely any pressure at all, but it’s enough.

Your breath hitches, a sharp intake of air at the teasing touch, and your hips instinctively cant forward, silently begging for more. 

Logan's eyes flick up to yours, a dark smirk curling his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you—and how much you're already falling apart.

“Eager fuckin’ thing,” he drawls, voice rough with arousal. He leans forward, his hot breath ghosting over your soaked panties, sending a shiver racing down your spine. “You want me to give your pussy some kisses, baby?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the words never make it out. Logan’s lips press against the damp fabric, placing a kiss right over where your covered clit throbs with need.

Your head falls back to rest on the wall behind you, a shocked moan bursting from your lips.

“Logan.” His name is pulled from your mouth like a plea, but he doesn’t let up, the sharp edge of his teeth scraping over the sensitive bundle of nerves hidden beneath the soaked barrier of your underwear.

“Hmm?” He hums against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core. “Thought you wanted me to stop?”

The taunt is maddening, the rasp of his voice and the teasing flicks of his tongue combining to unravel you piece by piece. 

You shake your head furiously, thighs trembling where they rest on his broad shoulders. “N-no—don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

Logan chuckles darkly, his hands sliding up your thighs to hook his fingers into the thin waistband of your panties. 

“That’s more like it,” he taunts. With a single, sharp tug, the ruined fabric joins the scraps of your shorts on the floor.

Logan groans at the sight of your bare cunt, slick with your juices and flushed with arousal. His mouth waters, his tongue running along the sharp points of his canines in anticipation.

You’re already so ready for him.

“You smell so fuckin’ good,” he growls, leaning in to drag his nose along the slick seam of your folds. The deep inhale he takes is obscene, sending a ripple of anticipation through your entire body. “Know that you taste even better.”

Logan licks a broad stripe through your folds, groaning like the taste of you is enough to satisfy him completely. His hands grip your thighs tighter, keeping you spread and utterly at his mercy as he begins to work in earnest.

He alternates between laving the tip of his tongue over your clit and dipping down to fuck into you, his beard scraping along the skin of your thighs in a way that’s almost too much. Your head falls back, hitting the wall with a soft thud as your vision blurs.

“God, Logan.” You squirm on the vanity, but he holds you steady, growling low and deep into your core like your moaning only spurs him on.

“That’s it,” he mutters between licks, his words unmistakably smug. “Make those pretty little sounds for me, baby.”

Logan circles your clit with the flat of his tongue, alternating between firm, deliberate strokes and light, teasing flicks that leave you gasping for air.

You cry out, fingers tangling in his thick, unruly hair as he repeats the motions, your thighs starting to tremble on either side of his head.

Every time your hips buck against him, he growls, the vibrations of it sinking into your skin and amplifying the pleasure coursing through your veins.

“Stay still,” he orders, his voice muffled against your dripping core but no less commanding. His hands tighten on your thighs, holding you in place with an unrelenting grip. “You’re not in charge, sweetheart.”

You whimper, your whole body trembling as you fight the urge to grind against his face. But it’s impossible to stay still when he’s licking into you like a man possessed, his mouth working you over with an intensity that has your vision going hazy.

“I know, you're just so damn needy, aren’t you, baby?” He drawls , pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with your arousal. “You love this, hmm? Lettin’ me take care of you?”

You can only nod, words failing you as his fingers replace his mouth, sliding through your spit soaked cunt.

“You’re so goddamn pretty down here.” Logan mutters, almost to himself, spreading your puffy, abused folds obscenely wide. 

He teases your entrance, fingertips dipping into your warm heat only to retract a second later. You whine, high and embarrassing as your hips twitch with want.

Logan watches your face closely, his expression equal parts smug and adoring as he finally sinks one thick finger inside you, curling it just right.

“Fuck,” you breathe, your head lolling back he adds a second finger, stretching you in a way that has your toes curling. He pumps them slowly at first, each deliberate thrust sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body.

“Takin’ me so well,” Logan murmurs, his thumb brushes over your clit, drawing tight circles that make your thighs tremble. “So tight and wet for me. You’re makin’ me crazy, darlin’.”

Your moans grow louder, unrestrained, as he picks up the pace, his fingers plunging into you with a rhythm that has your skin burning hotter and hotter.

Logan’s mouth returns to you with renewed fervor, tongue and lips working in perfect tandem as he drags you closer to the edge. 

He shakes his head back and forth like an animal, his nose rubbing up against your clit deliciously as buries his tongue as deep in your cunt as it’ll go. The coarse hair of his beard scratches the sensitive skin of your inner thighs red and raw.

You can’t think, can’t breathe, your entire world narrowing down to the feel of his mouth on you. 

“Logan—” Your voice cracks, your head falling back against the wall as the spring of pleasure inside you winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. “I’m—fuck—I’m so close—”

“Good,” he growls, pumping his fingers in time with the flicks of his tongue. “I can feel you squeezin’ me. I want you to come for me, baby. Wanna taste every fuckin’ drop.”

You’re powerless to resist.

You cry out, thighs clamping shut on either side of his head as you come on his tongue. Your body shakes so violently you knock a few things off the vanity, the distant sound of glass shattering hardly registers. 

Logan growls, low and dragged from the back of his throat in such a way that makes it reverberate in the space between your legs. His own arms come up, grip strong and encouraging as he forces your legs around his head even tighter than before.

He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up, licking and sucking and pumping his fingers to drag you through the aftershocks like a man obsessed. 

When you finally come back to yourself, panting and trembling, Logan’s holding your shaking thighs apart, his mouth still pressed to you in soft, languid strokes.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mutters, voice rough and gravelly as he presses a final kiss to your oversensitive clit. 

Logan’s hands slide up to your hips, gripping tight as he rises to his feet, towering over you with that same dark, predatory gleam in his eyes. 

His lips are even redder than before, swollen and slick with your juices. His beard is damp and shining in the low light, and the smug, satisfied smirk on his face sends another pulse of heat through your already spent body.

“Good girl,” he purrs, not even bothering to wipe his mouth before leaning in to capture your lips in a kiss that’s all heat and possession. 

You can taste yourself on his tongue, the salt and musk mingling with the raw hunger. It’s filthy and intoxicating, and it leaves you gasping for air when he finally pulls away.

But Logan’s far from finished.

His hands slide under your ass, lifting you off the dresser with ease. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively as he carries you to the bed and tosses you on it with little preamble.

Your back hits the mattress hard enough to have you bouncing on it once, twice, three times before Logan is crawling up to blanket your body with his. 

The heavy weight of his metal laced bones sink you into the soft plushness, keeping you stuck beneath him with nowhere to go.

Which you know is exactly where he wants you.

He slots his hips between yours, dragging the straining jut of his cock along your sensitive cunt. You can feel the warmth of him even through the thick material of his sweats, a scalding plane of heat that makes your cunt ache with need. 

You can feel the damp patch where his clothed tip nudges against your clit, and you know from that alone he’s already soaked through the cotton with pre-come. His cock leaking like a faucet in the harsh confines of his bottoms while he ate you out.

“Feel that?” Logan asks, voice hoarse as he buries his head in your neck. “That’s all ‘cause of you, baby. Got me drippin’ like I busted a damn pipe.”

The sharp intake of air you suck in at his words does nearly nothing to help your breathlessness, your desperation bleeding through as your frantic hands push at the waistband of his bottoms. “Off. Off.”

Logan huffs a rough laugh against your neck, his warm breath skating across your skin as his lips ghost over your pulse. “So fuckin’ bossy.”

He doesn’t move to help you, not right away, savoring the way your hands fumble and tug, your frustration bubbling over in breathy little gasps.

“You want it that bad, huh?” he teases, the rough timbre of his voice a stark contrast to the gentleness of his lips pressing along your jaw. “Look at you, so damn needy. Can’t even wait for me to get my cock out.”

You only tug harder, patience nonexistent as your fingers curl into the waistband. “Please, Logan. Don’t tease.”

“Alright, alright.” Logan finally gives in, sitting back just enough to push them over his hips, freeing his cock.

It springs free, slapping against his stomach heavy and slick with pre-come, the ruddy tip glistening in the low light.

The sight alone has you clenching around nothing, a devastatingly desperate noise falls from your lips as the ache between your thighs builds to an almost unbearable throb.

He makes quick work of ripping his shirt over his head, carelessly tossing it behind him before he’s back on you.

This time, when he bullies his hips in between yours, there's nothing separating you.

You feel every inch of his cock as it grinds along the seam of your cunt. The velvety skin is almost scalding as it drags against your own, the drool of pre-come only adding more to your own wetness.

Logan presses you into the mattress harder, rutting against your cunt almost desperately as he noses along your damp, overheated skin.

His mouth is everywhere. Sucking marks where the junction of your neck meets your shoulder, lapping up the sweat that pools in the valley of your breasts, licking a filthy stripe across the side of your face that has your cheeks burning.

He buries his nose in the sweaty skin of your underarm, whining and panting like a surly dog all over again. Each breath is hot and wet against you, and it only seems to make him hungrier, greedier. His cock blurts even more pre-come onto your skin with every inhale he takes.

It should gross you out. 

It should be utterly mortifying, but the sight of Logan like this only leaves you thrumming with want. 

His desperation, the raw, unfiltered way he takes you in—like he can’t get close enough, can’t have enough of you—has your pulse racing and your mind spinning out of control. 

You feel his nose press harder against your skin, the heat of his breath fanning over you as he groans, a deep, guttural sound that reverberates right through you. 

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice gravelly and broken. “You smell so goddamn good. Can’t help it. Can’t fuckin’—” His hips jerk, the weight of his cock sliding slickly against your cunt, bumping up against your clit in a way that makes you shiver. 

“Logan,” you whimper, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders, nails digging into his skin. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing the friction, the relief, the unbearable stretch you know only he can give you. “Please, I can’t take it anymore. I need you—need you so bad.”

He smirks, his lips curling against your skin as he nips at the curve of your jaw. “Need me, huh?” he murmurs, his tone dark and teasing. “Need my cock inside you, stretchin’ you open? Tell me, baby. Tell me how bad you need it.”

“So bad.” Your hips tilt up instinctively, desperate for him to push inside. The head of his cock catches at your entrance, the blunt pressure sending a jolt of electricity through your body. “Need you so bad it hurts. Please—please don’t make me wait.”

Logan growls, a feral sound. “Such a good girl when you beg for me.” he snarls, big hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise so he can flip you on your front, gently manhandling you until you're on all fours. “Gonna fill you up, princess.”

His hands knead the soft flesh of your ass as he lines himself up behind you. The weight of his cock presses against your entrance, slick and ready, and for a moment, he just stays there, teasing.

Your arms shake beneath you, elbows locked as you force yourself to stay still, patient.

The head of his cock nudges against you, spreading your slickness, and your body trembles in anticipation. He sinks himself into you in one deep, unrelenting thrust.

The stretch is instant, the burn delicious as he pushes inside, inch by inch, filling you in one fluid, devastating stroke. A choked gasp spills from your lips as he bottoms out, his cock seated so deep you swear you can feel him in your stomach.

“Fuck.” Logan stills, his cock pulsing inside you as he lets you adjust, but the restraint is fleeting. 

His hands glide up your back, palms rough and grounding as they map every curve, every quiver of your body. He starts grinding his hips in slow circles, pressing every inch of his cock along your velvety walls. 

Your head drops between your arms, brows pinched together as you take in greedy lungfuls of air. You’ll never get used to this, the way Logan fills you so perfectly, no matter how many times it’s been.

“Come on, baby.” Logan leans down to press a soft kiss between your shoulder blades, his lips fever hot. “You wanted to fuck me so bad you could hardly wait. Now’s your chance, fuck me.”

It takes a few long seconds for his words to cunt through the molasses clouding your mind, the small thrust of his hips hinting at what he wants you to do.

You let out a pitiful whimper, hands digging into your bed’s puffy comforter as you start rocking your hips. 

You start slow, letting yourself build up a nice, steady rhythm as Logan purrs words of encouragement from behind you. His hands never leave your hips, thumbs rubbing soft circles over your skin as you start to pick up the pace.

“That’s it,” he encourages darkly, giving the rippling muscle of your ass a sharp swat. “Find the fuckin’ spot, baby. Write your name on this cock, tell everyone who it belongs to.”

You cry out at the sting of his palm, bouncing yourself on his length impossibly faster. Your arms burn under the strain of your movements, but you can’t stop chasing the high of pleasure that shoots up your spine.

The sound of skin on skin fills the room, a lewd slap slap slap as you fuck yourself on Logan’s cock like he’s a replacement for the cheap suction cup dildo collecting dust in a box hidden away in your closet—like he’s nothing but a expertly shaped lump of silicon molded solely for your pleasure.

You can feel yourself getting close to the edge, and in nearly no time at all. The telltale coil buried deep in your belly winding tighter and tighter as you work yourself on Logan’s cock hard enough that the cheap frame of your bed thumps against the wall.

It might be embarrassing if you weren’t so far gone already, so fuck drunk that the too loud moans falling from your lips hardly phase you.

It's like there's nothing but the feel of Logan inside you, bumping against that spot inside you that has stars shining behind your closed eyes. 

“Close already?” Logan taunts from behind you, voice just the tiniest but breathless, but the way his cock pulses and jerks where it’s sheathed in your cunt lets you know he’s right there with you. “I know you are, honey. I can feel how she’s squeezin’ me, so damn tight.”

His hands dig into your hips, not even waiting for a response as he starts thrusting in time with your bounces. He pounds into you, hips snapping against your ass hard enough to sting.

“Fuck, I’m gonna come too baby,” he bites out, the rhythm of his hips getting sloppier. “Gonna come so fuckin’ hard, fill you up so good. Shit–”

Logan pulls out enough that only the thick tip of his cock stays sheathed in the warmth of your cunt, his body falling to hunch over yours as he pumps his come into you with a feral growl.

You whine at the feeling of his release filling you, painting your insides with spurt after spurt of thick come. It’s so much, it’s always so much. A rush of warmth that floods your insides each time without fail.

And just like that, the feeling alone has you coming.

Your back arches as your cunt gushes over the tip of his cock, drenching his thighs and the rest of his shaft in your essence. You think you may scream, but it’s hard to tell over the white noise rushing through your ears.

Your arms finally buckle under you as Logan helps you ride out the last few tremors of your orgasm with a few slow rocks of his hips, and your spent body collapses onto the mattress.

Logan’s low noises of pleasure barely register as your chest heaves almost violently, your lungs desperately trying to get as much air as they possibly can.

But you barely have time to catch your breath before Logan plants his knees back firmly on the mattress and starts thrusting, again. 

“Logan!” Your hands scramble for purchase on the mussed sheets of your bed, the overstimulation making your legs kick out frantically.

“You thought we were done?” Logan asks, his tone equal parts amused and mocking. “You popped twice already, baby. S’only fair that you let me catch up.”

With no warning, he takes you in his arms, pulling his cock out just long enough to flip you on your back. He throws your legs over his shoulders before plunging back inside your fucked open cunt with a filthy squelch. 

He feels even bigger like this, yet your body swallows his cock like it’s nothing. The spongy warmth of your walls melding to the shape of him like it’s what you were made for. 

The coarse hair of his happy trail drags across your clit each time he thrusts, adding to the blistering feeling where the knife's edge of too much too much too much meets not nearly enough.

His come stuffed in your trembling cunt only makes it all the more filthy, his cock plunging inside you and coming back out slick and wet on every thrust. 

Your lips fall open on a broken moan, eyes screwing shut as you work your cunt around him, feeling the way his release gets fucked deeper and deeper inside you.

Logan notices, of course he does.

A dark chuckle rumbles against your own as he leans down enough to whisper into your slack mouth. “You like havin’ someone come in your pussy, baby?”

You moan into his mouth unabashedly, loudly. Both of your eyes burning as tears threaten to fall down the flushed skin of your cheeks, your throat going dry and scratchy in the best way possible. 

“Shit–” Your hands claw at the rippling muscles of his back desperately, nails digging into his skin hard enough that you feel the unmistakable slickness of his blood coating the tips of your fingers.

The pain spurs him on, his head tips down on a low groan and his eyes squeezing together for a split second before he’s spewing filth again.

“You want some more?” Logan asks, tone going dark like he already knows the answer as his hips speed up impossible faster. “You want me to come again?”

You don’t respond, you can’t respond. You can barely make a coherent thought. 

All you can manage are whiny moans that fall from your slack lips, broken little uh uh uh’s that get punched out with each new thrust. Your nails rake down his back mercilessly, leaving behind deep red welts that heal as you go.

“Yeah, I know you do.” He turns his head to nip at the skin over the delicate bone of your ankle where it bounces near his head, sharp teeth digging in enough to have you whining pitifully. “You love havin’ a messy fuckin’ pussy, don’t you? Love being stuffed so full of my come you can’t even hold it all, huh?”

His words hit you like a physical blow, lighting up your body from the inside out. Your thighs shake where they’re wrapped around his hips, ankles locking over his lower back so he couldn’t pull out if he wanted to.

His come mixes with your juices to coat his cock, completely drenched all slick and shiny in the dull light of your bedroom. It drips down almost leisurely compared to the near feral snap of his hips, trailing all the way down his length to his heavy balls. 

“Yes.” He groans, reverent. “Give it to me, baby. Wanna feel you come on my cock again, feels so fuckin’ good. Can’t ever get enough—”

You’ve never heard him like this, so high of pleasure that his speech slurs and his words all meld together into one filthy stream of ramblings that has you sinking your nails even deeper into his back and coming on his cock with a loud wail.

Your cunt convulses around him, shaking with the force of your release, milking him. 

“Fuck, princess.” Logan pitches forward, his sweaty torso covering yours as he keeps fucking into your shaking body, desperately chasing his own release.

Finally, with a muted roar of your name, he sinks his teeth into the tender skin of your neck and comes for you.

You cry out at the sharp sting of his teeth bearing down hard enough to draw blood, your vision whiting out with the pleasure of being claimed in every way imaginable.

Logan’s hips only stop when he’s drained of every last drop, his body shaking where it lays over yours. He laps at the broken skin of your neck, a soft gesture that isn’t quite an apology for making you bleed—because you know that he isn’t sorry whatsoever—but it’s nice nonetheless.

Your arms come up to circle around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as the exhaustion hits you all at once. You get lost in the steady rhythm of Logan catching his breath, in the way his heart pounds against his ribcage where his chest is pressed to your own, in the way his fingers twitch and flex on your hips.

The last thing you hear as you drift off, his come starting to leak down your thighs in thick streams of white, is a hushed whisper of “I got you, baby. I’m right here, I’m always right here.”

It puts you at ease, all the worry you felt over the last few weeks slipping from your mind like grains of sand through your fingers.

Maybe, this new side of Logan isn’t so bad after all.

tags are now in the comments! if you want to get tagged for any of my works just fill out this form!

