#Feel free to ask if you can't read something ^^;

[erimyya]

The bond that transit dimension

Summary: Phainon have a special bond with you. He knew you exist somewhere but he can't reached or directly talk to you because he knew that both of you are separated by two different universe. But he pray and pray to any god out there, he pray that he can look at you directly.

Pairing: Phainon x f!reader

a/n: this is an expansion of the otome game au. Feel free to read that one. So basically this is him before the otome game get launch.

Phainon knew you and him are different. Different in a way he can't describe. However he can point out a few thing that are both different and the same if someone ever ask.

Your love and his are different but to him, it was the same.

You might not be as desperate as him because he's just a character in a game but you still love him in your own special way. In a way, some don't understand but he do very well because he is the receiving end of it.

He can't see you but you can see him as clear as crystal, you can see his present and his past— his story. However he can feels you, your presence, your voice and your watchful eyes on him somewhere he can't locate— let alone reach.

He cherished every moment because he can't see you, or dissect your past like you did him. Therefore, he will cherish the you in the present and fondly look back at it as the past, made together with you.

Both, you and him are restricted in your own way.

Phainon knew and understand that statement a little too well. With him born from a line of code, he understand that.

You are a being he can't comprehend and he's just a line of code. Maybe in your eyes, he too just another code.

But that does not stop him from having a special bond with you. A bond that only you and him have, something that even you does not realize you had with him.

Even if Phainon can only have your presence when the trailblazer is within his vicinity. Even if he can only followed a script program into his code. Even after all this time, he can't reached out to you, the you who's hiding behind the husk of the trailblazer, the you who's given a few choice made by this universe.

He knows there is a bond between you and him. A bond as thin as thread but far stronger then any metal. Because he's the only one who knew and feels you.

After Amphoreus has been save and the trailblazer—his only way to connect with you— left. Phainon was left waiting, wondering and wishing to any god out there for you to return.

He's on your character screen, true. Phainon is close to you but he can't have all of your attention to himself. You would be busy building the others, getting the perfect relic for them and sometimes, the mechanic did not allow him to join your team. Sometimes, he's left on the corner as if forgotten.

He's being greedy, he know but who could blame him? If someone were in his place, they would understand why.

So he pray everyday. First at Entry Hour, after he wake from his slumber and washing his face. Then at Action Hour, after sparring with Mydei or finishing his duty for the day and lastly at Curtain-Fall Hour before he fell asleep.

In his prayer, he want to meet you again. Even if your appearance is not that of a human or you're a horrifying cosmic being with disfigured body. He will hold you in his arms and tell you just how beautiful you are in his eyes.

It seem there is a god who pity him and grant his wish.

One day, precisely on Parting Hour where he's on his way home. Phainon stumbled upon you. No— not you who's hiding behind the trailblazer with your presence somewhere he can't reach but you. Although you're using a new husk, he can tell that you're right in front of him.

Not somewhere he can't reach. So he hold your hands tightly and cry. Silently thanking the god who had listen to his prayer.

[returnofeternity]

dealer!nat hcs (. o O)

for anon <3 warnings: intox k!nk

· · 𖦹 · ·

dealer!nat who's borderline obsessed and very whipped for you…. thinking about her being the one to introduce you to weed in the first place @__@ maybe you're mutual friends through lottie/shauna who buy their weed from nat and you go with them to deals sometimes. nat's always curious, can't stop staring at you or always tries to chat you up while leaning over the passenger's seat window while talking to lottie or shauna about how much they owe… they're fucking PISSED that nat just offers it to you for free when you don't even smoke -__- and they still have to pay for it. it's bullshit.

dealer!nat who begs them for your number, starts texting you like literally every hour and asks to hang out. sends you pics of new strains she gets and tells you that you can have 'em for free 😭 i know she spends literal minutes setting it up so it looks nice. she doesn't even care if you leave her on read tbh. it just makes her happy that you saw it <3

dealer!nat who teaches you how to smoke. literally gets so excited when you tell her you haven't even touched all the weed baggies she's given you bc you don't know how to smoke or even have a fucking bong!! she's coming over asap. doesn't even matter if it's almost 3 am, she's driving there Now. thinking about her bringing a bong just to see your lips wrap around it while she holds it :3 praises you for doing so well for your first time in that raspy voice of hers, and suddenly you're feeling very fuzzy and warm inside. nat who takes care of you, makes sure you don't make yourself sick. thinking about nat doordashing some snacks because you mentioned you were hungry and she'd literally give you the world. she would've driven an hour just to get you a specific meal you wanted.