[nicholasgoodgirl]

could you make a jealous Nicholas smuttt???

request accepted!

crazy in love -nicholas

summary: you get jealous so you successfully make nicholas jealous in return and he teaches you a lesson.

warning: smut, pin v, unprotected sex (plsplspls use a condom), overstimulation (i think thst it not sure)

a/n: thanks for the request. pls keep them coming

nicholas wanted me to attend this red carpet event with him, and of course i was quick to accept but i quickly dreaded and pushed down the eargness i so suddenly felt to be able to attend such an important place. i started going down a rabbit hole of posts of him with other girls.

the comments collectively agreeing he looks better with the other women he has worked with in the past.

i cut my phone off and waited in silence for my boyfriends stylist to be done with the finishing touches on his suit.

i walk in the dressing room and he was laughing with his stylist, and of course she had to be a woman.

at the after party of the even i planned on getting pay back for the jealousy he probably didn't even know he had instilled in me.

--

we were here at the after party and I've seen a few recognizable celebrities there but wouldn't dare approach them.

nicholas' hand was comfortably placed around my waist "nervous?" he asks, his words coming out ever so subtly "nope, why would i be" he replied with a low hum; shrugging.

i left his side and went to go get drinks he dispersed off somewhere else as well.

not even 10 minutes later i found myself talking to some guy with nice brown hair that complimented his soft brown eyes but his looks didn't even compare with my man.

"do you have somewhere to be after this?" he asked and i just let out a chuckle "maybe" i looked around to seen nicholas eyes were already on us.

i swallow drly and try and wrap the conversation up "i think i gotta go" that was my abrupt attempt on ending the conversation.

"c'mon pretty lady i can make it worth your while" the man placed his hands on my hip trying to make me stay.

before i could say anything i was being dragged away from him to no suprise by my boyfriend himself.

"let go of me" my voice wobbles. i struggle to tug my hand out of his grip; trying to get free. "no, we're going home. now." his voice was stern and there was no question. we were going home.

-

in a hurry nicholas unlocks the door, we both walk in and he slams the door shut behind us "what the fuck was that!?" he shouts.

"suddenly we go to a party and you're single?" i feel guilty but then remember the pictures i saw of him with other girls; looking cozier then ever.

"tha-thats not what happend at all" i try to explain myself. "you need to be taught a lesson. wanna be taught a lesson love?" he asks, his hand firmly squeezing my cheeks too firm towards i could only nod

"yeah I'm sure you do" he scoffs and pulls me to our shared room.

once we reach the dimly lit room, the only light illuminating the room was the warm tone of the lamp.

Nicholas pushes me down on the bed and crawls ontop of me starting to place open kisses down my neck, to my collar bone.

going back up to my lips, grabbing my face kissing me roughly. i moan into the kiss giving him enough space for his tounge to invade my mouth, claiming me as his.

he stops what he's doing "take your clothes off" he demands. i comply and begin taking off my heels throwing them aside with a loud bang they hit the ground follwed by the other heel. then pulling my dress off painfully slow so he does it for me.

snatching the material over my head and tosses it aside kissing down my stomach, trailing down to my inner thigh.

"you're so perfect" he mumbles, his fingers mess with the hem of my lacey panties and pulls them down and off me.

he goes down on me and licks the arousal that leaked from my core. i bite my lip to suppress a moan.

another lick, and a pressured kiss against my clit. i was a mess. feeling his breath against me sent shivers all over. i let out a gasp when he swirl his tounge on me. i felt my orgasm nearing; the band ready to snap "close- oh fuck!" i shout

he pulls away almost immediately. "not yet you aren't. turn over f'me"

"please.. i just- m'sorry" i whine, turning over anyway putting my ass in the air "sweetheart this is a punishment you can cum whenever i say. alright?" he says with faux sympathy

i hear his belt fall to the ground and his zipper unzip before he positions himself behind me and lines his throbbing cock up with my entrance.

with a deep thrust, he buries himself far inside me. "you feel that? how deep im inside you?" i nod vigourisly letting out a whimper. his hips snap forward; each thrust giving pushing my body up the bed.

his hand moves down my back pushing my face into the bed allowing me to take him deeper.

nicholas leans down and whispers in my ear "could he fuck you like this?" everything was so intense i could harldy ever come up with a verbal response for anything he asked. so again i shook my head 'no'

he grabs my hair and makes a makeshift ponytail "could he?" ,,no" i cry out squeezing my eyes shut in relief when he lets go of my hair

he continues slamming into me at a relentlessly brutal pace. the only sounds that could be heard was lewed sounds of skin slapping together paird with my muffled moans

we discussed a safe word prior to moments like these and i would have used it in this moment but as intense as everything was it felt so good.

without warning i clench around him and realese the knot that had formed in my stomach bursting. his thrusts didn't slow down, "i didn't say you could cum" he disdainfully reminded

i hiss at the sensitivity. my vision began to blur with tears while I also realize this is him teaching me a lesson. "apologies" he demands "imsorry.. im so fucking sorry" i began sobbing

i could no longer keep my body up my legs began to shake but no matter the condition nicholas' hands kept me in place as he pounds into me. before i knew it he had finished inside me already

i was so far gone in a daze i didn't even realize it. he pulls out and lets my body flop onto the bed "are you alright?" he asks tucking pieces of hair that had fallen in my face behind my ear.

he gets one of the throw blankets and puts it over me. 'mm' is all i could muster up. i was fine but in the moment i just wanted to sleep

a/n: i wanted to add aftercare but i feel like this was long enough..

[scented-morker]

Wearing Enhypen’s clothes

Enha x implied fem reader, established relationship, 945 words (AGAIN), fluffff, jungwons is longer than everyone else’s😬

Heeseung

He is the perpetrator.

Like as soon as you walk in the door he shoves his hoodie onto you

It’s not cute either— your arms get stuck and your hair is messed up and staticky everywhere

But as soon as it’s on he pulls the hood down and looks at you with such a lovesick look even though you look like a gremlin

Every time you stay over he makes you wear his clothes because he just thinks you look so cute

And since his shirts/hoodies are too big on you it makes it easier to sneak his hands up them to hold your bare waist which is his favorite way to cuddle 😔

Jay

At first you were just so impressed with his style that you wanted to be like him 🥺

He though it was so cute when you walked out in one of the outfits he had posted a picture in one day and been like “how do you manage to make this look good 😭”

“Well for starters, the clothes actually fit me” he laughs and ruffles your hair

He likes to get matching outfits so you don’t always have to steal much of his stuff since you probably have a match

But you always end up stealing his accessories

The amount of times he’s complimented your necklace only to realize it was his 😐

You’re lucky he loves you

Likes when you slide his rings onto your fingers while you’re playing with his hands 🥰

Jake

THE KING OF SHARING CLOTHES

He will give you anything that you want from his closet, no questions asked

He loves trying to sneakily add articles of his clothing to your outfits

Like “hey what if you added- I don’t know- a flannel around your waist? Actually look, I’ve already go one right here. Let me put it on you.”

He loves coming home and seeing you in his hoodies or flannels (especially when they’re so long it looks like you aren’t wearing pants 😭)

Refers to his new purchases as “our new jacket” or will text you and ask “do you like this?”

And when you tell him it’s a mens shirt so you wouldn’t wear it he goes “actually, it’s a jake shirt, which means it’s a yn shirt.”

Sunghoon

He’s one to act like he doesn’t like it

But one time when you told him you were cold and he said “sounds like a you problem” you threatened to go get one of the other boys’ hoodie and he got so pouty and mad 😭

Now he always brings an extra one of HIS hoodies whenever you hang out because he doesn’t want you to get it from someone else

Also the type to show up at your house, see your collection of his clothes and tease you about it but then not take them back

And if you EVER tell him you need another one bc the ones you have don’t smell like him anymore—

He’s gonna need three to four business days to recover from that

Sunoo

Another one to refer to his closet as “our closet”

He always asks you to wear his stuff

Like you text him to ask what you should wear for your date and he tells you to just wear anything over and he’d give you something of his to wear

Sharing sweaters 🥺

Like little grandpa sweaters that you thrift somewhere and you guys share them like it’s the sisterhood of the traveling pants or something and send each other little pictures of where you were wearing it

“Today I wore our sweater to the ice cream shop! The guy in front of me in line ordered mint choco and it made me think of you” 🫶

Jungwon

Listen, he’s seen the romcoms— you’ve made him watch enough of them during movie nights to know that people like wearing their boyfriends clothes

He just had no idea how to offer it

Does he just walk up to you one day and say “here, wear this”? Does he take you to the cold section of the grocery store until you shiver and then give it to you?

HE DOESNT KNOW!!!

But one day you two come home from one of your dates and decide to just chill in his bed

Which is cool, except you had dressed a little nicer for the date and your outfit wasn’t exactly made for comfort

“Hey won, do you think I could borrow something to change into? My outfit isn’t very comfy.”

He scolds you at first for not wearing something you’re comfortable in because he’s gonna think you look beautiful no matter what you wear, but eventually gives you a tshirt and pair of shorts to change into

Laughs because you look like Adam Sandler

“I thought this was going to be cute but you look really funny”

Riki

Listen, he loves napping

And napping on you is one of his favorite places

So when your stupid pretty shirt was scratching against his face, Riki was very upset

He lets out a big dramatic groan, grabbing one of his hoodies from the floor next to his bed and shoving it onto you so that he can sleep in peace

You’re still wearing it when he wakes up, and earlier he was too tired to be embarassed but now he realizes what he did and gets a little red

“Thanks for the hoodie ki,” you tease him, but still refuse to give it back when he asks

“Well if you hate it that much you can take it off.”

“Never!! This is mine now!”

Cue him chasing you around to try and get it back

[hyuckmov]

haechan — settle down (rockstar hyuck) | part 3 of 3

wc: 11k (lol) genre: angst, smut (18+ minors dni), fluff warnings: unprotected sex, making out, creampies, fingering, oral (f recieving), lowkey don't have that dog in me anymore so this is kind of vanilla, dirty talk, aftercare...? needs to be read after part 1 and 2 a/n: fucking finally. so so so sorry for the wait and also this is lowkey probably so BAD because its been a hot minute since i've written for tumblr. because this could be written/ended in so many ways, AN EPILOGUE IS COMING with a 'happy' ending, just not putting it here in this part because i think i should post this out first on it's own. i love you guys so much, thank you to every single person who's read, commented, let me know how much you liked it, and waited so patiently. i cannot express how much it means to me.

—

"whose party is this again?" 

"jaemin's friend chenle," mark says, placing his drink down on one of the tables. "think they should be around here somewhere." 

through the smoke, he can see your eyes shine. you've come even closer now, and it's as if every movement of yours is liquified, rendered in slow-motion – you flick a strand of hair out of your face and it's like he can feel the damp air on your cheeks, a slow smile spreading across your face like sunrise spilling over the horizon, that lovely curl of your lip that he's memorized. he feels his chest cave in when he hears you laugh, feel you take another step closer to him even though your eyes never meet his, even though you never look his way – every memory he has of you threatening to burst through his seams. 

your skin glows under the dizzying lights, and all he can think about is the fact that you’re so close, he could reach out his hand and touch you. but he can’t. you weren't his – and he was the one who had thrown you away.

jisung comes up to you, and haechan can see his friend's shy smile met with your beaming grin as you turn to face him. jisung is saying something to you – a hand gently placed on your shoulder as he speaks into your ear, the other gesturing vaguely towards the upstairs rooms. and then you're nodding, and haechan watches wide-eyed as he takes your hand in his and begins guiding you up the stairs. 

he can't help it – he only waits a beat, enough for you to disappear up the stairs, before he's rushing through the crowd, climbing the stairs two at a time. he rounds the corner just as he sees the flick of your skirt as you disappear into the nearest room, the door clicking shut softly. taking a moment to calm himself down – chest heaving, wringing his hands – he pads softly towards the room, placing both hands on the door, straining to hear anything that might be going on. 

low voices. the rustling of fabric. haechan's imagination spun out of control – jisung's large hands on your skin, his plush lips exploring your neck, your soft sounds, the way you might look under him. he heard a light laugh, and he pressed even closer to try to catch what was being said – what if he had you on his lap? what if you laughed because he'd kissed you behind the ear like haechan did once? it had caught you by surprise, and you'd giggled – burying your face in the crook of his neck. you were sorry. you were just sensitive. haechan had wanted to pull you into his chest and never let you go. 

he knew he was breaking his own heart – over-analyzing each muffled sound that came through, all his thoughts drifting back to memories of you. but he couldn't seem to peel himself away as the party raged on and on downstairs, didn't want to be anywhere else but near you even if you didn't know he was there. he had never felt this way with anyone else before – never needed anyone else like this, never afraid like this – and the realisation roared loud in his ears along with the feverish ghost of your fingerprints all over his skin. 

–

jisung knows haechan's going to talk to him. 

can see it in the way he hangs back after practice, fiddling with his guitar and placing it back on its stand, before picking it back up again for no real reason. there was something off, slightly, about haechan these days. not enough for jeno or mark to comment about it, to hold an intervention, but things had definitely changed – haechan never brought around girls, or showed any interest when jeno and mark would discuss them. he was quiet, and subdued during practice, absorbed in his own guitar, or else discussing new songs with mark in low voices. and strangest of all – jisung mused, slinging his own bass over his shoulder as he ambled to the door – haechan started to seem afraid of jisung. 

jisung – who had for the longest time been the most timid and shy of the group, the least experienced by far. he remembered how haechan would tease him if a girl paid him any slightest bit of attention: half-joking, but half trying to build up his friend's confidence. he remembered how he used to be wary of haechan's attention at after-show parties, because haechan would watch him like a hawk and push him into any girls he showed the vaguest interest in. he remembered his shock at haechan, who had never been mean or vindictive – a pain sometimes yes, but never truly cruel to him –, standing there obstinately in his place on stage, staring down at you in the crowd. 

to the version of haechan now, who could barely look him in the eye. 

"jisung?" 

haechan clears his throat. jisung stops in his tracks, turning back to look at haechan. 

"yeah?" 

haechan's gaze is directed at his shoes. swallowing, he takes a moment before he asks. "uh…how was…um…how've you been?" 

jisung has to stop himself from laughing out loud. "i've been good," he says, amiably. he's not going to let haechan have it easy. 

"nice…nice," haechan mumbles. "uh…seeing anybody?" 

"haechan," he keeps his tone light. "come on." he moves towards where haechan is standing awkwardly, taking a seat down on one of the stools. after a beat, haechan sits down too. 

"how did it go with y/n?" haechan sounds almost timid – like a child asking a question, but scared of knowing the answer. 

"can't you ask her yourself?" he knows he's making things difficult, but he needs haechan to work for it. needs haechan to articulate, because he knows that's the least you deserve. 

"i…i could," haechan says. "but i…i don't want to seem possessive. i already fucked up by wishing her luck on the date and i just…" he buries his face in his hands. jisung doesn't say a thing, waiting for him to finish his sentence. "i don't want to hurt her anymore…but i need to know. i need to know what to expect.…" haechan's voice is so small, like he's disappearing into himself. 

"haechan…" he starts, slowly, but haechan cuts in, hurriedly. 

"if you really love her, jisung, if you're happy together, i'll back off. i won't see her again. it'll be…it'll be too hard to see her with you but that's for me to figure out. you…you should both be happy. she deserves you, ji. you'll be good for each other." 

"what are you even saying…" jisung lets out a nervous laugh. he knows haechan tends to get dramatic – loves blowing moments out of proportion, lingering on stories that were fun to tell and relive. loves to exaggerate – always taking the smallest details too seriously and making light of things that had real consequences. but as he watches haechan – curled in on himself, he sees that this is something else entirely. this haechan was anxious and overthinking, unsure of himself, fractured into a thousand different wants and needs. 

"i'm serious, jisung." haechan, the vocalist he is, keeps his voice as steady as possible. "i'll back off if you tell me to. if i'm making it hard for you in any way…" 

"haechan, it's…it's going to be fine. it's not what you think." 

"you…you're not together now?" a hint of hopefulness. 

jisung chooses to be kind. "we're not," he says, gently. when haechan's lips part, he continues on, interrupting him. "it had nothing to do with you. we're just…not." 

"i'm sorry," haechan murmurs, finally lifting his head. "i know you wanted it to work out." he truly means it.

"i'm happy with the way things are now," jisung says it, and he means it too. "but…but you know she's going to start seeing other people, right?" 

a beat. "yeah…yeah of course." 

"you can't go after all of them and ask them if it's working out or not, you know?" jisung says, wryly. "at some point…you need to just talk to her." 

"i…" haechan break off, a pained expression flitting over his face. "i don't have anything to say. but i really want her to be happy. i just want her to be happy. but it sounds…" he catches the look on jisung's face. "i know it sounds like a guilt-trip. i know what it sounds like." 

"give her space," jisung suggests, quietly. "figure out what you're willing to give. who you can be for her."

"hyuck or haechan." he says it almost spitefully. he had never hated the difference more. 

-

you were in the crowd today. 

it had been a little over a month – 6 days more, to be exact, – since haechan had last seen you in the crowd, each time spotting your face easily, everyone else fading to nothing. each time noting every which way your eyes shimmered under the lights, the ways your pretty lips curved into a smile or a shout, or even each time you looked away, distracted. 

he'd practically rushed into the dressing room after the show ended, anxious hands tugging at his clothes, trying to fix himself up just in case you decided to come find him. questions had spun around in his mind so much during the show, he was afraid he would start singing them in place of mark's carefully written lyrics. he's thought of a thousand ways to bring it up, but he wishes he could just ask — how've you been? have you forgotten me? 

he's still lost in thought when the dressing room door opens softly, the lock turning gently in the door barely louder than a whisper. 

"haechan?" 

he turns, and you're there. you're wearing a new dress, probably the shortest one he's ever seen on you, black glittery fabric barely brushing the tops of your thighs. but he doesn't linger on your body, his eyes seeking out your own, the flush of anticipation and adrenaline in your cheeks, the way your hair falls slightly loose, framing your face. the question is on the tip of his tongue, his lips are parting, his breath catches in his throat –  

" – don't worry," you say, breathlessly, as you catch the look on his face. "no one saw me." 

oh. 

walking towards him, you pull him into a hug, arms wrapping around his neck, so you can brush your lips against his cheek. pulling away, you peer at him, wondering why he's looking at you so lost. like he was wondering something since he laid eyes on you tonight.

you frown. "were you going to ask me something else?" 

his lips part, soundlessly. you've never seen him so speechless. his arms tentatively circle around your waist, fingers brushing the fabric of your dress, and understanding dawns on you. 

"yes, it's a new dress," you smile. 

he swallows, the cloudy look clearing from his eyes as he finally runs his heavy touch down your back, a feeling you've grown used to. 

his tone is slightly darker when he plays along, masking the traces of disappointment. "for me?" 

you nod, letting his hands wander to the zipper, eyes traveling to the mirror to catch the way he fiddles with it, slowly starting to drag it down your spine. 

what you don't catch, is the way he's looking at you – lip caught between his teeth, eyes focused on the side of your face, regret and sadness and a desire he still couldn't shake coursing through his body. you had come back – and maybe that was all that he should care about. 