dealer!nat who convinces you to stay with her after you tag along w shauna to pick up some weed. tells you she'll drive you home, don't worry. thinking about hotboxing in her car while one of her gay mixtapes plays softly in the background, noticing her hand slowly inching toward your thigh after each hit you take until she's gripping your skin while she leans over and blows smoke in your face. thinkingggg maybe you end up on her lap, not even kissing or doing anything, just breathing her in and feeling her body on yours. nat's freaking out as you fall asleep on her lap. all she can focus on is your soft moans as you fight off sleep and your lips brushing against her neck as you mumble something she doesn't understand. later, you wake up in her bed, snuggling into her chest. the first thing you realize is that you've been drooling on her and that there's an embarrassingly big wet mark on her shirt. she tells you it's fine and apologizes for not dropping you off at home before you fell asleep, probably offers for you to spend the night since it's so late anyway :3

going to this party that you rly don't wanna go to, but lottie and shauna all persuade you with the fact that nat's gonna be there. thinking about seeing a familiar blonde out of the corner of your eye at random times, but every time you look, she's gone. until you catch her.

"are you stalking me?" nat smiles and raises her hands in surrender. you feel yourself flush with fondness at her round, chubby cheeks poking out as she continues to grin at you. you bite your lip nervously as she approaches closer, eyes looking over her outfit for the night. her leather jacket, of course, some red and green plaid undershirt, and some striped pants that almost make you drool at how long her legs look in them. "well, i wouldn't call it stalking…" she mumbles. she stands up taller, almost as if she knows what you're thinking, and raises her brows at you. "what would you call it then?" you ask, playfully scoffing. "hunting." she shrugs. before you can even comprehend what she means, she fishes in her pocket and pulls out a lighter and a baggie. nat wags them at you enticingly. "wanna go out and have a smoke?"

thinking about smoking in some random person's backyard because neither of you knows who the fuck is hosting this party. no one's even out here is the best part, so she can just enjoy the peaceful silence as she lights up and hands you the blunt because she's a gentleman and gives you the first hit.

justtttt. nat who makes fun of you for being a lightweight and ofc you can't have her talkin' shit. you need to prove her wrong, and before you know it, you've smoked the entire blunt, just like nat hoped. and she was right. you are a lightweight. you're swaying and can barely keep your eyes open, and you turn into a giggling mess when she touches your side and helps you into her lap because "it tickles."

nat who lights up another blunt, this time for her. but ofc she offers you more hits <3 she loves seeing you lose control. she loves looking into your glazed-over eyes while she inhales, loves seeing absolutely nothing behind those pretty eyes of yours <3

nat who starts touching you outside, slips her hands under your shirt and feels up your chest, drags her nails down and cups your ass. being so high and fucked up that all you can do is squeeze her sides and lazily palm at her chest while she touches you, trying sooo very hard to tell her you need more but your mouth feels like cotton :((

but she can tell by the way you're humping her that you need more. and she's more than happy to give it to you.

she takes such good care of you after torturing you first <33 just admires you after she takes off your pants and underwear, has your thighs gripped apart so she can see your soaked core that's so sensitive to the cold night's air. she can't help but watch you hump nothing, smirking so widely at your pathetic whines and cries as you beg for her.

nat who's equally as high and fucked up and eats you out so messily ☹️ kind of just ends up rubbing her lips on your groin until you cum @__@

idk. lottie and shauna who end up watching from the patio door while smoking 😁😁😁

[dakusan]

Good morning, everyone. Hope everyone is doing good, yeah? Cool, that's great.

So, it's come to my attention that a certain something has been going around. A few asks. Some vague posts. A little suspicion sprinkled in like fairy dust. So I thought I'd clear the air...

Bold, italics, em dashes, they aren't exactly AI markers. They're just part of how some people write, some do it for aesthetic flow, for emphasis, some just because it feels better. I'm not saying I always use them correctly. I don't. Really I don't. I use them where I think they look good. And definitely not in the correct grammatical way. I use them purely for visual effect, for aesthetic purposes. I'm not a literature person, I have no idea when you're meant to bold stuff or put stuff in italics or the em dashes. I just do. I like it.

For the record, I use the thesaurus a lot, I like making my sentences clean and I post because I want to, because I like sharing and I want you guys to have fun with me here. That's it, that's literally the entire reason this is happening, specifically the reason why I post filth, like constantly. But that's because I created this schedule JUST for you guys so that you can enjoy the stuff.

If you have doubts, and if you're suspicious, that is absolutely fine. You don't have to follow me or read anything because I'm not going to chase you for that, you're free to go. But I'd really prefer if we didn't stir up drama based on assumptions and vibes.

But yes, I use em dashes, bold, italics, emojis in a VERY EXCESSIVE MANNER but that is also how I text with people, like with lots of laughing emojis and hahahaha's. That's who I am.

Also, ever since ChatGPT entered the room, people have developed this habit of looking at writing styles. Like for example, whether you use bold, italics, dashes, how frequent, etc, and going "Hmm... that's sus." But let me tell you one thing, the logic here is a little funny and completely backwards. AI doesn't create style. AI copies style. It learns from us, from human writing, fandom archives, tumblr posts, ao3 fics, reddit threads, poetry, tweets, captions, comments, literature, etc. It mimics the choices we've made a million times over. And we all agree that AI has no emotion, because it doesn't. The thing with it, specifically ChatGPT, is that it predicts. It is a LLM (large language model) which is based on massive datasets, like we talking MASSIVE datasets, and they generate the most statistically likely next word based on patterns they were trained on. AI isn't ahead of us, it's lowkey chasing us and it will always be chasing us. Because this lil thing is trained on our patterns, our quirks, our masterpieces, everything, so it constantly chases so that it can catch up and mimic.

Anyways, it kinda sucks being on the receiving end of weird suspicion over something like style, but you know what? fair enough. I'm not gonna fight you, nor drag this into some messy drama spiral. If you wanna hate or keep accusing me or sussing me out, that's on you, I can't control that. But I do hope this little announcement clears things up.

And if I ever upset anyone unintentionally, I sincerely apologise.

Well, that's it. Have a nice day, okay?

[creatingblackcharacters]

Although I was kinda already in the middle of making my own discord server for members of my community (Australian Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders) when I saw the multiple wacky asks you got from whitefella who were like “b-but I wanna be in Black spaces too 🥺 why can't I join”...when I saw those asks it kinda just really solidified for me that we all need our own spaces away from whitefella really fucking badly, and it got me working harder in spite to get the server up and running more quickly lmao. Ever since I learned how much of a white echo chamber tumblr was it really clicked in my head why so many of the experiences I had on tumblr were...well....LIKE THAT, if you know what I mean lol. From ppl misunderstanding core concepts of Landback to seeing ppl having such a rough time even enjoying any type of music made by Black ppl at all...I feel like I've been fighting wolves this whole time, and It's really just disheartened me how incredibly outnumbered we all are on this website...I think in almost any other circumstance I might've left this place... but if I did that, then tumblr would end up an even *more* white echo chamber than before, and I just cannot allow that to happen. I kinda exist on tumblr in spite lol. But at the same time...Black only (or in my case, Aboriginal only) spaces away from whitefella prying eyes (esp on tumblr) feel necessary at this point. Idk I feel like all I've been seeing on tumblr every time I open this damn app up as the wackiest and most insane of racist bullshit and I'm trulllyyyy tired of it all. Maybe I need a break lol.

But despite all that shit I'm SO glad your blog exists and I salute you and all the work you do, especially doing it for free. I love reading your posts and your lessons and seeing the artwork that gets posted here. I feel inspired to keep going and to not like, stop existing here on tumblr when there are other cool ppl here on tumblr fighting the good fight, you know? 🖤💛❤️

I love that y'all say "whitefella". Like we say "white folk", but y'all made like a whole new combined word. Whitefella.

I will say, I do think that the asks I've gotten have been in good faith, but- as we say often here- intent is not outcome. So regardless of them intending to just ask "why", even the need to ask is privileged, and quite chafing- precisely driving home why we need those spaces!

I feel you on the spite bit- it's part of why I still create. No one is allowed to treat me like I just Can't Participate unless I'm white or acceptably (submissively) Of Color incenses me. You hate that I make this character Black and that he's "wrong" for liking the music I listen to? Now I'm going to write it even more- because what are you gonna do about it, other than die racist, mad, and still in the wrong? 😐 We deserve to be here and take up just as much space as you!

That's ironically another thing about the conversation- I'm not sure if white folk realize just how many spaces are only accommodating for them. Schools, neighborhoods, jobs- so many things designed to automatically accommodate The Default. That's hard to deal with on a regular basis, which is why you would want a break to be with something that is built for You, too.

You might definitely need a break, though. Tumblr can drain away your desire and it doesn't sound like you're having a great time. Take some time and come back when you're ready. I take breaks too 🙏🏾 The war is long; pick your battles.

[laserbobcat]

When I was a kid I was shamed for being "loud" and "too talkative" and "please stop asking questions for 5 seconds" As a teen I tried to be calm and poised and elegant and shit, and it didn't work and I was miserable. I ended up deciding "fuck this, not worth it, I'm loud and it's gonna be everyone's problem" and somehow people mostly tolerated me, probably cause I was 100% non threatening back then, chill and constantly in the clouds. More like a weird pet than a friend, for some.