"come home with me," he blurts out, suddenly. "i have to show you something." 

confused, you look back at him, frowning. "now?" 

he swallows. "yes. we'll still…it's just…" he stammers, confidence draining as he watches you zip your dress back up. "i mean…i just…thought you'd like my bedroom more than this dressing room. you said- you said it was uncomfortable, that last time…" he trails off. his head droops, fingers picking at his nails. 

you place your hands on his chest. his head lifts just slightly, glancing at you through his lashes. "haechan," the ache in your chest making your voice soft – barely above a whisper. "why are you so nervous today?" 

"i'm sorry," he starts, but you shake your head. "it's been awhile."

"that's fine, i'll go home with you," you say, smiling, hoping to reassure him. the words instantly relax him, and he lets out a breath. you can feel his chest move under your palms. 

"i'm sorry," he repeats, softly, but you don't know what he's saying it for. 

–

you don't know how you ended up here. 

one moment, haechan was unlocking his door, one hand fumbling with the keys as he held yours tightly in his other palm. the next, you were pushing him against the door – his plush lips, soft and tasting slightly like honeyed lip balm, finally kissing you deeply in a way you'd craved. and then he was sweeping you up into his arms, your legs locked in around his waist, his bag slumping to the floor as he focused all his attention on you. placing you on the countertop, he takes his time with your lips – his hand first cupping your face, then working its way down your neck, as if he was making sure you were wholly real through touch since his eyes were closed for the kiss. 

"hyuck?" you murmur. 

guilt pricks at your conscience when you feel him falter. you would never admit that you realized the name did something to him – made him more desperate and more tender all at once. you used it sparingly, only in certain moments, and tonight seemed just right for it, what with the way his touch was already so infused with longing. 

he hums in acknowledgement, pausing. a gentle palm tilts your face towards his, and his eyes are wide and patient. 

"what's wrong?" he asks. 

"i want to suck you off," you mumble, your words coming out rushed and careless. you almost think he might not catch it, but haechan goes still. his hands, caressing your face, stop moving.  

"what?"

your mind explodes with a million thoughts. did he not want you to? how many girls had sucked him off before you – did he think you wouldn't be good enough? was he not attracted to you enough? 

he was still just looking at you – something unreadable in his eyes. 

"do you not want me to?" you ask, doubt making your tone come off a little more insecure than you'd have liked. "is it…is it because i've never done it before?" 

he blinks. "what?" he repeats, again. 

you shift, uneasy. "you can teach me," you insist, holding onto his arms, wanting to be closer to him. "i'll practice…" 

"oh god," he whispers. "oh… oh y/n…" his hands barely skim your skin, nervously tucking your hair behind your ear. "don't," he says, quietly. 

"why?"

i don't want to hurt you," he says, voice so tender it wavers under the weight of his feelings for you. "being able to touch you is already everything to me-" he trails off, biting his lip, and then he's weak in the knees, and you melt into his embrace as he holds your body against his. "i don't want you to do anything you're uncomfortable with." 

"i want to please you like the girls before," you protest, weakly. "i want to…i want you to tell me your fantasies." 

"all that matters to me," he says, slowly, eyes suddenly grave and solemn. "is that i'm here with you. just you." he holds your hands up to his lips and kisses the tips of your fingers. 

you don't know what to say. the charged atmosphere from before has dissolved into the night, leaving a balmy and sweet taste on your tongue. the only thing that feels right is to hold him in your arms and hold him as close as you can. 

he's looking at you, before suddenly pulling you into him as if he could read your mind – arms wrapped protectively around your back, one hand coming up to stroke your hair as you lean into his chest. 

the memory of that first night comes back to you – the first time he rejected you. he hadn't wanted to hurt you then, either. and then he proceeded to in all ways possible – playing with your heart in a terrible back and forth. and then he disappeared from your life, and then he came back and something was different – in the way he touched you, looked for you, looked at you, was careful with you. 

but you moved on – told jaemin, told yourself you weren't waiting. you'd gone on a date with jisung, and then to some more with a few other guys on campus. you didn't hang around the band all the time now – didn't show up for every concert. and even when you did, you rarely stopped by to see haechan – spending more and more time with jisung, who was steadily becoming one of your closest friends. 

you tried to keep things light when you did visit haechan. always easy, relishing in how well he knew how to please you, how he always knew what to say. and for the most part, he was able to play along – a smile always tugging at the corner of his lips, or his tongue poking into his cheek as his eyes turned dark. 

but it was on nights like these – when the moon was a bit too bright and the air between your lips and his dense like honey, your skin heated and his face flushed – when you used the wrong name, or he said things too vulnerable and too intimate. it was on nights like these when you are faced with the reality that he made you feel the way no one else could – even as he was ever-changing, ever showing you a different side of himself. on these nights you plunge your hands deep into the kaleidoscope of him, and its like diving into shattered glass. 

–

"i wanted to show you this," he murmurs, shyly. 

he places a pair of headphones clumsily on your head, his long fingers scrambling to adjust it on your head, trying not to pull at your hair. your hands come up to help, and you shoot him a reassuring smile. 

it was even later in the night. you were both showered and dressed for bed – you in a long-sleeved shirt of his that you liked. when you came into the bedroom, he was fiddling with his laptop – and you could hear snippets of his honey-sweet voice starting and stopping as he tapped at his keyboard. it was natural, to head over to the bed and lean your head on his shoulder, as he started to explain to you what he was doing, eventually grabbing his headphones from the bedside table. his skin smells faintly of baby powder, and his bare face under the dim light is so soft – mellowed curves, the constellation of moles on his cheek ever visible, eyes tired but warm. 

he clicks play, and his voice fills your ears – clean, without any backing vocals or instruments. you try to catch the lyrics, but he mumbles through his words, voice meandering effortlessly around the melodies, drawing beautiful loops. his voice is delicate and gentle, flowing water with a current of electricity running through it, humming and buzzing with dangerous life. 

it ends all too quickly, and haechan – who was watching your face carefully the entire time, clicks on a few more tracks. you can hear his voice, muffled from under the headphones, start to explain. 

"that's…that's my draft for the melody. i made it for this, uh, it's one of mark's demos–" 

a sultry, low beat now plays, low strings filling in the gaps. when his voice leaks in, you feel your cheeks start to heat up. the same melody from before – so innocuous and sweet, maybe something even vulnerable – sounds sinful all of a sudden. you can practically hear the scream of the crowd punctuating each line, and now even the way he mumbles is hazed with a sort of suggestive glow. 

you look at him, wide-eyed. he's still watching your face, this time his lip caught between his teeth, looking up at you through his lashes. when the song ends, you tug the headphones down from your ears, and he takes them from you absentmindedly.

"mark told me to try writing for that. he said it suited my voice —" 

"it does," you respond. your hands reach out to play with his, tracing the way his fingers curved, running your touch along his calloused finger-tips. 

"but i…i don't know. i want to write something…something that feels…" he stumbles over his words, eyes lingering on the way your hands play with his, the gentleness of your touch. "that feels like this," he finishes, softly. 

"like what?" you hum, tracing loops on the back of his hand. 

but he doesn't respond. 

"do you like it?" he asks, quietly. 

you give his hand a squeeze. "sing it for me?" 

his hand trails off to the keyboard again, but you hold it steady in your palm. "no, sing it for me now. here." 

he's still. you almost think he won't do it, but then he's pushing the screen of his laptop shut, and he turns to face you. 

this time, when he sings, he gets all the words out. 

in person, his voice is hushed and soft, like every word is a secret. his eyes flutter shut, and he ducks his head shyly as he continues. when he ends, his voice trails off, and he doesn't turn to look at you, staring at his hands. you stay silent, until it's like he can't bear it, and his head turns to face you, eyes seeking reassurance. 

"i like it just like this," you tell him, softly. 

his smile blooms. 

—

"keep haechan on his toes," jaemin says, leaning back in his chair. the steam from the coffee he made – a 2am jaemin specialty — curled gently in the air, your hands nursing the mug in front of you, sipping just to have something to do. "don't see him for awhile. keep him guessing." 

"that's cruel," you mumble. 

"he's done crueler," he points out. "you know you don't owe him anything, right?"

"i know i don't," you say, slowly. "i just think that it would kill me not to know how he's doing. if he was going on dates with other people…" 

"and would he tell you?" 

no, is your automatic answer, one you can't run from in your head, but jisung cuts in. 

"he wouldn't go on a date with someone else," he shakes his head, leaning back in his chair so he could stretch out his long limbs. blinking sleep from his eyes, he shook his head again to clear his bangs away from his eyes. it had been late already when he showed up, after a show, bringing food, a tired but giddy smile on his face. "you really fucked him up, that's all i'm going to say."

"he may not go on a date, but he'd fuck someone else, probably." jaemin rolls his eyes. 

"we actually haven't fucked in awhile." the realization feels like butterflies in your chest – an uneasy, fluttery feeling. 

"what?" jisung looks at you in disbelief. "sorry," he adds, suddenly sheepish when both you and jaemin stare at him. "i just thought that was the big part of your relationship." 

"it was…" you say, slowly. ignoring how jisung said 'relationship' when it was really never that. "but…but i don't know. recently we always get distracted…or… or he's… i don't know." 

you think of his unmade bed. the careful, tender loop of his arm around your waist. you think of the way his lashes flutter when you lean in to kiss him – 

and yet, there was something bigger bothering you about this, something that tugged at your gut, the words forcing themselves out of you. 

"i hate that it feels like there's nothing more to me than this." 

"y/n, what are you talking about?" jaemin asks, his voice quiet. when you pause, he presses on, urgency in every word. "what did he say to you?" 

"nothing," you shake your head. "he didn't say that to me, it's something i feel. no matter who i'm with…even when i'm alone….i can't run from it." you take a breath. you hated admitting this, but jaemin's eyes were kind as they looked into yours. "even when we weren't talking, i was thinking about him…and tonight…jaemin i don't think anyone should be able to make me feel like this." 

“there's nothing wrong with being in love," he says, carefully. when you don't say a word, he continues on, as gentle as possible. "you know that no amount of attention he gives you will change the way you feel, right?" 

he was right. if you really dared to dream – to use up every last shooting star, count on all of the angel numbers — and haechan, donghyuck, gave himself to you fully like you wanted, you would still be afraid of losing him. a sick flutter beats in your chest at the passing thought of him slipping away again – that all this fight would have been for nothing. 

it was as if jaemin could read your mind. "there was a life before him," he reassures you. "there is so much more without him. you just need to start living like it, to really see it."

you had nodded, but you couldn't shake the feeling that no matter how many shows you skipped, no matter how many times you drove by his apartment or ignored his messages, it wouldn't change a thing: that even though there was a life before him, maybe it wasn't one that you wanted anymore.

—

you're cutting through the park on your way home from class, when you hear a shout of your name. you barely have time to turn before a small girl is launching herself at your legs, standing high on her tip-toes to throw her arms around your waist. 

"slow down!" 

you'd know that voice anywhere. 

haechan looks different. he's dressed in a striped sweater, glasses askew on his small nose. your heart skips a beat – he looks warm, and cozy, and comfortable. behind the frames, his eyes glow when he looks at you, an involuntary smile tugging at his lips. 

the two of you just stand there, looking into each other's eyes. every sense of yours is heightened –  the autumn air cold on your skin. the light catching everything around you. and your heart beating in your chest, speeding up with every moment you continue looking at him. you can't help it: even now you smile looking at his face. 

he raises his eyebrows. 

"what?" you blurt out, caught off-guard. 

he laughs lightly. "what are you doing here?" he asks, like he's explaining a question. 

"just…passing through," you say, slowly. "you?" 

"the…uh…kindergarten's right near here." haechan point vaguely at a point in the distance, you only look at it for a second before you focus back on him. you can't help it. he smiles again. "you're just passing through? can't you stay for awhile? we were going to get ice cream." 

his sister tugs at your sweater, excited at the sound of ice cream. you look down at her face – she has the same nose as her brother, the same bright smile. 

"just for a bit," you concede. haechan pumps his fist, playing up his excitement to make his sister laugh. it makes your heart go still and race all at the same time. 

—

"we need to talk." 

there was something wrong with haechan. 

the smell of rain and cigarettes hung in the alley behind the dingy venue. haechan sits on the steps with his head in his hands, jeno leaning on the wall opposite, jisung against the doorway behind. it's mark who stands directly in front of him, as he rubs his face with his hands, trying to calm down. mark who crouches down, mark's prying hands which make haechan lift his head to look at them. 

"what happened?" he asks, his eyes blazing. 

haechan swallows. "it's been a bad day," he tries, weakly. 

"it's been a bad month," jeno corrects. at haechan's glare, he raises his eyebrows in a silent challenge, and it's jisung who pipes up.

"i think people are starting to notice something's off," he says, softly. "that you play differently, sometimes."

"you mean that he messes up when she's not in the crowd," jeno says, bitterly. 

"i only messed up today," haechan mumbles. "it won't happen again." 

"what about yesterday? it's like you weren't onstage at all." jeno protests. 

haechan opens his mouth, but closes it. he knew this conversation had to happen, that things would lead to this – his fingers faltering, his mind going blank as his solo began. jeno's drums continuing relentlessly, mark's eyes on him, as he shook his head fiercely, trying to clear his mind and focus all at once. unsure of what to keep — the image of you, or the chords he'd worked so hard to get right. 

"hyuck, do you need a break?" mark asked, his words slow and gentle. "we can stop performing for awhile, cancel some of our gigs…"

"no," he breathes.  "don't." he doesn't want to lose all of it – and because he knew that if he stopped performing, he didn't know if he would ever see you again. 

and it's like jeno reads his mind. "she's not going to like you like this," jeno says, his voice impersonal. "she likes the version of you onstage, remember? it's how she first met you, it's what kept her coming back for more." 

"jeno." mark's voice is stern, but haechan looks up right past him, hurt pooling in his eyes. 

"i know," he breathes. "i know that. but i don't know if i can be that around her anymore." 

"not just around her," jisung notes. "you're not haechan anymore. it doesn't make you happy." 

"i know," he repeats, quieter this time. 

"hyuck, listen," mark sighs. "you're not doing yourself any good going onstage like this. i'm canceling the next few shows –" as haechan protests, he cuts him off with a hand on his shoulder. "no. we could all use a break." 

"mark," haechan croaks. "i can't." 

"we'll still have practice," mark says, firmly. "you still have to show up for all of it. and those songs i told you to work on —" 

"you should go home," jisung adds. "take care of your sister." 

there's a pause, as they wait for jeno to chime in. 

"none of it matters if you don't figure it out with her," he says, a tone of finality ringing in his words. he straightens, broad shoulders squared, suddenly much bigger under the lights. "if you need to get over it, you have to. staying like this is hurting everyone." 

haechan's lips part, soundlessly. there's a sharp creak, as jeno stalks back into the venue, followed by mark – who pats haechan gently on the shoulder. vaguely, haechan waits for the sound of jisung's soft steps to fade, but they only shuffle closer, until the lanky boy drops down next to him. his legs stretch out into the dingy alley, as haechan hugs his knees closer to his chest, for the first time perhaps truly afraid of what he was about to hear from his friend.

"sometimes, we meet the right person at the wrong time-" jisung's voice is quiet, almost a murmur, but the words still scrape against haechan's skin, rough like sand. 

"don't say that." he bites his lip harshly, a sudden rush of anger at the pity in jisung's responding sigh. "don't fucking say that." 

"haechan, it's okay. she liked you, but then she moved on after you realised you —" 

"she didn't –" his fist clenches, restless in his lap. "she didn't move on." 

"really? not at all?" jisung's eyes are fixed on haechan's, holding his gaze. "after weeks of telling her you couldn't give her what she wanted…you think she's still waiting for you?" 

"ji-"

"why should she wait for you?" 

haechan swallows. "she shouldn't," he mumbles. "i…i need to really let her go. jeno's right." he truly means it.

jisung hesitates. he's been spending more time with you, as friends – joining on your movie nights with jaemin, or else baking together, or letting you style him for shows and concerts. and the more time he spends with you, really gets to know you, the more he can see why you and haechan seem to need each other. your patience and gentleness matched the soft way he's seen haechan take care of his sister and at times, mark. he watched the way you sometimes falter – worry overtaking your features for a split second when you stop at a red light, or your teeth tugging at your bottom lip as you stand in front of the stove – and instinctively he can imagine haechan's confidence, his natural propensity to make everything seem easy, fitting in with you and taking care of you. 

but he knew that haechan could only give you his attention – not his heart, not until he was brave enough to admit how much you meant to him. 

your resolve to stay friends with him was as flimsy as haechan's promise to let you go. jisung almost wanted to laugh at the insistence both of you had, upon lying to yourselves. 

"be honest," he says, gently. "what do you want?" when haechan doesn't answer, jisung's low voice continues on, coaxingly. "what's your best-case scenario? what do you want to happen?" 

haechan takes a deep breath. "i don't know." 

jisung tries to hide his disappointment. "do you not know, or are you not ready to say it?" 

"i don't know," haechan mumbles again, burying his face in his hands. i don't know if i deserve it. 

the two of them sit there for a long, long, time. 

–

there was something wrong with haechan.

something's different. that's what jeno had said earlier, after the show. exhausted from sleepless nights, screaming fans making him feel nauseous, haechan barely paid attention to anything during his performances except for his own guitar. he hardly looked at the crowd, didn't acknowledge their pleas of his name, as if it wasn't one he recognised at all. 

he'd started missing parties, and was barely there even if he showed — ignoring the way girls swarmed around him, wondering if he was playing a new game, one where they had to work harder to earn his attention. it was a game they never won, his eyes trained on his cup, or else on the door. 

but out of all of haechan's bad habits, this might be the worst of them – sitting in the living room past midnight, sipping down to the last dregs of his alcohol, waiting for the knock on his door. 

it was late now — so late that the hours had bled into the next day. he hadn't seen you at the concert, not at the party, and despite telling himself not to dream, not to hope, he still carried enough desperation in him to stay up again. 

he's relieved he did. 

his hands shake as he opens the door. his hands falling to his sides as he drinks in the sight of you, letting you in. 

"hi," you breathe, and you don't ask before you lean into him, soft lips brushing his plush ones. 

he's at a loss for words, his tongue numb in his mouth, limbs still heavy from how tired he'd been all day. he lets you guide him to the couch, into the cushions. lets you straddle his hips, holding your body close to his with careful arms, as he meets your kisses gently.

something's different, but haechan's not the only one who's changed. on nights like these, all you do is take and take and take. 

"i haven't seen you in a while," he murmurs. quietly, softly, the words almost getting lost between kisses. immediately after he says the words, he slots his lips with yours firmly, as if afraid of what you would say if he let the space between you and him grow. 

"i've been busy." at the crestfallen look on his face, a small smile tugs at your lips, and you lean in to brush your lips with his. "why? did you miss me?" 

"i did," he says, almost timid. "i missed you."

at this, you raise your eyebrows. "you could have had anyone else." 

but he shakes his head. "i missed you," he repeats, hands mapping your skin, as if checking if you were really here, seeking the familiar way you fit into his palms, your slopes and your edges. 