Anyway, my point being, not worth it questioning your attitude too much when you know you have good intentions. If I annoy someone I'm assuming they're free and able to tell me to chill and maybe block me. Yes it always suck to feel shut down, but what's the alternative? Being silent and anxious? Nope Not saying I'm not getting shut down sometimes and it stings. But I made wonderful friends who like my big mouth.

I try my best to be honest, push past the guilt and tell people when something annoys me (with diplomacy). It creates a safe environment where everyone knows where they stand. Sometimes people take it badly, it's a shame but oh well. You can't please everyone. People who will keep acting normal while secretly being annoyed and frustrated suck, just tell me and move on. Or just ghost, idk, don't put up an act and make it my fault. And sometimes you don't really connect with people and you shouldn't feel obligated to talk with them, you're free. And it's ok to talk a bit and stop and not pick up later. There's too much people on the internet it's not humanely possible to have all perfect interactions. I hate small talk, i'm so bad at it, people opening with "Hey" lose me in the void, please give me something to bounce on. Usually opening with a common interest or a little rambling works wonders. "Hey how are you" gives me existential dread, am I the only one? Sorry for people who do that but like, it triggers my fight or flight cause i feel like it puts the weight of the interaction on me?

But yeaaaaaah I feel the fear to annoy too... it's always there in the corner, but well. Again, I can't mind read people through a screen, and i just assume people are shy or busy and don't hate me. Most people don't care about you anyway, and I've had a lot of very nice conversations here! Worth pushing past the anxiety!

See? I'm loud, but cringe is dead

[waynes-multiverse]

Mercurial High

Abandon the Ship Pt. III

And you say I abandoned the ship, but I was going down with it...

Series Summary: It starts with a chase and ends with his name in your mouth. He says it’s just for fun. Late nights. No strings. No promises. You were never supposed to matter. But he keeps coming back like a habit he can't quit. He’s bleeding time, and you’re getting too close to something meant to burn out fast.

Pairing: Mark Meachum x nanny!reader

Warnings: +18 due to language and smut, no strings attached/the casual kind, fluff, major angst, hurt/little comfort, set around 1x01–1x03

Word Count: 9.2k

A/N: Man, I crafted this chapter for weeks (yes, "crafted" because I'm feeling artsy with this one), and I'm so happy how it turned out! The cycle repeats itself – fluff, smut, angst. One week, two perspectives. I had tears in my eyes while writing it. My heart clenched while reading it. So truly, good fucking luck to you guys. I expect to fill my bathtub with your tears tonight! 🥲

Series Masterlist || Tag List || Patreon

Find your soundtrack to this series here: California Nights 🌌

It’s routine by now. 

The knock. The food. The sex. The kind of rhythm that slips in through the back door and settles in your bones before you realize you’ve let it. 

Mark knocks just after nine most nights. Sometimes later. Never earlier. He never texts first. Doesn’t ask if you’re free – just shows up like this is the deal you made and forgot to sign on the dotted line.

You give him your time. Your body. Your best stories. 

He gives you nothing back except his devilish smirk, the scratch of his deep voice in the dark, and his weight in your bed – something hard and fast and never soft. 

The rhythm between you isn’t stable – it swings. Fast to faster, quiet to louder, skin to skin to silence. His mouth forgets how to talk unless it’s against your skin. You never ask about his day or why he’s here. He never offers.

You know his voice best when he’s inside you.

On night three, Mark stands on your doormat with paper bags that smell like heaven in his hands, a Coke bottle under his arm, and a boyishly charming grin on his freckled face. It’s later than usual – almost close to midnight this time. 

“I come bearing carbs,” he says without fanfare. 

“Oh? What’s the occasion?” you tease a little, lifting a brow.

“Fuel.” He smirks and steps inside, brushing past you in an almost deliberate way. “Don’t want you passing out on me mid-fuck. Trying to keep the engine running.”

“Romantic,” you huff a wry laugh. 

“Hey, you want flowers, fuck a florist,” he shoots back with a grin that should be classified. 

Then it hits you – the smell. There’s something else buried under his cologne this time. Something more than greasy food, gun powder, and his shampoo.

“What’s that smell?” you ask and lift your nose a little, tilting your head with a curious smile. 

“Oh.” His eyebrows shoot up, and he takes a whiff of himself. “Still can smell that, huh? Took like three showers when I got home. Think it soaked into my skin. Hoped the spicy food would cover the rest.”

You chuckle, amused, and arch a brow. “And what exactly is ‘it’?”

Mark purses his lips to hide both the smirk and the flush in his cheeks. “Can’t tell you that,” he says as expected but then clicks his tongue. “Out of curiosity, though, what do you think it is?”

You laugh and play along, musing, “I don’t know. Uhm… smells like you attended a barbecue… at a… farm?”

He snorts a loud laugh, then scratches the back of his neck, nods, and shrugs. “Close enough. Let’s go with that.”

He doesn’t offer more than that as an explanation and strolls straight into your kitchen to drop the soaked-through paper bags onto the counter. It’s Mexican – wrapped in foil, heavy with grease, and so hot you can already feel it numbing your lips.

He tells you he had a craving for it. Doesn’t say why.

“Don’t get too excited, though,” he says and starts unpacking containers. “They were out of the good salsa.” 

You eye the bag like it’s holy, mouth watering. “If there’s a single al pastor taco in there, I’ll forgive anything.” 

He laughs softly. “One al pastor, two carne asada, a questionable burrito, and a thing the guy behind the counter swore was edible. But I got the recommendation from a colleague, so we should be good.” 

You hop up to sit on the counter beside the food like a delinquent and hum your approval around the first spicy bite. Mark eats standing, one hand wrapped around a taco, the other braced on the counter beside your thigh. There’s something deliberate in the way he watches you eat – like he’s already planning his next move and imagining how you look after he ruins you.

The rest of the food doesn’t last long. 

The sex that night is urgent, impatient, borderline feral. Hands on hips. Mouths on skin. Hot sauce on your lips. Lime on your tongue. 

He drags you to the bedroom and kisses you like he’s dared himself to lose control. He presses you into the mattress with your legs thrown over his shoulders and fucks you with the kind of reverent pace that makes your spine arch and your lungs burn. You come so hard and fast you forget what fucking day it is. 

You fall asleep tangled in damp sheets and his strong arm across your waist and his warm body against your skin. 

He stays. Doesn’t even pretend he might leave this time. 

You sleep better than you have in weeks. 

On night four, Mark brings burgers and another paper bag full of fries that soak through the bottom before you even get the ketchup open. 

You end up eating on the floor, cross-legged on opposite ends of the rug in your living room, back leaning against the couch. He watches you talk with your hands, listens while you ramble about starting your new job tomorrow and about your weird neighbor with the leaf blower and bird feeders. 

Meanwhile, Mark slings down two cheeseburgers in five minutes and then kisses you hard enough to make you drop yours, as if that’s the only story he needs to tell.

This time it happens on the couch. 

You’re halfway through an episode of Law & Order: SVU when he pulls you into his lap and nibbles at your neck like he’s bored of waiting. You end up straddling him, knees digging into the cushions, shirt bunched around your ribs, his hands hot against your skin underneath. 

He keeps his eyes open the whole time, jaw clenched, gaze pinned to your face like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your wreckage. He watches you with reverence as you ride him, back arched, his massive hands locked around your thighs like they’re keeping him tethered to this Earth. 

He covers your mouth with his palm when you fall apart and fucks up into you so mercilessly the words fall right out of your head.

Afterward, you stay on the couch and stay up late. 

The TV keeps running, and something warmer than the summer heat creeps into your living room as another perp confesses onscreen, tearfully admitting to a twenty-minute monologue about guilt and trauma. Benson gives a solemn nod. The episode fades to black, but the feeling in your belly doesn’t. 

You throw your head back with an exaggerated groan. “No way! That twist was bullshit!”

Mark just lifts his beer to his lips, smug as ever. “Called it. Guess it’s three-for-three tonight.” 

“Oh, come on! You rigged this,” you accuse him with a playful point of your finger. “You’ve probably already seen all the episodes.”

He snorts a laugh. “You think I pregame SVU behind your back before I come over here?”

“You absolutely would,” you insist but can’t keep the bubbles of laughter from spilling out. “Just to keep your stupid winning streak going.”

“I didn’t even know we’re gonna watch this,” he counters in his defense. “You picked it out.”

“Oh, save it,” you huff in jest and drink more of your wine. “I ain’t falling for that. You probably guessed it with your weird sixth sense or did recon or some other detective bullshit, which is cheating, by the way.”  

Mark smirks, both annoying and dangerous somehow. “You know, for someone who watches this religiously, you’re surprisingly bad at guessing the killer.” 

You grab the nearest throw pillow and smack him with it. Lightly. Mostly out of pride. “Not all of us have detective intuition,” you mutter, half into your glass of wine. 

He catches the pillow and props it behind his head before he infuriatingly stretches out, one arm slung over the back of the couch behind you, shamelessly basking in his small victory. “Clearly. You accused the poor barista ‘cause he had ‘shifty energy.’” 