"i missed you too," you say, meaningfully, letting him pull you in for another kiss. but when you push against him, body rocking into his and mouth open and wanting, the glow in your eyes tells him you're talking about something else entirely. 

his mind races. the feeling of you against him wakes him up like nothing else, the way you touch him, your smell and your taste setting fire to all his senses. there's something sweet about your lips tonight, something he wants to savor on his tongue and drown in all at once. 

he doesn't want to waste any of this, because this was the only thing you ever wanted to see him for — and that's what he tells himself as he pulls you into his body, because finally, finally, your attention is all on him, an electric heat simmering over each fibre of his being, the feeling of your body too sweet to be true.

but it's been one too many nights he's waited, a weight on his chest and a drowsiness he can't shake overcoming him like a cloyingly sweet poison. 

"i–" he's cut off by a shuddering inhale as your lips travel down to his neck, your hips grinding against him just right. "baby, i'm sorry," he tries again, his hands now gripping onto your waist, trying to steady you, even as he gives up. "i don't think i can take care of you tonight." 

you still. 

"don't go, please," he begs. "i'm sorry, it's been…it's been a long day and i…" he breaks off. the performance. the fight with the band. the fact that he'd been drinking for hours, the starless sky inky black outside his window, his fingers still stinging from plucking at guitar strings all night. "just give me a second," he stammers, burying his face in his hands, tugging at his features, before looking up at you with tired eyes. "i'll be fine in a minute, then we'll go to the bedroom, i just —" 

your hands slide down the slope of his shoulders. 

"don't go," he repeats, hands fumbling for yours as he brings them up to his lips, like a prayer. "i can take care of you, i promise. just…" 

"donghyuck," you say, softly. again you smile, cupping his face in your palms. his round cheeks, plush lips, the slight flare of his nose. he almost goes cross-eyed staring at you, as you lean in close and kiss him again – this one different from the rest, close-lipped and chaste. 

"hyuck, let me take care of you tonight, okay?" 

caught in a riptide of his own longing, he lets go. 

"you don't have to do anything," he mumbles. his hands tentatively touch your waist, the barest brush of his fingertips, before he's encircling you in his arms, easing you into his chest. slowly, tentatively, he holds you close by the weight of his arms, a large hand reassuringly patting the space right beneath your heart – clumsy, rhythmic thumps that trailed off into a lingering warmth. "i just want to hold you here, like this." 

he can feel the tension that spreads down your spine, your breath caught in your throat. your lips are parted, your eyes looking at his in an unreadable expression. 

"do you not like it?" he asks, his voice small. his hands fall from your waist, nervously tugging his sleeves down over his palms. "i…i'm just…" 

"i do," you say, slowly. and because your faces are so close, the thought is barely crossing your mind before you press your lips against his. it's supposed to be quick, reassuring, but the look on haechan's face when you pull back makes you lean in again right away. 

it was a look that was open and hurt, his hands still tangled in his lap. his eyes stayed open as you kissed him, as if he couldn't dare believe it was real — finally blinking shut when you kissed him again, his slight relief melting on your tongue. his teeth sunk into his bottom lip as you clumsily got up off the couch, and as you straightened, he ducked away from your gaze, staring at his hands. 

"hyuck," you start, but he shakes his head. 

"it's fine." he still wouldn't look at you - fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "you don't have to stay, it's late." 

"hyuck, listen to me." 

"i know," he says, quickly. the slightest trace of fear in his voice. "you don't….you don't have to remind me, i know. it's too…you said we couldn't…"

" — hyuck, i wasn't going to say that." 

his fingers falter, but he stays silent. 

"i can't fall asleep properly in your lap," you explain, slowly. "let's go to bed, okay?" 

he looks up then. "really?" 

"i said i want to take care of you," you repeat, his wide eyes making you feel shy all of a sudden. "i mean it." 

he lets you take his hands, body following pliantly as he stands from the couch, as you lead him to his bedroom, his eyes focused on your intertwined hands. it's both a familiar and unfamiliar feeling — crawling into his bed with his clothes on your body, sinking into the soft sheets and letting the senses of him wash over you. the usual buzz of pleasure isn't there, and its a different tiredness that seeps through your veins, one that comes with feeling safe. 

since when did you start feeling safe with him? 

you feel his weight sink in behind you, the duvet rustling against skin as he turns. an arm curls around your waist. his head lowers into the crook of your neck – you can feel his soft hair, his pouty lips brushing your shoulders in a light kiss. 

"the band is taking a break," he mumbles. "because of me."

"hyuck?" you try to turn in his arms, but his grip only tightens on your waist. he shakes his head. "hyuck, what happened? are you okay?" 

"m'yeah, i'm okay now." he shifts. "just…i just don't know if i like playing in the band anymore." 

there's a pause. 

"are you…are you disappointed?" the thumb drawing circles on your hip stills. "say something," he whispers. "please." 

"why would i be disappointed?" you ask, quietly. placing your hand on his, you turn, facing him as he encircles you in his arms. his eyes are half-lidded, tousled hair falling over his brows, his cheek squished against the pillow into a half-pout. it's almost instinct – the way your hand goes up to his face to brush his hair out of his face, fingers absentmindedly tracing his moles. 

you can feel his lips move against your fingers. "would you still come to see me?" he wonders, softly. "if you didn't have a reason to?" 

you bite your lip. "i would want to…" you say, slowly. "but i don't know if i should. haechan, what's going on? does music not make you happy anymore?" 

his heart aches. your care for him fills his lungs, making his eyes begin to prickle with tears. 

"i don't think the haechan…donghyuck thing is good for me." 

"oh." your thumb brushes over the bridge of his nose. "hyuck…" you start. "i don't…i don't want to overstep." 

his face falls. "sorry," he says, his voice small. "i won't bother you with it…you don't have to…"

"no, i don't mean…hey, listen to me." you wait until he looks up at you through his lashes, nervously. "i think i've gotten to know haechan and donghyuck, you know? i mean…" your heart skips a beat, suddenly shy at your own honesty. but you've already let your guard down – it's no use. "of course i like haechan. haechan's the one who invited me backstage, haechan's the one who made me go on that rooftop…but…" you take a breath. 

the sleep had worn off from haechan's eyes – he was alert as he watched you now,  hanging onto your every word. 

"i've gotten to know donghyuck too, i think. i hope. donghyuck makes the best sandwiches for his baby sister, donghyuck has a bear tattoo because he looks as cute as one, donghyuck is always gentle with me even when i ask him not to be." your thumb traces the constellation of moles he has again, tracing down to his neck. you draw him closer – the way he's looking at you: like you're his entire world, like your words were the only thing keeping him breathing, filling your chest with a tender kind of ache that didn't go away. 

"donghyuck and haechan aren't that different, not really. they're still you. i like them both. i like all of you. if you woke up tomorrow and told me you were someone else, if you were suddenly becoming someone new, i think i'd still want to fall asleep next to you anyway at the end of the day. because i know you –" you breathe in, sharply. "i…i think i do. i…hope i do." 

he doesn't say anything. just leans in, and brushes his lips with yours lightly – once, twice, and finally sealing them in a kiss. he kisses you deeply, intensely – it wakes you up, that familiar feeling stirring in your belly as your hips move of their own accord. a liquid euphoria fills your veins as he pulls you into him – him on his back, you laying on his firm chest, the toned muscles on his chest grounding you, a feeling so familiar, one that you craved for a long time. you've never felt safer, in his arms. he kisses you like with every moment apart, he wonders if you're still there, and each time he sighs into your mouth it's with relief that you're still here, with him. 

"do you want to…?" he asks softly. he's breathing heavily, but he tries to calm himself down. his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and it's that act – so innocent, so nervous even though you've both done it a dozen times with each other, that makes your heart beat harder in your chest. 

"it's been awhile," you murmur. 

"i know." he nods, swallowing. "it just…it hasn't felt right. don't…don't get me wrong, i want you all the time-" he practically groans with frustration. "it's just recently i just…i've been really confused. it's so stupid, but i didn't know which version of me you wanted –" 

"just you," you assure him, softly.

"let me make it up to you then." his tone is just as soft. 

you take his hands, and slide them under your shirt. gently, he tugs it off of you, sitting up slightly to take his shirt off as well before focusing back on you. you're giddy with the feeling of his touch again, nostalgia heightening every single sensation. it's not just hyuck tracing his hands over your chest – his lips finding your nipples, tongue darting out to tease them lightly. it's every single time he's touched you before – in the backseat of his car, hands moving urgently. in your bed that first time – so careful because you were extra sensitive. you have to focus to get back to the present moment, where he's watching you carefully again – noticing that you're lost in your thoughts. 

"everything okay?" he murmurs. 

you nod. "i just missed you so much," you whisper, and you can feel his desperation in the kiss that follows. "i need you now." 

"need to prep you, baby." gently, he eases you onto the bed, crawling down your body as you tug off your shorts and panties. your legs spread, needily, as you can feel him inch closer to your core, his hands coming to hold your hips. "stay still for me?" he mumbles, his eyes dazed as he watches you nod, his own head bobbing along absentmindedly, guiding you through it as he encourages you to bend your knees, baring yourself to him. 

the first flick of his tongue on your clit makes you mewl, hands coming down to grip onto his hair. 

"i know, baby," he comforts you, drawing small circles on your thigh as he leans into suckle your clit, making your hips buck up. he holds you still, patiently continuing to circle your entrance and lap at your clit. "fuck…you're getting so wet, angel." he slides in a finger, and the intrusion makes you clench around him in sensitivity, especially as he kitten-licks your clit shyly while easing in another finger. 

"need you now," you whine, voice reaching that pitch only he seems to bring out in you. his fingers pump more urgently, now curling towards the front of your walls, as he applies more force to your clit with his tongue, massaging the sensitive bud. 

"need you-" you choke out. "need you inside." 

"just give me one right now," he says, a slight plea to his voice. "please, angel. cum for me please, –"

"wanna cum with you inside," you sniffle. that gets his attention. he crawls right up your body until you're face to face, kissing you deeply, palms coming up to hold your face, careful to keep his fingers away. it's heated – your hips rolling into his as he finally loses control, hips bucking into yours until he's practically humping you as he kisses down your neck. your hands go to his waist, and he whimpers into your skin, finally tugging down his sweatpants, and you feel a familiar weight against your core. 

"condom-" he gasps, breaking away. the muscles on his body flex as he reaches for his bedside table, you can feel them move against your hands. 

"have you been fucking anyone else?" 

he blinks. "no, not since…" he breaks off. "no. and i'm clean. mark made me check." the sound of your giggle makes him smile momentarily – a goofy, lopsided grin that makes your heart squeeze painfully in your chest. 

"i want to feel you-" you say, slowly. "please." 

he sucks in a breath. "this…this isn't one of those things you're trying to do to please me, right?" he looks at you, skeptically. "it doesn't make a difference to me, you know that right? i just want you to feel comfortable. and safe…" 

"i am comfortable," you assure him. "i'm on the pill. i really just want to do this with you." 

"because-" he suddenly sits back, running a nervous hand through his hair. "i'm fine with using protection, you know that. i…i love how you feel either way. i never want you to do anything you don't feel absolutely right about…"

"is this about the blowjob?" you raise your eyebrows at him, smiling when you see his eyes widen. "because i'm going to do that too, with you. i want to make you feel good." 

now it's his turn to laugh, tilting his head back. his adam's apple bobs in his throat. "you have no idea-" he murmurs, voice suddenly low and serious. "you have no idea how good you make me feel just by the way you look at me. by the way you say my name." 

"hyuck," you say, patiently. "i need you. don't make me beg." 

"i should be the one begging," he murmurs, and this time when you reach your arms out, he lowers himself right into your arms, letting you wrap your arms around him. he strokes himself a few times, eyelashes fluttering, before slowly easing into you – a soft sound escaping his lips as his eyes went unfocused. it really had been awhile – his length filling you up, stretching you out in a way that was almost painful, but that pain was quickly dulled by pleasure as his body pressed against yours. 

"fuck-" he curses, eyes screwed shut in concentration. "can i…can i please…" 

you rock your hips against him, letting him in even deeper as he bottoms out. "move-" you whimper, "please-" you barely finish your words before he's already drawing back, barely pulling out before fucking himself back in, short intense thursts feeling dizzying. his slender fingers find your clit again, applying a light pressure as the blunt tip of cock perfectly hits the spongy part of your walls, the sound obscene in the quiet room. you were so aroused, you felt that you were making a mess of his thighs – wetness making the scene seem ever more lewd, creaming around his length as he increased his speed, groaning lowly to himself. 

"cum for me, princess," he pleads, lips dipping down to mark the sensitive part of your neck. you were already close from all the teasing – and once again the familiarity of every touch and movement sends your senses into overdrive. your entire body tenses as you climax, and you can hear him hiss out another string of curses, mixed with your name and every term of endearment under the sun. 

"where do you want it?" he all but whimpers, hips still fucking into you like a reflex. 

"inside-" you mumble, ankles loosely hooking behind his back, trying to stop him from moving away. "hyuck, please come inside, fill me up please-" with a soft cry, he pushes in deep – and you can feel him cum inside you, making a mess between your thighs, the feeling so arousing that it awakens something inside you, and your hips begin to move – begging for more. 

"wait-" he pants. "give me a minute, angel-" his eyes are closed again, head lowered, as he pushes through the overstimulation, feeling his soft cock slowly begin to harden again. the sounds falling from his throat now are scratchy, hoarse whines – a sound so dirty it makes your heart beat even faster, a sense of defiled innocence you've only ever heard in his music. the angle in which he's rutting into you stimulating your clit, pushing you closer to your edge as you fuck up onto him. 

"hyuck?" you push his bangs out of his eyes, tracing your hands over his shoulders, his chest. your fingers brush past his nipples and his mouth falls open with need, an achy sound releasing from the back of his throat, his puffy lips parted obscenely. you pinch his nipples again, gently, experimentative, and you feel his body shudder as he cums again, this time going still. it's so fucking arousing, an different side to him that you've never seen, that you feel yourself climax as well, the stimulation overwhelming. 

the both of you lay there for awhile, before he seems to come to his senses — a shaky hand moving the hair out of your face. 

he looks at you, and you look at him. 

and as if he can't help himself, he kisses you again – this time so soft and gentle, almost as if it were the first time all over again. 

"you alright?" he mumbles. 

you nod. 

"let's clean up in a second," he breathes. "just…let's stay like this for awhile." 

you nod again. you don't trust your own voice. something is happening – something tastes different in the air, something in the way you're looking at each other, something in the way he's touching you now – as if you might break or bruise if he even let his fingerprints get onto your skin. in the way he's looking at you now – something urgent in his gaze. 

"are you…are you free tomorrow night?" 

"i am." you sound stronger than you feel. 

"can i take you somewhere?" 

pause. "yeah." you give him a small smile. "i'd like that."

the smile that breaks out across his face is one that you know like the back of your hand. 

–

sitting across from you now, with your plates already cleared away and all that's left is your last few sips of wine, it hits you how that this is the most normal setting you've been in with him, possibly ever. his long legs stretched out under the table over by your chair, gently placing down his wine glass as he looks at you, his expression soft. his face is lit up by candlelight, hair falling over his brows in a hopelessly endearing way. 

"you good?" he murmurs. 

you nod. things feel cozy, and comfortable – it's a feeling so foreign but at the same time so familiar, you have to keep reminding yourself that this is real. 

he bites his lip. "pretend i'm jisung," he says, impulsively. "and…and you're describing how this went to him. how…how did you find it?" 

you give him a look, but he looks so shy, so nervous to be asking you this question, that you decide to play along. 

"well, jisung-" you take a deep breath, smiling when you see him smile too. "haechan picked me up today, that was really nice-" 

"-sounds like the bare minimum," he mumbles back, head bent.

"well, yeah it kind of is. but he doesn't have the best track record." you see him wince, so you let that comment linger for awhile before continuing on. "he's been a gentleman today. he…he took me to a restaurant that he found out i've been meaning to go to for awhile now, because he asked jaemin beforehand." 

"and that's…creepy? doing too much?" 

"it was thoughtful," you mused. "even though he made the reservation for the wrong date…"

"fucker," he shakes his head. 

"...it was nice because we got to go to walk around, and there was this moment, um…" his head darts up. now you can see him break character – something piercingly vulnerable in the way his bambi-brown eyes shine. 

you swallow. "we were crossing the street…and he put his hand on my lower back, just to guide me forward, and when we got to the other side he took my hand in his and just…held it-" 

he's looking at you, slightly confused and a little nervous. 

"yeah?" 

"he…he usually only acts like that when we're alone…when there's no one around." he still looks lost, so you reach forward across the table, taking his hand in yours. as if on instinct, his hand squeezes yours. "it's sweet," you reassure him. "it was really sweet." 

he bites his lip, but nods to show that he understands.

there's silence, for a bit. you think of breaking the silence, of saying anything, when suddenly he clears his throat slightly, sitting up a little straighter.

"hey, mark-" now he's doing the same bit, and it catches you by surprise a little - making you smile. "yeah, i'm still with y/n. i...uh...i fucked up the reservation, you were right, i should've checked again..."

"i really like spending time with her," he says, slowly. "i...i can't stop staring at her - she looks so beautiful tonight. and...and i can't believe she's finally here with me, that i somehow didn't fuck this up. and um...we were in this record store just now...and i was listening to her talk about an album she liked -" a smile plays on his lips as he recalls the memory. you suddenly become aware that your heart is beating hard again, pounding in your ribs. "and she was so excited, and she kept laughing as she talked, and...and i just realised i would do anything to make her that happy, all the time. and that i want it to be me, i want to be the reason she smiles like that."

you swallow.

"haechan..."

"you don't have to say anything-" he rushes to say. "i just...i just wanted you - i mean, uh, mark - to know."

"okay." you take a deep breath. "and um, i want jisung to know that-"

"yeah?"

"i like spending time with him too," you say, faintly.

he nods, but he doesn't smile.

-

as the car pulls up to your driveway, the quiet hum of the engine is silenced – headlights turned off, only the soft glow of streetlights casting their pools of gold over haechan's face. it's so quiet, you hear the shaky breath he takes as he steadies himself. 

"i have something for you," he murmurs. you can feel the warmth radiating off his body as he leans to pick something up from the backseat, the comforting smell of his perfume making your heart warm. but then you hear the crinkle of paper, his hair falling over his face as he sits back into the driver's seat, and your heart falls in a completely different way – your insides rushing with inertia, dizzy and heady – because he's holding a bouquet of dark red roses. they're wrapped sweetly, tied off with a piece of red ribbon to match the blooms, and your eyes linger on the way his fingers tremble as he holds them out to you with both hands. 

his starts to speak, but whatever he falters as he watches you stare at the soft petals, stems completely stripped of their thorns – and he bites his lower lip, breath caught in his throat. 

"too much?" he asks, softly. "i just thought…i just…mark and jisung said it would be a good idea," he stammers, lowering the bouquet as one of his hands falls to his thighs, nervously clenching his fists. "i was supposed to give them to you when i picked you up, but i got scared…you don't have to take them, i just thought…i wasn't thinking-" 

your hand closes around his hand holding the flowers. your other goes to his face, your thumb brushing his cheek as he falls silent, his eyes fixed on yours, caught in the haze of your touch. slowly, so as not to startle him, you lean in and kiss him gently. it's a beat before he kisses you back, as if he couldn't believe it, and when you pull away just slightly with a soft sound, you can see the nervousness in his eyes. and so you lean in to kiss him again – you kiss him until his lashes flutter shut, until you can feel him settle in his seat, sighing into your mouth as he kisses you deeply. you pull the flowers into your lap, his hand giving up control easily, coming up to your face to hold you in his palms. 

"hyuck." 

he pauses, leaning back – but his hands only leave your face when you hold them in your own, guiding them down to rest against the center console, your fingers intertwined. 

"i never want you to feel like i'm ashamed of being seen with you," he blurts out suddenly. 

"what?" 

"i never meant to let it get that far," he continues on, looking at his hands. "when i first met you…i wanted you to be like everyone else. i tried to do what i always do, but i just couldn't. you kept getting in my head, and i kept hurting you, and i didn't know how to stop and i just-" he exhales. "i never want to make you feel like that again." 

"hyuck, was this a date?" 

he swallows. "if you want it to be," he starts, but then he shakes his head. "the truth is, i was afraid you would say no if it was. but i really want it to be. i really really do." 

"hyuck," you take a deep breath. "whatever you're going through, you're not going to find the answer in me." 

"y/n, i love you," he says, quietly, tenderly. he says it like it's the easiest thing in the world. "i want to be a person who deserves to be with you, and love you, and i know you think you can't change me, and it isn't your responsibility to try at all…but you already have, and you can't take it back. when i'm with you i feel like i can see this version of donghyuck that i want to be all the time for the rest of my life." 

"no two people should change to be with each other –" you start, but he shakes his head. 

"we aren't a scenario," he insists. "this isn't a hypothetical. there's no should and shouldn't, because you know me –" he's pleading. "i'm not the same boy you saw onstage that first time you came to our show, and you're not that same girl on the roof," he pleads, voice breaking, tears welling up in the pretty cut of his eyes. "why is it so hard for you to believe that this version of us is meant to be together?" 

there's silence. 

"i can believe it," you start, quietly. "that's what terrifies me." 

you can see him start to lose hope. he can't force you to stay with him when you're not ready, and he doesn't want to be that person either. 

"i…" he hesitates. he wants to say so much more to you – that no one else makes him feel the way you make him feel. that he feels like he'll never love anyone again, not the way he loves you. the fact that you're it for him in a million different ways, a love he never thought he'd find. that he'll never be able to give anyone else a fair chance. 

but he can tell his love makes your shoulders heavy, makes your eyes go foggy with tears. already, you look shattered sitting in the passenger seat of his car, his love a weight on your chest that you don't know what to do with. already he's losing whatever bravery he had before – the bravery his love for you had given him. 

"sometimes-" you start, breaking off, your voice quivering. "when we're together, i feel like i could do it for the rest of my life. that you're the only one i've met to make me feel this way, that i'm the only one who knows you so deep." 

"you are," he breathes. 

"but-" your voice rises, agitated. "you hurt me. again and again. i came back when i wasn't ready, i should've given it more time, i just couldn't stay away. and then you came back into my life, and i forgave you to be with you again, and i tried to give other people a chance but i just…i just couldn't. what if this is too soon again?" 

i'll wait. the words are on the tip of his tongue, but he knows its the wrong thing to say, wrong thing to want. there's nothing romantic about waiting for someone – it's a cruel promise, one that rots each day going by in the wait for the future. 

"do you…" he takes a deep breath. "do you want to let me go?"

you nod, slowly. haechan can feel his heartbeat in his ears. 

"i'm not sorry," you whisper. "it's not right. you…i know you think you know what you want, but i need you to be sure of who you are, and who you want. i can't give you the answers." 

haechan remembers how – and it seems so far away, almost like a dream now – the night you went out with jisung, he dreamed of you. dreamed up the final version of you and him – everything good and always good, coming backstage to you, coming home to you. and some part of him had dared to hope, that despite everything, despite himself, the two of you would make it to that final version. 

but maybe the final version of you and him was this – the sound of the car door shutting as you walk up the steps to your apartment, and him crying all the way home, roses left in the front seat of the car, the ghost of your hands burning on his face.

(EPILOGUE RELEASE SOON)

@neochan, @ahncosette, @18shy @kittydollzz @jenoslutie @pussymode @yyfka @cheolctrl @jaeminsballs @mysummerhyuck @strawberrytyong @rosiejunnie @nctzen4eva @haechskies @wickedrei @sundamariis @liliansun @lanadreamie @nodisdino @angelwonie @foxydumps @manooffline @moonsmias @skzct7 @iscocohere @ficrecnctskz @makiswrld @itskkung @simpforarmihn @aryraaaa @rbf-aceu @laubyrinthine @yujuvly @nctevia @hyuckenjoyer @guhhfgbbj @girlwholoveslpreppyattire @kasperneo @eneiyri @toroufriteh @cauliephays @jisoung @niinjo @wonaoi @yuskitty @strawbabyz @readingisgodly @daegalfangirl @minkyuncutie @feat-sun @chaoticstrawberryland @shawnyle @sofix-hc7 @scftharu @spageddy @adorejaehyn @manooffline @02mrk @tyongspice1 @runahways @neosdaisy @hotmessexpress35 @kim-seungmins-gf @delllllllsstuff @nohunlee @kingsoowolves @enhasrii @fnafgirl87 @imzerozen @toroufriteh @torothecatt

[artemis-pendragon]

Okay so I'm not in the hurricane evacuation zone by any means but I do live in a horrendously natural disaster-prone region SO!! Here are the best tips I've gotten for surviving in a disaster zone.

1) Write your name and your emergency contact's phone number in DARK PERMANENT INK somewhere visible on your skin (wrist is good) so if you're unconscious or dead emergency response can ID you and get in contact with your family/friends

2) If you have any particular medical needs or conditions write that too!! Specific medications + doses, warning signs and symptoms to watch for, etc

3) During the disaster, if your circumstances change or may change soon, record a new voicemail message explaining these changes so anyone who calls you knows your most recent status and location. Whatever details you think might help!

4) Stock up on Rx meds before pharmacies close. Get some OTC meds too and make a watertight and portable first aid kit. If you're gonna be in flood conditions and your Rx bottles aren't fully sealed, wrap the lids with duct tape to make a tight seal. If you've got tampons and pads in the house, stuff those babies in there! Good for everything from periods, to bloody noses and open wounds in an emergency! Plus they're super absorbent and can be used to temporarily block up small spaces and cracks

5) If there's no bottled water left in stores buy the biggest and cheapest bottles of soda you can, dump them out, and fill them with fresh water. If you have sinks and bathtubs that aren't expected to flood, fill those bad boys up with fresh water, too. Store as much water as you can!!

6) Put all important documents such as Social Security cards, birth certificates, marriage certificates, or anything else you want to save into waterproof bags. Ziplock baggies double sealed with duct tape along the closed seams are great! Double bag if needed!

7) Special cool new thing I learned about hurricanes that I'm probably the last dumbass on earth to know but just in case I'm not: even if a hurricane makes landfall as a Cat 3, if it was a Cat 5 over the ocean on approach it will bring in Cat 5 surge. Downgrading the wind speed doesn't downgrade the flood potential

8) TAKE THE BACKROADS OUT OF MAJOR CITIES OH MY GOD PLS DONT GET STUCK ON THE FREEWAYS IT'S HELL

9) Last but not least, if you can't afford to evacuate or don't have a place to stay, some people under videos and posts tagged with current natural disasters are offering temporary places to crash for those in affected areas for free!! I've seen multiple cases now of people offering up their guest rooms or couches to evacuees and their pets in the last week that have worked out ❤️

If anyone else has more tips, and more experience with this type of disaster specifically, please add on!! Love you all and hope everyone stays safe 💕

[thesoulshyperrealaslacreatura]

The 2023 Annual Pie Baking Contest

– We will now start this edition of our pie baking competition with a few words from our special guest!

The announcer's message prompted huge roars from the audience (catching the announcer off guard in turn, as she – working under contract from an outsourcing company – did not expect such excitement coming from a 7-person pie contest). More yelling came as the recording appeared on screen. Therefore, as soon as the backup organizing team turned on the projector, they fled as quickly as possible for the backstage to see if their noise-cancelling headphones were to truly work properly. They began to understand the reason for receiving those in the first place.

– Welcome everyone to the Official Global Pie Baking Commission’s 2023 Annual Contest. It is an honor to be the special guest of this edition. As you know, I am currently under sentence for intentional homicide, so I am sincerely grateful that my presence was considered important enough for the Commission to set up this entire infrastructure for me to be able to speak here. Everyone, a round of applause for the Commission!

All attendees stood to celebrate with perfect composure – including the guest, whose head didn't completely fit into the camera as he raised himself from his chair. They soon returned to their seats, now even more united than before.

– Yeah... wow, I don't even know what to say. I- I mean…

The detainee began to tear up as he laughed, moved by the situation – the entire audience shared the same feeling and, in their own time, started to get teary-eyed themselves.

– It's just... it's... – by now he was reduced to stuttering, fully lacking strength to complete even one single, measly idea, inspiring several audience members to place their hands to their chest.

He took a deep breath, already thinking about bringing back stability to his speech. He tried his best to soften his gulps of air; unredden his face; relax his eyebrows and so on.

He thereby began to miserably bawl. The recording suddenly stopped as he curled in on himself. The audience stomped their feet to celebrate the guest like one would for a rock star.

After two minutes of a surprisingly solid rhythm coming from an explosive-sounding wooden floor, a rookie organizing assistant had to be forced by the rest of the team to make the final announcement, seeing as no one else was willing to do so. With extreme hesitation, she proclaimed:

– Let the- the pie evaluation begin! Yeah, uh... – Hearing the same screams, one thought came to mind: “They must really enjoy their pies.”

She was right. They really enjoy their pies.

Everyone there for the competition assumed their positions and began to wait – visible anticipation on their faces – until 10 o'clock sharp. 9:59. 9:59. 9:59. 10:00 – like automatons, they started moving again.

The judges approached the simple decorations of the first tent: some stickers with drawings of virulently smiling strawberries invited them to enjoy what a small wooden sign called “Vi’s Savory Strawberry Pie”. A girl in an apron approached excitedly.

– It's a strawberry pie, except I added a good dose of salt to it.

– Wait up! You're new, I can tell... – One of the judges, a very tall and well-dressed gentleman, reprimanded her directly while writing down in his notepad.

– You have to introduce yourself first, okay? – Another judge wearing cheap looking sandals explained, laughing.

– Oh, sorry, of course. – She seemed to have turned red like one of her strawberries.

To overcome tensions, the man in sandals tried his hand at some haphazard comment:

– I think you're Vi, right? Don't worry, it's quite common not to get the grip your first time round. But we here, we want to see not just the pie, but the experience as a whole to evaluate, okay?

– We want to assess whether the pie eating experience is fully concordant! – His colleague in galoshes said didactically.

– But yeah, we ask for everyone's name, even if it’s already known. – The one in a suit commented, nodding his head, entirely bluffing about actually understanding what she meant by that.

– Well, yeah, I- I'm Vi, as in Victoria, and my grandmother was also called Victoria, but with an “i”. And since the original recipe was hers, the name could be kept.

– So your name is not spelled with an “i”?

– No! – and, seeing the confused faces of the judges, she contorted her brain to see if it could make something understandable come out of her mouth – No, because yes, in this case! It’s written with an “i”, yes...

– So... – The fourth judge, who until then had been sending messages on his cell phone, was finally trying to catch up on what he had missed.

– So, I don't know why I said that.

– Haha! I get that. You’re cool. – He spoke, not having clarified anything, but, looking at the decorations for the first time, appreciating the designs.

She turned even redder.

– Well, as I said a while ago, it's strawberry with a good dose of salt.

– Oh really? Is that good? – the same judge, who Vi was finally realizing had a flighty appearance by nature, tried to get straight to the point while dangling his earrings playfully. It was now or never.

– Why yes! It's a family recipe. – And, offering the each of the judges a set of cutlery and a well-decorated slice of pie, she extended the invitation – Would you do the honors?

Trying to adapt to the fact that they had received very small plates – and mentally discounting this from the presentation and service rating – the evaluators started with the first cut. In an attempt to portion out a bite that contained an adequate quantity of strawberries, one could hear the simple sound of the fork delicately piercing a cushioning layer of cream. Just by cutting through the cream, the mind was already distracted from thinking that in a few moments they would have a good handful of it filling up their mouth just as its smell was already filling up their nostrils, and–

TAC!

Once that layer was finished, the extra strength of the evaluators reached the bottom of the pie far too easily as the cutlery collided with the plastic plate – hence the tambourine sounding noise. Curious about what had happened, they paid further attention to the phases of the composition, realizing that there was a practically hollow portion between the topping and the bottom; then a continuous sound. Granular. An hourglass? The passage of time was revealing the true nature of the pie...

Salt leaked as if it came from a punctured package – pristine, unaltered salt – agglomerated inside the structure of the pie. It seemed never-ending. In fact, the examiners didn't wait for the salt to finish dripping onto the plate before getting some pie in their mouths. They moved the strawberry pieces around with their tongues while they felt all those grains molding around their movements. When swallowing, the distinct irritation in the mouth from the pure salt that had not accompanied the rest of the food down the throat – accumulating itself under the tongue and in other corners. The judges kept looking at each other:

– The combination of the name and specificity of the recipe already makes you stand out with regards to what you’re promising with your pie. – The judge in galoshes pointed out as she furtively wrote something in her notebook.

– Yes, I actually liked it. – The judge in a suit said, adjusting his spine, as he bent over to eat instead of just bringing the plate up to your own height.

– Thank you very much.

The competitor turned to the only one who didn't comment anything, waiting for him to stop scratching his eyelids and express any opinion at all.

– If I may, well, ask what your thought were?

– What? Oh! It was actually good... Yeah! Yes, I liked it!

The one in sandals raised his hand, and as soon as he received Vi's attention, he reversed his movement. He voiced a tiny doubt:

– Can I just make an... addendum?

She nodded yes. He continued:

– Your cream was very wet; if the pie’s presentation didn't already make your lack of experience clear, that would have already given you away. It completely ruins the theme and honestly makes you look like a bit of a coward for not committing to the clear two-act structure – normality into absurdity – when you try to soften it with such watery toppings. Either your grandmother was too busy spoiling you to actually make something great or you imposed your own insecurities on her recipe and I don't know what would make you look worse. Either way it's deeply undignified, is what I mean.

Tensing up every muscle she could to keep herself from crying, Victoria desperately sought reassurance from the previous judges. The one in a suit began to speak, adjusting his spine:

– Yeah, I liked it, I just, I don't know... too. He spoke well.

– Well I... uh. I thought it was cool, personally – The one with earrings mentioned, with great difficulty on focusing on the woman’s eyes. – Yeah... – Neither of them inspired much confidence.

– But thank you very much for participating, yeah? Focus on your niche and next year you will bring something better, for sure! – And, with that, the woman in galoshes gestured to the entire group to head for the next assessment.

Victoria nodded; there was no way she was going back next year. She went back to a corner of the tent wondering if it was worth holding back her tears.

The well-dressed man, who had taken a while to keep up with the others, bent down again to lick his finger with some of the salt – still continuously dripping. Upon seeing the girl on the ground, he asked himself for a second whether it would be appropriate to say something, and concluded that it would be best to say nothing at all. Unfortunately for the judge, Victoria had already raised her face and was now looking directly at him, waiting to hear some other discouraging line; he had to meet these expectations with whatever seemed at least a little bit encouraging:

– You look pretty when you get like that.

Feeling proud to have helped out a struggling newcomer, he ran his ten fingers through the running salt at the same time with his eyes fixed on her, trying to preserve the friendly atmosphere he had built. Before that face covered in tears showed any reaction that could contradict the idea that he was doing a great job, the man took advantage of his height in relation to the tent to cut the line of vision that had formed between them by simply erecting his spine once more, and began to suck each of his fingers from left to right. He picked up the plate of salt on his way out, letting it spit out wherever he went.

The next tent had no thematic decoration. The scene was of a common market stall with a paper marked in Calibri text: “Sapient Apple Pie”. Galoshes and sandals, having spotted the sign, quickened their pace to a frenzy – it was a name that certainly raised expectations. Following that, a pair of earrings and a tie were made to dangle around the path, as the other two judges attempted to prevent a delay to the event.

– So… – Looking at the two men who arrived exhausted from their run, the woman operating the tent handed them each one Halloween-themed plastic cup of water.

– Thank you very much.

– Oh, I needed that. Cute. – He took the cup and started washing his hands, whose palms were entirely licked with traces of salt that he apparently had time to consume even amidst his rush.

They all waited for earrings to finish drinking, as his glottis released an aberration of a noise with each sip. The presenter was staring directly at his neck, which was originally in an attempt to figure out how it managed to create a sound like that – “originally”, as she was soon distracted by his mystical necklace, which looked a lot like the one she had lost in the last edition of the contest.

Trying to redirect the participant’s attention, the man in sandals cleared his throat, but ended up choking a little, forcing him to help himself to some water as well. The woman kept on anyway:

– Well, I'm just going to start… You must have already read my sign; you know what it’s about. I really thought of this project as an extension of last year's ideas, you know?

– So, it is a living being. – The judge in sandals began his round of interrogations while delicately massaging his neck.

– Yeah. It is deeply contemplative and especially concerned with the fact that we are merely in a text. But it’s just a pie.

– It has anxiety, then?

– Yes, I made sure it had some.

– Like, in the recipe?

– No, from trauma.

– What trauma?

She lifted her shoulders and looked to the side, yawning into her own leather jacket’s shoulder. The one in a suit yawned right away. The one in sandals wanted to yawn, but he pressed his lips together tightly – he let out a small “Excuse me” that no one heard – and then returned to asking questions:

– If we eat it, will it feel that?

– Perhaps. I dunno. Probably not. Feel free to do so; it won't complain anyway, it's just a pie.

After everyone shared a glance, searching for permission from others’ eyes, they considered themselves allowed to look at the pie with vigor. They quickly stuck their forks through the dough and filling to bring the delicious flavors to their mouths. Their faces seemed to show they were enjoying it. The pie wasn’t enjoying it as much.

The one in a suit shook his arms from side to side, in anticipation for what he was about to say:

– It has a little dulce de leche filling. I love that!

The one with the earrings clamped his mouth shut, preparing to swallow something large, as one would for a pill. His head then arched itself all the way back, straightening the throat. As soon as it passed the neck, the man commented, with a mix of curiosity and sadness:

– Mine had some sort of stone thingy in it...

– Oh, it does that sometimes.

The judges all nodded their heads in understanding. As soon as he swallowed his slice, the sandaled judge finally blurted out the question he had been thinking of ever since he saw the sign:

– Have you stopped to think about the ethical implications of this?