“He did have shifty energy!” you argue like you’ve entered a courtroom. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“Yes, I do. He was a single dad trying to make rent,” Mark says and taps his temple with a sly wiggle of his brows. “Skillset.”

“Ego.”

“Experience.” 

You roll your eyes but you’re smiling. “Alright, hotshot. Next episode, I’m getting it right.”

“Sure.” He smirks coolly into his beer bottle. If you had another pillow at your disposal, you’d throw it at him again.  

“No, I mean it,” you insist with challenge gleaming in your eyes. “I’m gonna crack the case before you.” 

Mark leans in slightly, voice low and amused. “You’ve said that the last three episodes.” 

You playfully narrow your eyes. “You’re very cocky for someone who watches procedural crime shows with their situationship.” 

He grins – bright and wide. “I’m cocky because I’m undefeated.” 

The familiar opening line then kicks in again: “In the criminal justice system…” New case. New victim. New suspects.

And you? You steel yourself and sink deeper into the couch cushions, knee brushing his. You make your pick early this time – boldly, confidently, and completely fucking wrong. 

But when Mark catches your eye with that smug little smirk again, you realize it might be worth losing just to see it. 

On night five, it’s fried chicken, overtly salted and blessedly perfect, and a six-pack of warm beer. 

You sit outside on the steps of your back porch while the sky turns navy and your garden buzzes with cicadas. There’s something comfortable in the way he steals a drumstick from your bucket like it’s allowed and says nothing when you throw a napkin at his face. 

The air is hot and heavy. Your legs are bare. His shoulder brushes yours every time he shifts.

You talk about your new job that night – how the mom made you coffee this morning just because, how the three-year-old boy declared himself a dinosaur, and how the five-year-old girl clutched your hand tightly in the driveway and made you pinky swear to never quit. 

You don’t realize you’re smiling until he looks at you like he’s trying to decide what to do with that expression.

Later that night, you don’t make it five steps inside before he backs you into the hallway and takes you against the wall, his teeth sinking into your shoulder like he’s trying to ground himself. 

Pants halfway down, shirt shoved up, mouth on your collarbone. You bite your lip to keep quiet and end up moaning into his neck anyway. He kisses you like he’s been starving for it – messy, hard, loud.

You come so hard your knees give out. He catches you and doesn’t say a word about it. And when he comes, it’s with your name bitten off between his teeth.

Somehow, you end up on the couch again before crawling into bed. This time with an episode of Unsolved Mysteries flickering across the screen – you really wanted to challenge him for once. 

You don’t regret that decision even a little when the episode ends in a dramatic swell of synth music and the camera pans over a grainy photograph of a man last seen outside a bowling alley in 1993 small-town America. You glance over and bite back a grin. 

Mark’s got that look again. Brow slightly furrowed, jaw tense, mouth pulled into a thin, skeptical line.

You reach for the remote, half-laughing as the screen fades to black. “You’re doing the face again, Columbo,” you tease, nudging his thigh with your sock-covered foot. 

“What face?” he mumbles, green eyes still locked on the screen like he’s trying to solve the cold case through sheer mental force. 

“The one that says you’re about to lose sleep over a thirty-year-old murder with no viable suspects.”

Mark doesn’t blink. “No one checked his alibi.”

You snort a teary-eyed laugh, almost toppling over. “Oh my god.”

“I’m serious,” he says, leaning forward like the ghost of the case is about to answer him through the screen. “He said he was at his cousin’s house, but no one ever followed up. Why even mention it?”

“Because it’s Unsolved Mysteries, not LAPD Homicide.”

“It’s sloppy,” he mutters but is clearly far from done. “I’m just saying, if he left the house at 10:42, and the neighbor only saw headlights at 10:55, then there’s a thirteen-minute window no one accounted for. And the ex-wife’s alibi? Sketchy as fuck.” 

You stifle a laugh. “Do you want me to get you a corkboard and red yarn?” 

He leans back with a low huff and clutches the beer in his lap a little tighter. “Oh, don’t tempt me.” 

You gesture at the screen. “Again, it’s Unsolved Mysteries. Not Perfectly Resolved Narratives with Balanced Casework. You knew what you signed up for.”

“Didn’t know it’d be this aggravating,” he grumbles into his beer, then throws you a sideways glance. “You seriously don’t care how it ends?”

You shrug and give him a mischievous smile. “I like a little mystery. Keeps things interesting.” 

Mark stares at you like you’ve just said you enjoy being left on read and confessed to being the Zodiac Killer at the same time. He doesn’t dignify that with a response, just lifts his beer again and mumbles, “You’re too comfortable with ambiguity.” 

Your grin widens. “You’re really not gonna sleep tonight, are you?”

“Well, so far, I’ve already built three theories in my head,” he says. “And none of them explain the dog.”

“The dog is a red herring,” you quip wisely.

“The dog was locked in the basement,” he corrects. “It means someone knew the layout of the house.”

You snort into your glass. “Dude, the writers didn’t even know the layout of the house.”

He points at you. “You’re part of the problem.”

“And yet,” you smirk, “you’re still here.” 

He shakes his head and sighs like a man resigned to his fate. 

You stretch your legs out and tap his shin with your foot. “You know it’s not actually your case, right?”

He snorts in smug amusement. “Oh, I know. Would’ve been solved if it was.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you laugh, shaking your head.

There’s a short silence as the next episode prompt comes up. Mark doesn’t move. You let your head tilt toward him ever-so slightly, pretending to focus on the TV instead of the soft lines and cinnamon freckles on his face.

You clear your throat subtly and glance at him. “So, are we solving another cold case or are you going to need to pace around the living room for twenty minutes first?”

Mark scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Hit play.” 

“You sure?” you tease with a little grin and hold up the remote control like it’s a hostage you’re about to shoot. “Your blood pressure looked a little high when they didn’t mention the tire tracks.”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” he huffs but doesn’t look at you, just focuses on the flickering screen. 

You stretch your legs out even further, your foot bumping his again. “Thought you hated not knowing how it ends.”

He licks his lips and nods softly. “I do.”

“So?”

He finds your eyes then, looks at you for a beat too long with something you can’t decode before he taps the button. 

The next episode queues up. 

On night six, he brings pizza. Pepperoni. Classic. The grease soaks through the box before you can get it open.

You both eat on the floor with your legs stretched under the coffee table, his foot nudging yours whenever you start to talk too fast. He steals bites from your plate, wipes tomato sauce from your chin with the pad of his thumb, and doesn’t pull his hand away as fast as he usually does. The AC hums and fights the heat off in the background and a movie he picked this time runs across the screen.

Tropic Thunder. He said it was his feel-good movie, and he needed a laugh tonight. And honestly? That’s probably the most you’ve learned about him all week.

But before he even knocks on your door that night, the day has already started different – he texts you for the first time. 

Not all day. Not enough to seem clingy. Just enough to sink under your skin. 

The first row of messages comes mid-morning, while you’re at the park with the kids and one of them is screaming about ants. You almost choke on your water when you read what pops up on your screen and hope the kids won’t notice the flush in your cheeks. 

Lunch and nap time flies by, and by the time you manage to write back, his messages become even bolder. Filthier, too. 

You don’t even know what to respond to the last one. You can only bite your lip and slide your phone back into your pocket as heat crawls up your throat. By the time the sun’s down and you kick your shoes off by the door, you’re already wound tight from the slow build of anticipation all day. 

The sex is messier tonight. Filthier. Those texts scratched an itch that never really went away. There’s something new behind the green in his eyes this time – tighter, darker. 

He kisses you like he’s burning alive and fucks you on your hands and knees with one bruising hand gripping your hip and the other in your hair again. The things he whispers into your ear throughout are obscene: 

“Look what you do to me. So hard it fucking hurts. You proud of yourself?”  

“I could fuck you for hours and you’d still beg for more, wouldn’t you?” 

“Bet you’ve been thinking about this all day – how deep I’d fuck you, how full I’d leave you.”

You do feel him fucking everywhere. It leaves you dizzy. And when you come, it’s with a choked sob into the sheets. When he finishes, he breathes against your shoulder like he’s just outrun hell. 

You let him. You ask him if he’s okay afterward. He kisses your shoulder in answer. 

You lie awake after he falls asleep, staring at his back and wondering what’s going to snap first – this thing between you, or you. You tell yourself this isn’t becoming something.

And as if he can hear your thoughts, he rolls over and reaches for your waist. Tugs you closer until your spine is pressed to his warm chest.

You wake up in the morning with his hand still on your thigh.

On night seven, he doesn’t bring anything but himself.

No food. No jokes. Just a look that says not tonight but still you. He doesn’t kiss you at first, only rests his forehead against yours in the hallway and exhales like he’s barely holding himself together. 

You don’t push. You don’t ask. You don’t talk. You still catch the flickers of distance, though – like he stepped out of the room without leaving.

Later, you climb into his lap on your bed and move like you’ve got all the time in the world. He doesn’t rush. Just holds your waist and lets you set the pace, your name a ghost of a word in his mouth. You press your lips to his jaw, his throat, his collarbone – every damn place he’ll let you. 

You’re already sore, but you don’t care. It feels like you’re trying to chase something out of your own chest. He touches you like it’s a habit now – steady, rough, and always in the right places. Your body’s become second nature to him. There’s more focus tonight. More contact. He kisses you deeper. He keeps eye contact longer.