– Yes!

– Oh, all good then! – He said, as he took a forkful from the edge, his favorite part of most pies.

The judge in galoshes held one thought for a while, until she was certain of the fact that her contribution made sense.

– And, come here, didn't you think about decorating with Frankenstein, or something like that?

– The monster?

– No, the doctor. Linking the pie with a strong cultural icon already gives it a sense of familiarity, you know? Firstly, you already have the gothic horror aesthetic. Then people see a shitty guy who created life just to make it suffer and you can say, “do you want to feel like you’re as shit as him”?

– Yeah, people want to feel like shit nowadays. – The judge with earrings remarked, even with his mouth full of pie, as he turned on his cell phone to take a photo of the slice he was eating.

– I don't... – The judge a suit made this comment with what seemed to be a lot of sincerity, which made the girl herself feel pressured to put her hand on his shoulder while he took a bit from each of the pies on his plate.

– Did you consider having the pie scream out as it was being eaten, or was that feminine compassion of yours unable to handle it? – He questioned without looking up; he was busy trying to stop the salt – still leaking from the previous slice – from spreading into the current pie.

– What? Uh... – She tried to ignore the comment and hold out a new plate, one that didn't have salt spilling out of it, but the evaluator didn't even notice her gesture. Seeing that the question was of interest to the other judges as well – everyone now looking at her with some strong intrigue – she recovered in time for an explanation. – The thing is… they used to be able to talk just fine, but the pies from when I was working out the recipe quickly gained access to a shared database that formed a sort of collective subconscious… which meant they started storing information about who would come to eat them to try to improve their manipulation tactics, so…

– Oh!

– Yeah... I had to send my mom to therapy for a while.

– But your cat, how is little Crackling holding out? – the judge made a point of asking before finishing writing down notes in her mare-themed notebook (complete with a cover of two of them in the middle of a jump at nightfall).

– He’s fine! He had a urinary infection a good while back but has now recovered!

All the judges shared one face of compassion for good old Crackling. Even without realizing it, the fact that they couldn't see him this year had already had already mentally neutered how they evaluated the entertainment factor. Still, the judge went on to question:

– But then the database thing, can they still do that?

– I dunno.

Having received the answer, she pretended to be making a note, but was finishing a sketch of a new mare, trying to adjust the leg muscles to make it look less like a dog. The one in sandals took over, continuing the conversation:

– I should just note that my slice had a little section of it that might have gotten stuck in its mold. This is already starting to dampen the experience of being able to ruin a living being myself, you know?

– It's... kind of like a banana, right?

– More or less that.

She nodded, indicating that she understood the criticisms, in spite of not having even paid close attention to who said what; she just made a mental note indicating “more banana”. Looking at the man in a suit, who seemed to put some of the salt that was leaking out – still – from the previous slice on top of the apple pie, she wanted to ask:

– And you? What did you think of it in the end?

– I really like your dress, it looks tight on you.

– OK? – She ignored the comment and focused on the accessory that seemed familiar to her – What about you, crystal necklace guy?

– Huh? – The one with the earrings looked down, in confusion, until he realized that he was, in fact, wearing a necklace. He wanted to correct her and say that it was not made of crystal, but rather, by his own assessment, some polycrystalline material, but he reoriented himself towards letting out an honest opinion – Ah, me. I didn't quite get… apple? Why choose apple?

– Well, I actually chose banana peel as a flavor, but it ended up tasting like apple anyway. – She was about to complement her sentence with the hypothesis that he had, somehow, taken her necklace from her in last year’s contest, which she was becoming more and more certain of, but first:

– Does she lose points for that? – the judge looked at the man in sandals, awaiting his decision. He quickly had his query answered:

– Knowing that it wasn't her intention is kind of unfortunate, cause apples are very… original sin, you know?

– Although, that’s not quite apple either; that’s another fruit entirely. – The judge in galoshes commented, starting to draw another female horse; she had decided that the two of them would be kissing.

– Even so, culturally, you understand? – The one in sandals reiterated his point, no longer looking at the competitor before him.

– So do I lose points or not?

– Well, we'll discuss that along the way.

– Good luck! – They shouted as they already began moving towards their next baker to evaluate.

– Hey! – She dashed towards the judges, having leapt over her own table. It wasn't as impressive as it sounds. It was a short table. Even so, they all stared at the woman, continuing their journey as usual regardless, as they had already mentally removed themselves from being in conversation with her. The girl, now too tired to articulate even minimally complex ideas, just shouted – Necklace! Mine! – as she ripped it directly from the earring judge's neck, slightly choking him.

In everyone’s heads, they had just witnessed a robbery in broad daylight, but they didn't really care – the choking man coughed a little, raising his hand to his chest, but soon straightened himself up and followed with the others. The woman, now with her necklace back, returned to her comfortable sheet of paper with text in a Calibri font. Seeing the pile of salt that had accumulated around her tent, she bent down, scooped up some, and licked her hand in a cat-like fashion. Only at that moment did she stop to think about the fact that, apparently, she had stumbled into a gothic horror aesthetic completely by accident. She reflected a little more on how to make this aesthetic something more “banana”. She stopped reflecting, as she got really tired. Salt good.

This time, they all walked together to the next participant's table, who advertised his mysterious lemon pie with a special poster made via commission by some hyperpop artist. The judge in a suit seemed particularly excited, expecting stuff truly worthy of coming from pros out of the next two pastry chefs.

– Hi hi, welcome!

– I like the poster already. – The judge with earrings arrived already excited about what this tent would bring, as he remembered who ran it.

– I don’t. – The judge in galoshes said disappointedly, as if this was not part of her assessment and just a personal comment. It was absolutely part of her evaluation, he had just lost points in the aesthetics and presentation category.

The judge in sandals didn't know why, but he felt a primal rage toward the man presenting pies in front of him. "Huh, weird." He didn't remember the past year enough to understand how he could feel so intensely like punching someone, but still retained a relaxed stance.

– Well, this pie is mine, of course. I'm not here to plagiarize pies, right, haha! – Nobody laughed. That had happened before and it was a mess for everyone involved. – But yes, I made this one with lemon because the sourness is really important for what I want to achieve with it, you know... like... yeah, haha...

– Let's see, then... – the judge in a suit announced as he stretched forwards to grab a slice for everyone. – But what is it that–?

He fell hard to the floor before he finished the question. With it, the slice of salted pie, which was left completely shattered on the ground, gave way to a pile of salt that seemed to replenish itself as it spread around the place, slowly expanding in volume.

– Oh, yeah. The pie kills you when you touch it.

And, with a confused look, the other judges tried to understand the situation. After a long time of processing, the woman in galoshes finally got over her bad first impression of the poster and let her enthusiasm for the potential of what she was witnessing take control of the conversation:

– Oh! Now I get it! You're going to open a business selling these pies, right?

– I don't know; I was- ha, yeah, I was kind of thinking about that, but I'm not sure.

– Sell it, sell it! The suicidality market is growing, you know? Makes for good business.

– But don't you think that a single-use product like this kind of, like, inherently limits its own sales?

– You don't seem to have a head for entrepreneurship, do you? Look... – she turned over her notebook until she found a page that didn't contain mares. – Think about it like this: the way your product works, it could expand into a somewhat adjacent mercenary market, see?

The man had his horizons expanded even further. Thinking about how valuable this experience had already been, he dropped a single tear, which instantly vaporized once it reached his pie.

– What is it? – The judge asked, moving the notebook away so that the crying wouldn't even have the opportunity to get her horses wet. The one in sandals thought about making a joke about holding on to one’s horses, but he couldn’t figure out how to do that.

– No, nothing... You know, it's just. God! You guys really... Wow. Before these pies I really felt like I had nothing, and now all this... oh...

The judges impatiently watched the baker, who forced himself to take a deep breath as he stared into the serious eyes that surrounded him.

– I thought about this pie when I was going through some… difficulties, you know? So I hope that if I can sell this, it could end up as a symbol of recovery – like, I'm the one who kills people now, look...

– Oh! OOOOHHH! – The one in sandals shouted, in a state of ecstasy that seemed to have triggered a slight tachycardia. – I remember you! You're... you're the guy I thought was like the opposite of an Übermensch, right? That's why I want to punch you so bad... Okay. It's kind of making sense to me now.

No one knew exactly how to react to the comment, so the commenter himself returned to the evaluation questions:

– Since we're already talking about this, this is the third time I've had to ask this today, but haven't you thought about the moral aspect of this?

– Oh, totally. A divine intervention happened to me a few weeks ago and God said it was ok.

– So you believe in singular, objective morality? – The judge laughed to himself: “Yeah, a very ‘last man’ thing.”

– I don't know. Meeting God made things a little bit more complicated, I guess.

– Hey, what did God look like? – The judge with earrings took the opportunity to answer a curiosity he had while admiring the necklace around his own neck, having already forgotten about the fact that it was not supposed to be there anymore. As he looked up, he realized he had made the competitor blush in a worrying red. He looked like he was about to explode.

– Kind of like you, to be honest. Ha ha...

– Cool. – he didn't understand what was the significance of that. To distract himself, he grabbed a slice of the lemon pie. Cream good.

Trying to remain calm, even as he loathed his colleague for interrupting his questions, the man in sandals took a leaf out of his hair, not knowing exactly where it had come from. Upon realizing he could follow his line of questioning, he did just that:

– Was there a lot of planning required for it to actually kill people?

– No, actually.

– How did you do it then?

– I just, I don't know, really wanted it to do so?

Between three mares discussing their marital problems, the judge in galoshes made sure to note that the third baker must have quite a lot of willpower while drawing a line between “third competitor” and “call Uncle Henry” with a skull symbol.

– Just one final thing, we're gonna to have to ask you to clean up what was left on the floor yourself before someone steps on it by accident. We rented this place, you know?

– Of course, of course.

The judges left the pastry chef with a handshake. They were starting to get tired. The one with earrings, in a hurry to finish, tried to remember what the protocol would be:

– What do we do about Smith?

– Burn the body, no?

Completely unintentionally, they had both given the same answer an exact octave apart. This appeared to cause the necklace's material, which was basically 75% monocrystalline, to glow slightly, but its wearer was preoccupied with another matter.

– No, no, about the grades he would give to the other competitors.

– Oh, that? – The one with sandals picked up some of the salt that was now piling up almost to his feet before continuing his speech. – I already have this prepared, let me get them to play one of the announcements. You can move on to the next pie and I’ll arrive shortly.

The one in earring nodded in understanding.

– Yeah, you go ahead on your own, I just think my galoshes got dirty from the slice that fell off. – She said, unzipping the back of her shoes so that she was left with just the inner galoshes. These were red; the ones before were transparent.

The remaining judge found the two different excuses strange, but followed along to a tent that was about as well put together as it gets. Loads and loads of cardboard and glitter in purple and gold made for invitations to a new world; undoubtedly a new world of flavors. The unconventionally shaped pies promised an unparalleled experience, and were each adorned with their own lilac petal.

As he looked at the gentleman behind the pies, a wrinkle of curiosity took shape between the judge's earrings.

– You were second place last year, right?

– For the last 40 years, yes. In fact, where might the winner be today?

– At home. He said he was having a depressive episode.

– Sucks for him, I suppose...

The judge went back to his phone, making some plans for later, though the gentleman was very willing to continue talking. There was a long stretch of silence. Upon realizing that he was being stared at directly, and fearing appearing unprofessional in front of an elder in the art of pie baking, he took the liberty of pointing to the pile of salt that now extended from his fallen companion to his feet and asking:

– Want some?

The answer came in the form of a restrained shaking of his head from side to side, drawing a “no”, with a short explanation:

– Blood pressure.

The one with the earrings gave him an understanding thumbs-up. Following that, they were willing to wait quietly for all the judges to be ready. The one in galoshes, was already the first to speak as she arrived on the scene:

– Sorry for being late! Very much so – The man in sandals even took the opportunity to raise his hands as if he were a police target. – But what do you have to show here? I see several pies already.

– They're bomb pies. – The gentleman announced with a smile.

– Didn't we ban explosives about 20 years ago, 22 or something like that? – The one with earrings asked, as he could have sworn there was some significant reason behind that decision.

– Technically, explosives are allowed, the problem would be recognition in the news as a terrorist attack. – The competitor said, raising from his table a printed copy of an excerpt from the Commission's official book of rules referring to the subject. He soon rolled up the paper again and continued with his presentation. – But no, these are not explosives. It's just that a friend invited me to see him take part in a contest for something called a chocolate bomb, which, as I found out only upon arrival, is supposed to be some sweet treat. And, in the spirit of trying to bring something new here to our own competition, I couldn’t stop thinking about that.

– So, these are supposed to be some of those “bombs”? – The one with sandals said, shaking one of his feet to see if readjust one of them, as it was about to slip out.

– No, they're pies. But I prepared them as if they were chocolate bombs. Just help yourselves to one, you’ll understand things a little better!

The judges had already tasted smaller pies in their lives, but for some reason, in spite of them being much tinier than a normal pie, these so-called “bomb pies” seemed to be the right size for what they were. Before they even thought having these in their mouths, they absorbed everything they could of the strange delicacy. Pros at work; quite a sight! Following the Commission's instructions, their evaluation method for UPOs was synchronized down to the centimeters and milliseconds. They threw the candy up in the air once, assessing its weight, and then smelled the entire surface in a zigzag pattern. From the woman in galoshes, a crucial question arose:

– Do we eat the petal?

– No, I think you’d get diarrhea...

– Right.

It seemed perfectly appropriate, but the judges remained nervous. They looked at each other in communion: they were to face this together, with determination! They placed a small fraction of the pies between their teeth and, closing their eyes, took a bite. Having survived, they looked at each other, with the pastry in their mouths, and ran their tongues over all the different phases of the sampled piece. They let the saliva dissolve the dough a little, turning it into more and more of a sweet paste, until they finally swallowed it whole. They used the moment of bringing napkins to their lips as a well-deserved rest, in an attempt to compile their opinions. The one in sandals felt the need to start a sentence, if only to force his brain to finish it once he had already put himself in that position:

– Wow, it's really good! It's... it's as if...

That wasn't enough. It was indescribable.

– It's like a pie, except–

– Well, it's a pie, isn't it? – The gentleman insisted.

– Is it really though? – The one with the earrings was legitimately asking. – Do you have the excerpt that talks about what is considered a pie?

– No, unfortunately.

– And you had the one on explosives!?

The baker looked away to the left, hiding a slight chuckle in his beard:

– I like that part, it's humorous.

The judges looked at the gentleman with a very intense stare of estrangement. They didn't understand if it was because he was already half blind, or if he simply no longer cared, but he didn't even react to the faces of his evaluators. He took a long sigh and just began to ruminate:

– You know, I've been participating since the 1973 edition. It's been exactly 50 years since I started, yet I’ve never won once! About time, no?

The man in sandals, upon hearing this, bent his arm to scratch his back as he thought of some vaguely appropriate response.

– Yeah, yeah. I'll have to think more about this, because it ended up being quite… conceptual.

The gentleman watched the judges uncomfortably walk away, along with his dreams, bearing an unflinching half-smile.

– Thank you very much for your time.

Jotting down the rest of their thoughts, the judges huddled together in front of the tent to submit their scores to the registration system, which would determine the winner in time for the award ceremony. After pressing the confirm button, the one with the earrings turned back to the pastry chef's table for a query:

– Question, if a guy said he saw God and that He looked like you, what would be an appropriate reaction?

– Oh, I think it was a strange attempt at flirting. – The judge responded, having held this notion back all this time in the face of what, for her, was obvious. But the competitor soon added:

– No, no, God looks like you. I can attest to that.

– Cool.

She violently bit her lip in an attempt to alleviate the fact that her guess was wrong.

– By the way, I want to tell you something. – The gentleman added.

– Tell who something?

– The one with galoshes and sandals.

The two judges who fit this description pointed to themselves, confused as to which one the contestant wanted to talk to, until they remembered they were the same person, and simply wearing a pair of sandals outside their red galoshes.

– Oh, what?

– I liked your drawings of horses... I glanced at some of them and… I thought they were neat.

– Oh thanks! But they are mares...

– What?

– They're mares.

– Right, right...

– Well, sometimes they are horses too, but they are mainly mares.

– Right.

She began to wonder if the man had made any expression other than that half-smile, until he commented:

– I have a horse on my farm.

She no longer knew what to answer, and merely walked away alongside her co-worker. She whispered to him:

– I don't like him much.

– Weird guy, right?

She was surprised when he said that he needed to solve something with the baker who had killed Smith, but the reaction soon evaporated when she saw the two of them going together behind one of the tents. “Right, it IS June…” She took this opportunity to send drawings of mares to her therapist, as requested. They were both excited about this kind of thing.

After a while, she whistled to announce her presence and yelled to her colleague, telling him to come back for the awards ceremony. As soon as she did so, the official speaker for the event did the same for the entire 7-now-6-person audience. One by one, they all accommodated themselves in the plastic chairs facing the stage.

– We have an official speaker? – The one with the earrings wanted to know.

– She arrived about 3 minutes ago.

The lights came on. The Commission speaker, still catching up on her breathing, began her speech:

– Welcome to the 2023 Annual Pie Baking Contest Awards Ceremony. Firstly, as the official speaker for this 2023 edition of the Pie Baking Contest, it is with a heavy heart that I announce the passing of one of our event judges, Please, everyone, a moment of silence for this late professional pie appraiser.

The presentation quickly went through the slides already prepared for mourning the other two judges before arriving at photos of the deceased. Due to a lack of options, they resorted to photos of him pouting and in other intriguing positions that the Commission managed to extract from his private conversations with his wife. The entire audience stood in silence, out of respect for this great loss to the global pie baking community.

– I don't imagine we would have to describe his influence on how we understand pies in their true artistic potential to all of you right now. So we won't. But we plan to honor him another way. Over time, we received several complaints from participating women that his behavior carried inappropriate tendencies. The Commission would like to take this opportunity to reiterate that it is always engaged in building a pie baking space that is welcoming to all genders. That said, we have decided to honor the memory of the recently deceased judge through a symbolic 3-point discount on the grades of all female participants of this event.

A hand went up in the audience. It was from the one who made the pie that could be killed, asking a question with her attention divided between it and a guide on the internet called “How to make your pies goated and banana pilled in 5 simple steps”:

– I have a non-binary friend who sometimes participates, how would that go for them?

– He wouldn't know what that means, so he would probably discriminate against it, right? They can lose 3 points too, sure. – The speaker said, not understanding what it was about the art of making pies that seemed to attract so many of these LGBTs. It was beginning to annoy her. She thought about asking her girlfriend later at home. – Without further ado, I present to you the winner of our contest, please come on stage...

In the screen projected for the audience, the slide was about to change, but not before doing a pirouette that left it shredded into a thousand pieces scattered about like confetti while the animation of a window being opened marked the transition to the next slide. Empty, of course. It was first filled with color and three-dimensional models rotating festively until the text appeared, letter by letter: T – H – E – W – I – N – N – I – N – G – P – I – E

– My God, I made a pie, it could be mine! – Shouted the man with the lemon pie.

I – S

– Everyone made a pie, shut up! – Replied the baker whose pie could be killed.

T – H

– I'll peel your skin off! – No one understood exactly who said that.

E – P – I – E – N – A – M – E – D – :

Sound effects of drums beating accompanied by images of kittens swinging drumsticks.

– Vee's Savory Strawberry Pie! Our first female winner!

Victoria had to be asked to stand up, because her legs, by themselves, were firmly numb. Was it really her? They did get her name wrong. More than out of happiness, she wanted to cry because she had no idea what was happening.

The audience, made up only of the rest of the competitors, applauded with composure and dignity.

– And now, you have the right to a wish granted by the Commission! That would be…?

– I want to go to Disney Land! Can I go to Disney Land?

– Unfortunately, the Commission has not approved funding for flights since 2001.

– Can you guys kill my cousin, then?

– Is there a specific reason for this?

– I don’t really know.

– Okay. Well, I hope to see you all at our next pie year.

Unfortunately, the Commission's operations would only continue until March 2024, at which time an international scandal involving one of its largest donors would trigger an investigation that would reveal criminal activity tied to the Global Pie Society as well as its connections to several coup attempts in various Latin American states.

[steveseddie]

when the clock strikes twelve

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles “midnight” & @steddiebingo 12 days of christmas mini event “carol” | rated: t | wc: 1000 | tags: different first meeting, post season 2, new year’s kiss

read on ao3

It’s five minutes to midnight when Steve steps into the bathroom at Tina’s house.

If he’d known that coming to her New Year’s Eve party would mean welcoming the new year alone in the same bathroom where his girlfriend called their relationship bullshit, Steve would’ve stayed home.

“If it isn’t the King of Hawkins,” a voice says, startling Steve and making him turn around, his heart hammering in his chest. But it’s not a demodog or fucking Billy Hargrove, just Eddie Munson sitting on the sink with his legs swinging back and forth.

“Munson.”

“Welcome to my office, Your Highness,” Eddie says with a dorky salute.

Steve glances around them. “Your office?”

“This is where I do business, you see,” he says, flipping the lid of his metal lunchbox. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Steve hangs a hand from his neck. “No, uh, I’m hiding from someone.”

Eddie perks up with interest. “Who?”

“Carol Perkins.”

“Your buddy Tommy’s girl?”

Steve’s nose wrinkles. “He’s not my buddy anymore and she’s not his girl either. And for some reason Carol thinks the best way to get back at him for being a dick is to kiss me at midnight.”

“And you don’t want that?” Steve shakes his head. “Thought you and Wheeler were done– or are you not over her yet? Don’t worry, big boy. There’s still time for that New Year’s resolution.”

“Shut up,” Steve says, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “It’s not about Nancy, I just don’t want to kiss the first girl who throws herself at me, you know?”

“I do not, Your Majesty,” Eddie says with an amused snort. “I’ve never participated in such activities.”

Steve tilts his head in question. “Kissing someone on New Year’s?”

Eddie looks away, nervously playing with a rip on his jeans. “Or you know, ever.”

He can’t see the way Steve’s eyebrows shoot up but he probably hears the surprise in his voice when he asks, “You’ve never kissed anyone?”

Eddie purses his lips. They’re nice lips, Steve observes. It’s a shame no one has kissed them. “No, Harrington. Go ahead and laugh it up,” he says, his voice clipped.

“I’m not laughing! I’m just–” Confused that someone as hot as you hasn’t kissed anyone. Steve clears his throat, his blush getting worse with that thought even if Eddie can’t read his mind. “I mean. Why haven’t you?”

Eddie scoffs. “People aren’t exactly lining up to kiss the town’s freak,” he says. Then hesitates before he adds, “Specifically guys.”

So the rumors about Munson are true. “Oh.”

The confession makes Steve blush, despite Eddie being the one who admitted something. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s afraid he’ll open his mouth and something stupid will come out. Something like– ‘I’m here! I’m a guy!’

So he stays silent, which makes Eddie wary.

“That’s it? You’re not gonna run? Call me names? Punch me?”

Steve can see that his shoulders are tense, his knuckles white where they’re gripping the sink tightly. It’s like he’s getting ready to run in case Steve reacts badly.

But running away or punching Eddie couldn’t be further away from what Steve wants to do right now.

“No, I–”

“Ten seconds to midnight!” Someone yells downstairs.

“I– I want to do something else,” Steve admits, his voice wavering slightly. He hesitantly steps closer to Eddie, who narrows his eyes.

“What?”

“Five seconds!” The same voice yells and the crowd joins the countdown.

“Four!”

Steve stands directly between Eddie’s legs.

“Three!”

He puts his hands on Eddie’s waist.

“Two!”

Steve raises his eyebrows in a silent question– is this okay?

“One!”

Eddie gives a tiny nod.

And then Steve swoops in, pressing his lips against Eddie’s as the crowd downstairs cheers and Eddie’s watch starts beeping.

Somewhere in the distance, fireworks go off but Steve could swear he can feel them inside him when Eddie kisses back, looping his arms around his neck.

Steve tilts his head, determined to give Eddie a good first kiss. He licks softly at his bottom lip, making him gasp. Then he kisses him a little harder, softly touching Eddie’s tongue with his, feeling the way he shudders.

He knows this is probably longer than the usual New Year’s kiss but Steve doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to stop. And apparently neither does Eddie, who pulls Steve closer and drags his teeth across his bottom lip.

It’s only when they need to breathe that they break apart.

Eddie’s eyes stay closed longer and only flutter open when Steve cups his neck and strokes an idle thumb against his jaw.

He decides that dazed and kiss-drunk are a good look on him.

“Happy New Year,” he says with a lopsided grin.

Eddie snorts amusedly. “Yeah, Happy New Year.”

The noise downstairs starts to die down. People are probably going back to drinking and dancing, maybe even leaving. He could easily slip out without running into Carol, but he doesn’t want to, not unless–

“Hey, uh, do you wanna get out of here?” Steve blurts out.

Eddie blinks. “Me?”

He can’t help but roll his eyes. “No, the other guy I just made out with in the bathroom.”

“And here I thought I was special,” Eddie says with pouty lips– fuck, Steve wants to kiss them again.

So he does. Just a quick press of lips.

When he pulls back, he places another small kiss to the corner of Eddie’s mouth.

“Say yes,” he says before doing the same on the other side. “And I’ll show you special.”

Steve hears the way Eddie’s breath hitches and feels a smirk teasing at his lips.

Only for it to be wiped away by Eddie grabbing him by his neck and pulling him in for more than a press of lips.

Damn, he’s a fast learner.

“Yes,” Eddie says once he pulls back, giving him a shit-eating grin.

Steve sends a silent ‘thank you’ to Carol Perkins before reaching for Eddie’s hand to drag him out of there.

[theonottsbxtch]

I LOVED YOU FIRST PT2 | FC43

part one

an: not even gonna leave an an, i always had a part two lol

wc: 5.2k

Franco found out she was dating Angelo via an Instagram story. A fucking Instagram story.

But that was almost three years ago now, and Franco tried to let it go, god did he try. He was getting married now, after all. He had to forget about what could have been.

The engagement ring on his finger felt heavier than it should. Not because he hadn’t once thought it was right—he had. Or maybe he just convinced himself it was right. They’d been together for four years, maybe more, he stopped counting. She was beautiful, poised, easy to love, easy to fit into his world. That’s what he’d told himself, anyway.

But now, standing in the grand suite of the London hotel they’d rented for the weekend, Franco stared out the window at the city below, watching the lights flicker in the distance. He hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that something was missing. Not that he had any right to be questioning it. After all, he was about to get married, wasn’t he?

The last three years had been a blur of wins, podiums, and post-race parties. Formula 1 had been a dream realised, his face plastered across billboards in every country, every magazine with his name next to the headlines. He’d travelled the world, earned millions, lived a life many envied. But somewhere along the way, his heart had wandered.

And the truth was, despite the glamour, despite the fame, the money, he couldn’t shake the thought of her. The way she’d looked when she told him she loved him first. The way her eyes had glistened with unshed tears that night in Monza—before she left for good. The way she’d walked away, no longer the girl he took for granted. It was like he could still see her disappearing down the hallway of the hotel, leaving him behind, a shadow in her past.

What if I had chosen her?

He thought about that too often. But it was too late. She was gone. She’d moved on with Angelo, the guy who was everything Franco wasn’t—steady, grounded, someone who could give her a love that wasn’t tied to racing, fame, or endless, mind-numbing travel. And that fucking Instagram story—her laughing, the two of them in a café in Buenos Aires, arms around each other, looking so effortlessly happy—had been the final blow.

That was the last straw.

And now, three years later, here he was—about to get married, with the wrong person. He should have been thrilled, but something about it gnawed at him, like he was suffocating in a life that wasn’t his own. She was everything he thought he wanted. She’d followed him to every race, always the perfect girlfriend, the perfect partner. But the truth was, he wasn’t sure he loved her anymore. He wasn’t sure he ever had.

She had been the easy option. She fit into the world he’d built for himself—the shiny, public life, the world of sponsorships and media appearances. She had the right background, the right education, the right looks. She was what was expected of him. What people saw when they looked at a successful F1 driver: the perfect match, the ideal woman.

But the reality was that whenever he closed his eyes, he saw someone else. He saw her. The girl from that small village in Argentina, the one who’d loved him first and probably would, even when he didn’t deserve it. Even when he hadn’t been able to see it for what it was.

He hadn’t thought about her for a while—not in the sense that would make him ache, not the way he used to. He’d buried that pain under the chaos of the last few years. But it was like a low hum in the back of his mind. Every time he saw Angelo’s name pop up, or when he’d hear a new story about her from people back home, he couldn’t help but wonder how her life had turned out. Was she happy? Was she still with Angelo? Was she finally over him?

He could only imagine the life she’d built without him—the kind of life she deserved.

But now, standing on the edge of a new chapter of his life, Franco wondered if he’d ever be able to move on. Because, no matter how many laps he raced, no matter how many trophies he collected, it always came back to her. And now, with his wedding on the horizon, he couldn’t help but ask himself: What the hell had he been doing this whole time?

His phone buzzed on the table, snapping him back to the moment. His fiancée. A text: “Hey, I made reservations for dinner tonight!”

He sighed and stared at the screen of his phone, fingers hovering over the keyboard. 

He knew he shouldn’t, it was ridiculous. It was stupid. He had no right to send her an invitation, not after everything. He hadn’t heard from her in so long, hadn’t even thought about reaching out beyond those painful Instagram stories and the passing updates from mutual friends.

But, for some reason, there he was—typing out an invitation to his wedding.

It’s the right thing to do, he told himself. She was a part of his past. She had been the first person to love him unconditionally. They’d spent too many years growing up together not to extend an olive branch. Besides, she had a life now, a life without him. Maybe it was selfish to think she would even want to come, but maybe, just maybe, she deserved to know. She deserved to hear it from him, the way things had turned out.

He hit “send” before he could overthink it any more. The words felt hollow as they left his phone, but there was no going back now.

It was a quiet afternoon in Buenos Aires. The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a soft, golden light through the windows of their apartment. She and Angelo had just finished dinner—nothing fancy, just pasta and wine—and now she was curled up on the couch with a book in her lap, one of the many cosy rituals they had settled into over the past couple of years.

Her phone buzzed on the coffee table. She glanced at it, seeing a notification from her email app. The subject line made her pause.

Wedding Invitation: Franco Colapinto.

She blinked, feeling her chest tighten before she even opened it. It had been so long since she’d thought about him—since Monza, really. It was a chapter of her life that had closed the moment she walked away. But the sight of his name brought it all rushing back. The summers spent racing bikes down dirt roads, his smile so effortless, so wide. The way he’d looked at her before everything changed.

Slowly, she opened the email, feeling a strange mixture of nostalgia and disbelief.

I hope this message finds you well. It’s been a while since we last spoke, but I wanted to reach out and invite you to something important. I’m getting married in three months' time, and I wanted to personally invite you to be a part of the day. It wouldn’t feel right without including you.

I understand if you’re unable to come, but I thought it was important to extend the invitation.

I hope everything is going well in your life.

All the best,

Fran

She stared at the message for what felt like an eternity, the words swimming in her mind. There were so many things she could have said, but the only thing she could focus on was the feeling of her heart, beating a little faster than it should. A soft ache settled in her chest.

Three years had passed. She had moved on, found a life she was proud of—one that was stable and calm, filled with love from Angelo, whose steady hand had never wavered, who had been everything Franco couldn’t be. She had built a future, and it was more than she had ever expected for herself.

And yet, the invitation sat there, a reminder of what had been. Of the boy she had loved, the boy who had never truly seen her. Of the boy who she had walked away from.

She set the phone down for a moment, leaning back against the couch. Angelo’s gentle snoring filled the living room from the slightly ajar door, a quiet reminder of the life they had made together—together, with no ghosts of the past lingering between them. But even as she sat there, she could feel the sting of Franco’s message, the painful reminder of how much had been left unsaid.

She thought about the wedding. How strange it felt to be invited to something so intimate, something so final. It was a life she would never be a part of. A life that wasn’t hers to claim, never was. But part of her, deep down, still wondered what had happened. Was he happy? Was this really the life he wanted? Or was this just another easy option for him? Another decision made out of convenience?

Why am I even asking myself this?

She shook her head, her lips curling into a rueful smile. She knew she didn’t want to go. There was no reason to go back to that part of her life, not now. Not when everything she had built with Angelo was exactly where it needed to be.

The following morning, the soft clink of Angelo’s keys echoed through their small kitchen as he got his things ready for work. He was already dressed in his crisp suit, his tie neatly adjusted, preparing for another day at the law firm. She, on the other hand, was in her scrubs, packing her bag for her shift at the hospital.

She was tying her trainers when she saw him glance at her, his eyes focused on his phone.

“Hey,” he said, his voice casual but tinged with curiosity. “You seem a little quiet this morning.”

She shrugged, setting her bag down on the counter. “I’m fine. Just tired, I guess.”

It was only a half-lie. She had hardly slept last night after receiving Franco’s invitation. The words had stuck with her, gnawing at her thoughts, replaying in her mind like a loop she couldn’t escape.

“What’s up?” Angelo asked, watching her intently, his brow furrowing slightly.

She hesitated, then sighed and reached for her phone, pulling up the email Franco had sent her. She handed it to him without a word.

Angelo read it in silence, his eyes scanning the screen. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him. She wasn’t sure what to expect, but somehow, she already knew that he would have an opinion on it.

Finally, he set the phone down and looked at her, his expression unreadable for a moment. “He’s getting married, huh? I didn;’t believe it when I saw it on the news.” he said softly.

“Yeah,” she replied quietly, as if the words themselves felt like an admission. “I guess he thought I should know.”

“You’re not planning on going, are you?” Angelo asked, his voice laced with concern.

She shook her head, biting her lip. “He’s my past now. It doesn’t matter. It’s… it’s not something I need to revisit.”

Angelo nodded, his eyes softening as he stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. He knew how much Franco had meant to her—how he had once been the centre of her world. But that was years ago. And he had never once doubted that she was now his world.

“I haven’t seen Franco since we were sixteen,” Angelo said, his tone thoughtful. “I know things between you and him ended... well, the way they did. But maybe it might be good to go. For closure. For you, if nothing else.”

She met his eyes, her gaze wavering. “Closure?” she repeated, almost incredulously. “I don’t need closure, Angelo. I moved on a long time ago.”

“I know,” Angelo said, his voice gentle but firm. “But I think sometimes it’s easy to say we’ve moved on, that we’re over things. But there are pieces of our past that stick with us, no matter how much time passes. Maybe seeing him—seeing that life—will help you put the final chapter behind you. Don’t you think?”

She was quiet for a long moment, turning the idea over in her head. It made sense, in a way. The past had never quite been put to rest, even if she had buried it deep. Maybe it wasn’t about Franco anymore. Maybe it was about facing what had happened, about finding peace with it, once and for all.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, shaking her head. “I don’t want it to mess with what we have, Angelo. I don’t want to go and be reminded of something that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Angelo smiled softly, taking her hand in his. “It won’t. I promise. You’re the one I want, mi amor You’re the one who matters. Whatever happened back then, whatever Franco was, that’s not us. It’s not our life. But if this is something you think you need to do, then I’ll be there with you. I want you to have the closure you need.”

She felt a warmth spread through her chest at his words. Angelo had always been like that—steady, understanding, and so patient with her. He never pushed her to forget, but he also didn’t hold her to the past. He was the one who made her feel safe, who built her the life she was proud of, and the thought of him beside her through whatever this was made her feel like she could take on anything.

With a slow, hesitant breath, she met his eyes. “You’re right. Maybe it would be good to go. I don’t know what I’ll feel when I see him, but I think... I think I can handle it now.”

Angelo smiled, squeezing her hand. “Then we’ll go. Together.”

She nodded, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. The decision was made, and it was time to let go of the last remnants of the past. Franco and his life—whatever that was now—could stay in the past, but she wouldn’t be running from it anymore.

“Thanks,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. “For always being here.”

“Always,” Angelo replied, his voice warm. “Now go. You don’t want to be late for your shift.”

She smiled at him one last time before grabbing her bag and heading for the door. The wedding was still months away, but somehow, her world felt just a little bit more at peace now.

Three months later

The morning of the wedding, the soft rays of the sun filtered through the curtains of their hotel suite, casting a warm, golden glow across the room.

She stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the fabric of her dress as Angelo adjusted his cufflinks in the reflection behind her. The air was filled with a quiet sense of anticipation. It had been a few months since she agreed to come to the wedding, and now, standing in this luxurious hotel in the heart of the Mediterranean, she could feel the surrealness of it all.

She was here. With him. With Angelo.

He caught her gaze in the mirror, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “You look beautiful,” he said, his voice tender.

She smiled back, her heart swelling with a quiet joy. Angelo was always so calm, so steady, and he knew exactly how to make her feel loved without needing to say much. The simple moments like this were the ones that made her certain that their life together, their future, was the right one.

“Thank you,” she said, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. He was perfect in every way. “You look handsome, as usual,” she added with a smile.

He chuckled softly. “I try,” he teased, adjusting the hem of his suit jacket before stepping forward to take her hand. “Are you ready for this? I know it’s been a long time coming.”

She nodded, squeezing his hand. “Yeah. I’m ready. It’s just… it’s strange. You know? We’re not the same people we were three years ago. And I feel like I’m finally letting go of that past. I just need to do it, for me. And for us.”

“Whatever you need, you have it,” Angelo said, his voice unwavering, filled with a quiet strength.

She smiled at him, grateful for his support. They had come so far, and no matter what happened today, she knew she was in the right place.

“I’m going to step outside for a second,” she said, pulling away from him gently. “I’m going to grab a photo of the schedule. I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” Angelo replied, watching her with those warm, reassuring eyes.

She stepped into the corridor of the hotel, her heels clicking against the polished floor. She pulled out her phone, navigating to the event details to snap a photo of the ceremony’s schedule. The hallway was quiet, save for the distant chatter of guests below and the hum of preparations for the wedding in the distance. The excitement was palpable in the air, but in this moment, everything felt calm.

That was until she heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching from behind.

She turned around, feeling her heart give a small, unexpected jolt when she saw him.

Franco.

He was standing there, half-dressed in a black tuxedo with his shirt untucked, sleeves rolled up, his tie still loose around his neck. He looked just like he did three years ago—handsome, dishevelled in the way that made him seem effortlessly charming.

Her stomach tightened.

“You came,” he said, his voice soft with surprise. 

She stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say, before forcing a calm smile. “I said I would,” she replied evenly. Her heart beat just a little faster, but she kept her expression neutral.

He looked at her, his gaze a little more intense than she remembered, and she couldn’t quite place the mix of emotions flickering in his eyes. There was something unspoken there, something she hadn’t expected.

“I didn’t think you’d follow through,” he added, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

She didn’t know what to make of that. She shrugged. “I thought I’d at least be polite.”

A silence stretched between them, uncomfortable and thick with everything that had been left unsaid over the years. Franco’s gaze drifted toward the floor for a moment before he looked back up at her, his jaw tense, and his voice was almost pleading when he spoke.

“Can we talk?” he asked, his words hesitant.

She hesitated, feeling her pulse quicken. She didn’t want this. Didn’t want to go back to the past—didn’t want to open that door again.

“I’d rather not,” she said, her tone firm, though her heart was beating harder than she cared to admit.

Franco’s expression softened. “It’s been three years. Three years overdue, don’t you think?”

She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply, the weight of everything hanging between them. She didn’t owe him anything, and yet, a part of her—perhaps the part that had loved him—knew there was still something lingering. Something that she hadn’t been able to shake off.

She finally gave a soft sigh, one that carried all the weariness of the years that had passed. “Fine,” she said quietly, her shoulders sagging slightly in resignation. “But just for a minute. I don’t have time to rehash everything.”

“Thank you,” Franco murmured, stepping forward as he gestured down the hallway. “My room’s just down here. I won’t keep you long.”

They walked down the corridor in silence, the weight of the moment sinking in. She wasn’t sure what she expected from this conversation, but she knew it wasn’t going to be easy. Not for either of them. When they reached his room, Franco opened the door and stepped aside to let her in.

It was a modest suite, far removed from the lavish ceremony unfolding just downstairs. The quiet of the room seemed to accentuate the tension between them. He closed the door behind them, his movements slow and deliberate.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, his voice distant as he turned to face her. “Water? A drink?”

She shook her head. “I’m fine.”

There was a long pause. He ran a hand through his hair, clearly nervous. For the first time in a long while, he seemed uncertain.

“So…” Franco began, taking a breath, “I guess this is awkward, huh?”

“Yeah,” she replied, her voice steady, but her insides were churning. “A little.”

Before she even had a chance to settle with what she was doing, he shot her straight to the heart with the words that came out of his mouth.

“I never meant to hurt you,” he said, his voice quiet. “I know I did, but that wasn’t ever my intention. You were always there for me, and I should’ve done better. I should’ve realised…”

Franco ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture that was all too familiar. He seemed to be gathering the courage to say something, but when he spoke, his words were not what she expected.

“I should’ve told you,” he started, voice low, almost regretful. “I should have told you that I loved you.”

She blinked, her chest tightening as she took in the weight of his words. “Don’t,” she said quickly, cutting him off. Her voice was sharp, a defence mechanism against the rawness he was trying to expose. “You can’t do that. You can’t come here and say things like that after all this time. It’s... it’s mean.”

Franco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t back down. “I should’ve told you,” he repeated, his voice thick with something she couldn’t quite place—guilt, perhaps? Regret?

She shook her head, unable to stop herself from responding. “Why are you still with her, then?” Her voice trembled slightly, the question feeling more like a challenge than a simple inquiry. She thought of how excited she must be right now getting ready, while he was confessing his love to his childhood best friend. She wondered whether she knew.

He didn’t answer right away, and when he did, his eyes flickered away, as though he was ashamed of the truth he was about to speak. “It’s easier to pretend to love her,” he admitted, his voice flat. “It’s easier than facing the truth.”

“Than what?” she asked, her words cutting through the air, her eyes locking onto his. “Than admitting you love me?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Franco’s eyes darkened, and he stepped closer, a hesitation lingering between them. He opened his mouth, but instead of speaking, he exhaled deeply, as if trying to gather the strength to continue.

“You don’t understand,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “I was scared. I didn’t know how to handle what I was feeling. I still don’t.”

She looked at him, biting her lip, trying to keep herself from breaking. “You can’t do this,” she said, her voice cracking with frustration. “You don’t get to walk back into my life now and make me feel like I was some... some second choice. You don’t get to say things that undo everything we went through.”

Franco’s gaze darkened, but his next words were even more dangerous. “Say it, and I’ll leave her,” he said, his voice low and intense, as if he were testing her. “Say you want me the same way you wanted me three summers ago, and I’ll do it. I’ll walk away from her. I’ll choose you.”

Her breath caught in her throat, her heart stuttering in her chest. The temptation was there—familiar, painful, and so very dangerous. She could feel that old longing tug at her, the part of her that had loved him so fiercely, so deeply. But this wasn’t that girl anymore. She wasn’t the girl who would wait around for him to realise what he’d lost.

“I can’t,” she whispered, feeling tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. “I can’t do that anymore. I’m happy now. I’m happy with Angelo.”

The words felt heavy on her tongue, and for a moment, it felt like she had to convince herself of them. But as she looked into Franco’s eyes—still searching, still wanting—she realised that she meant it. She really did.

Franco’s face fell, his expression a mixture of frustration and defeat. “You don’t understand,” he said again, the words sounding more like a plea. “I never stopped loving you.”

She took a step back, shaking her head, trying to clear the emotions that were spiralling inside of her. “No,” she said firmly, her voice resolute. “You don’t get to say that, Franco. Not now. Not when I’ve spent three years getting over all of this. You don’t get to come here and break my heart all over again.”

For a long moment, they stood there, the space between them filled with unspoken words and unresolved tension. But it was over. It had to be.

“I can’t undo what happened,” she added softly, her gaze not leaving his. “But I’m not that girl anymore. And I’m not going to be someone’s second choice.”

Franco didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. The weight of everything they’d been through hung heavy between them, and it was clear now that nothing could fix it. Not words. Not promises.

She turned to leave, her hand on the doorknob, but before she could step out of the room, she paused, glancing over her shoulder one last time.

“I’m happy now, Fran,” she said quietly, her voice steady despite everything. “And you need to figure out what makes you happy too. But I can’t be part of that anymore.”

She opened the door and stepped out, not looking back, not giving him the chance to say anything more.

The wedding was beautiful.

The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the guests who had gathered for the wedding. The ceremony was set to take place on the terrace of the luxurious hotel overlooking the sea, the soft sound of waves lapping against the rocks below barely audible amidst the murmur of excited chatter.

She sat there, a few rows back from the front, Angelo by her side. The venue was beautiful—everything that was supposed to be perfect for a wedding. The guests were in their best attire, the flowers were arranged in pristine perfection, and the atmosphere felt like a dream. But something was off. A low hum of anxiety had been building ever since the music started, and she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach.

Franco was supposed to be standing at the altar now. But he wasn’t.

She stole a glance at Angelo, who was sitting quietly beside her, a reassuring hand on her knee. He could sense her unease.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice almost drowned out by the gentle clinking of glasses and conversations around them.

She nodded, but her eyes drifted nervously toward the aisle. “I don’t know,” she murmured. “Something feels wrong.”

The minutes dragged on. The officiant glanced at his watch, confusion spreading across his face as he leaned over to whisper something to the bridesmaids. There was no sign of Franco, and the guests were beginning to exchange worried glances. The tension in the air became palpable, the excitement of the ceremony suddenly replaced by a growing sense of discomfort.

After a few more minutes, she couldn’t hold it in any longer. She turned to Angelo, her voice barely above a whisper, but her anxiety was thick in her words. “Do you think he’s going to come?”

Angelo squeezed her hand gently, his gaze soft and understanding. “I don’t know, cariño. Maybe something’s happened. He’s probably just... running late.”

But as they exchanged those quiet words, it became clear that it wasn’t just a delay. The guests were shifting in their seats, some starting to murmur under their breath, the ceremony now holding a sense of surreal anticipation.

And then, just as the whispers reached a crescendo, the sound of footsteps echoed from behind. Everyone turned, their heads swivelling as they saw him—Franco. He was walking down the aisle, his face pale, his expression one of guilt and uncertainty. He wasn’t in a rush, though. It was as if he was taking his time, as though he had already made a decision.

The room fell silent as Franco reached the front. He looked out at the gathering of faces—his family, his friends, all of them waiting for the moment when he would say "I do." But he didn’t speak immediately.

He was struggling with the words, and she could feel the weight of the tension from across the room. Her heart raced, confusion and disbelief washing over her as she watched him take a deep breath, his eyes scanning the crowd before finally locking on the bride’s family sitting in the front row.

“Excuse me,” Franco’s voice broke through the silence, shaky but loud enough for everyone to hear. “I’m sorry for the disruption,” he continued, his eyes darting nervously between the bride and the guests. “I... I can’t do this. I can’t marry her.”

The air seemed to stop in that moment. His words hung like an echo, the shock rippling through the crowd. She couldn’t look away, her heart pounding in her chest as Freddie stood there, his face flushed with embarrassment, his hands trembling at his sides.

“I’m sorry, I thought I could,” he went on, his voice quiet but steady, “but I can’t marry her when I love someone else.” His gaze shifted to her, and for a split second, their eyes met. The pain, the regret, the history of everything they had been—it was all there in that single glance. But she didn’t feel anything but exhaustion. It was like watching someone else’s dream unravel.

The guests were murmuring, unsure of how to respond. His bride, stood by the doors he’d just walked in from, ready to walk down the aisle frozen and unmoving. Shelooked like she was about to collapse, her face pale as she took in the words that no one had expected.

“I’m sorry, I just—” Franco continued, his voice breaking, “I can’t do it. I can’t go through with it. I’m sorry. I—I just can’t.”

Without another word, he turned and began to walk away, stepping down from the altar, leaving the bride standing alone, abandoned in front of everyone.

The room was filled with stunned silence.

Angelo reached for her hand, squeezing it gently as the reality of what had just unfolded sank in. She didn’t know how to feel—didn’t know what to think. Her chest ached with a strange mixture of relief and guilt, but most of all, there was a numbness that began to set in.

And then, just as quickly as Franco had walked away, he was gone, disappearing behind the closed doors of the venue, leaving a trail of shock in his wake. The ceremony was over before it had even begun.

She couldn’t help herself.

The guilt she felt in her stomach was strong.

It was her fault.

the end.

an: actual an, im sorry guys! i was feeling sad so i wrote this muahhah

tags: @obxstiles @charlosvibesonly @zestytimbit @taygrls

[deesseshesca]

PAC :How will your future lover explore your body ? (18+)

I found a little name for all of y'all ... Bébé d'Amour. Vous etes maintenant mes bébé d'amour (Y'all are now my Bébé d'Amour).

Good morning pretty souls, I'm not a lovey dovey human but for y'all I am ready to do almost anything.

SALE 

Until October 31 all readings on my ko-fi is 30$, only

Choose the image that’s speak to you and allow yourself to soak ONLY what’s reasoning with YOUR SITUATION.

Rules and Disclaimer 

I am the type of tarot reader to say as it is. Nothing is sugar coated but everything is sent with good intention. If you are not ready to face some truth, you should vagabond somewhere else.

MINOR DON'T INTERACT WITH THIS POST 

MINOR DON’T READ THIS POST 

PILE 1 

Page pentacles, 2 swords (reverse), magician (reverse), page wands (reverse)

Their touch is going to make u reminisce about all the time u let someone else touch your body in ways u settle for. Like u never really wanted them to touch but you were to fucking lonely to refuse the act knowing damm well they were using u. Also they were not treating you correctly. They touch is going to make all the monster go away. All the time you were touch with little cares all forgiven to make place with memories of they’re caring touch. Some of y’all have self harm scars, suicide attempt scaring, they will caress it with so much love and thank u everytime for the fact that u stay even thought it was hard. They are grateful upon every stars that u’re self sabotaging behavior never got the best of u otherwise they would have never met u. Some of u don’t think you have a pretty pussy. Maybe u feel like u’re lips of too big or that they are not the same color as the rest of your cooch. Hey, they will to touch your pussy. Always munching with happiness. Others u are not circumcised, don’t matter they bumping their month on your dick with happiness in their eyes. Some of y’all have religious trauma, like your ex-environment made you think that sex is forbidden. Y’all don’t even like touching yourself. Even though u left a long time ago, u can’t seem to shake those fears off. They are going to take their time with u and respect which one  of your boundaries. At the end, you might still not like getting head but u are not going to feel as uncomfortable with the concept of it after their healing touch. Some of y’all have some vaginismus, I see them learning about it. So they can help u heal and respect the boundaries set by your body. I see them introducing the first toys before even going in themself. Until they are not sure u are ok, there’s no jumping the big boy. If you have endometriosis/PCOS, they will stop penetration sex and alter to fingering to make sure not to disturb the peace of the uterus before the big week. For all my pillow prince/princess today is your big day, they love leading. They don’t care if you spend the whole relationship on a pink/blue pillow. They love it for you. Their touch will still be playful. They will love to tickle u. Also they will love placing a hand on your stomach, even slepping on it. Especially my masculine energy, your pump stomach is literally their safe place. They will love giving you a good handjob while staring into your eyes (y’all probably have deep brown eyes) and caressing your stomach. 

💌 : Honestly Pile one, they are not going to be able to let go of you. Might be clingy, also they love language is physical touch. Will love updating you throughout the day. If you want to know more about that future love, you can always purchase my SOUL TRIBE membership unlocking all the extra content and extended PAC reading + the audio one.

PILE 2 

4 wands (reverse), King cups (reverse), Hanged man, 6 swords 

They love to have their hands on your private parts on all times, not in a creepy way. They would be driving and suddenly here u go, being a finger fucked passager princess. If you are an owner of a dick, u better drive with both hands on the wheel because at any moment, they may start giving u a blowjob . If you have boobs, they will have they hand on them all the time. Not even in a sexual way but because it becomes their habit. Y’all might not give a fuck at some point, until somebody stare at u in public. U end up apologizing while glaring at u’re partner making sure to get they hands the fuck out your top. They are very sensitive to your reaction. Let’s say they wanna give u a hug and u move slightly away … here comes the overthinking. If they try a new move on u in bed but u don’t moan as good as usual. They don’t reproduce it. If u give an excellent reactions, they will put that move on rotation. Also if you have painful period cramps, they will message you stomach. If you have to go regularly to the doc, they will always try their best to be there and hold your hand. Touch = love regarding your future lover. They will caress your face when u speak. Tie your hair when your hand is busy. To my burn out babe that are trying their best or my type B babe who is always so damn clumsy, they will always be behind u giving u a hand. Even when u give them head, they still worry about your well being. I’m hearing : ‘’ Baby I don’t care, if u care or not. I love when (moan) u are giving (whimper) head and are comfortable’’ before attempting to tie your hair. After a week of bad depressive episodes they will run you a bath. When they sense that u are starting to distance yourself, they will always have an hand on your waist, on your leg, shoulder any fucking where. Just to keep u from leaving with your bad thoughts. All this stand for my man in the audience, your next babe don’t play about you. Their touch heal making u realize how much you DO matter. 

💌: If you want to know more about that future love, you can always purchase my SOUL TRIBE membership unlocking all the extra content and extended PAC reading + the audio one.

PILE 3 

King wands (reverse), page wands (reverse), page cups, ace pentacles 

Straight from the beginning I’m getting a bad girl/boy from your person. They push everyone away but you. Actually they only see you. They don’t see any other women/men. They don’t even care about their own parents, the way they care about you. Your future person may have experienced deep trauma from age 8 - 10 years old, every night. Since is not the reading for and I did not ask for permission, I will not dive deeper into their lore. They touch = fire, when they lay their fingerprints on u, it is like your whole body is in heat. They enjoy mixing pain and pleasure. A fan of breathing plays because they get to squeeze your neck safely to give you pleasure. Loves squeezing you in general. If you have boobs, will love to squeeze them until it hurts. If you are a man, love to pinch your nipple until they see a little bit of blood even. They will also enjoy putting pressure on your balls while giving you a handjob. They are very experience lover. Probably have 15+ body. They love to play game with y’all. I’m hearing: ‘’ Let’s see how many times I can make u cum in a minute, princess…’’. If you are a man, they will love to eat your ass. If they lose you, they lose everything. They will probably haunt until they find you back again. They will NEVER raise their hand on u and  NEVER yell at you.  I see a vision of a text conversation. 

U : jhabwdbcaw

Them : hey babe, is everything ok …

U: auijdxja party hbduiAHBNDIL

Them: Can u give the phone (one of your friend).

U: But I wannnnnna takcfjawo to u 

Them: I know but I wanna see you. Can you please give the phone ? 

U: abxda yes hnqcfu

Them: Give the phone, love. 

Their touch is very gentle but very practical. Gently take your makeup off when u come back drunk. Gently draw into your tattoo if you are a man. Will casually lift up bridal style when they see dozing off while studying. If you are a guy, will softly wake you up and guide u to the bedroom. 

💌: If you want to know more about that future love, you can always purchase my SOUL TRIBE membership unlocking all the extra content and extended PAC reading + the audio one.

PILE 4

Knight wands (reverse), Lovers (reverse), Emperor (reverse), Strength (reverse)

Touch = understanding, will give u a tap on the shoulder to encourage you. Will caress your arm while y’all are arguing. There’s a use of: ‘’ Good girl/boy’’ in y’all relationships. When they see you grabbing the sheet, while they are down to town, that’s when they know you are on cloud 9. The only time they will stop munching even if you have already orgasm. They will love to caress your inner thighs. Pass a sneaky hand on your tits. Loves making you want more, like I see y’all making out and they are barely touching your tits while you are caressing their body. Have a very brat energy. Love to get on your last nerve because they know you will punish them. That’s what gets them going.  Has a high sex drive can go round and round in the same day but it will always start with some kind of teasing.

💌 : Y'all are going to have an amazing communication. I sense that both of y'all are yappers. Y'all are messy, you love to call each other at the end of the day and share the tea on what's going on. They will never let you go to sleep angry. I see a vision of you mad even at them but y'all still cuddling. You guy are in silence, they know they mess up but they refuse to leave on your own. Better they let you gather your thoughts with them. They may have a trauma about somebody that die on them in a middle on text con versation. That's why they can't let u go when u are mad. Don't get them wrong, they won't force u to hug them or talk. If you can't handle looking at them, they will tare at the wall, while u are in the bed thinking. If you want to know more about that future love, you can always purchase my SOUL TRIBE membership unlocking all the extra content and extended PAC reading + the audio one.