You’re not sure where he ends and you begin anymore. 

Afterwards, he stays curled against you instead of pulling away. You lie in the dark with your head on his chest, his heartbeat steady against your cheek. You can feel something shifting under your skin, a current pulling you sideways. You’ve let something in you didn’t mean to. 

In the morning, he stays for breakfast and leaves a t-shirt behind this time. You don’t mention it. You put it in a drawer and wash the dishes. 

It’s routine by now. But it shouldn’t feel this good.

On night eight, he doesn’t show.

Mid-day, you get a text, however:

That’s it. No explanation. No warmth. No “sorry.” No emoji or joke to soften the blow. Just cold distance typed out in ten words or less. Just gone.

You stare at the message. Reread it multiple times. You don’t text back. 

Still, that night, you wait until ten. Then eleven. Then midnight. You check your phone three times, then five, then every half hour. 

Nothing. 

At the end of the night, you just put your phone face down on the nightstand and lie back in the quiet, the silence suddenly too loud, the sheets too cool without him. You don’t know why it bothers you so much.

He stayed. He stayed. He stayed– 

And now he’s not here.

It’s supposed to be over by now. 

Night one was a mistake. Night two was indulgence. By night three, Mark’s already made up his mind not to come back. That’s the deal he made with himself. Two nights – enough to take the edge off. To feel something besides bone-deep rot and the countdown ticking behind his eyes. 

But then he finds himself here again, knocking on your door with tacos in one hand and a pit blooming behind his right eye that he’s pretending isn’t a warning sign. He tells himself he’s doing this for clarity – for control. That if he can keep you talking, keep you laughing, keep you touching him and riding him with that familiar urgency, he can outrun it. 

The scans. The weeks left. The ticking in his skull. That if he has to go out, he might as well go out feeling something. 

He knows he doesn’t belong here – not in your bed, not in your life. You’re sunlight and clutter and chipped nail polish. You drink too much caffeine, talk with your hands, and tell stories like you expect someone to care. And for some reason, when you speak, the noise in his head gets quieter. 

That’s why he’s back. That’s the fucking excuse.

Not because you smile when you open the door. Not because you talk to him like he’s not already halfway gone. Not because he’s starving for something warm and doesn’t know how to ask for it.

He’s not doing this to feel alive. He’s doing it to disappear. And you’re the only thing making it work.

On night three, he brings food. 

Mostly because he doesn’t want you to see how thin he’s gotten. The weight’s coming off him fast – faster than he can hide. That stupid parasite in his brain is leeching off his energy. But if he walks in with food in his hands, maybe you won’t look too hard at the rest. 

You open the door barefoot in a goddamn threadbare shirt – the one that’s two sizes too big and falling off your shoulder like a tease he didn’t ask for. You smile like he’s part of your week. He hates how much he likes that.

When he tells you he figured you needed fuel, he almost admits that he does too, but he bites it back at the last second. Sometimes he says a lot of shit that makes him feel like an asshole, but he’s trying to draw boundaries and stick to them – lines in the sand before the tide washes them away.

He feels like shit whenever he looks at you for too long. You deserve better. He knows that. 

And yet, he ends up between your thighs hours later. 

You make him laugh without trying. When you light up, he pretends not to notice how that lands. He never tells you how much he looks forward to this – the sound of your voice filling the room, the way you talk about the world like it hasn’t already ended. He doesn’t have a version of that anymore. Hasn’t in a long time.

But this? You? It’s the closest he gets to fucking worshiping anything these days. 

Later, he fucks you like he’s holding on for dear life. It’s not slow. Not gentle. When he comes, it’s too quiet. He sees stars behind his eyes, but not the good kind. There’s a spike of pressure near his temple. 

A warning. A fucking reminder.

Whenever you ask him if he’s okay, he lies and finds an excuse. You buy it – or pretend to. He wonders if you’re smarter than you let on. 

He showers with the door open so he can hear you move around the house. You hum sometimes when you think no one’s listening.

But he listens. He always does.

On night four, he plans to stay away once more. Futile, honestly. 

He wakes up that morning with blood in his mouth from grinding his teeth. His vision’s blurred for ten minutes straight before it clears. He hopes you don’t notice. He even almost texts you at noon to call the whole thing off. He types out the entire message but doesn’t send it.

Because by noon, he’s thinking about your voice again. The way you described a toddler’s tantrum like it was a Greek tragedy. The way your knee brushed his thigh last night and you didn’t bother to move.

Do good intentions count in the end? 

He doesn’t realize he’s parked in your neighborhood until he’s already there. He gets burgers because it gives him something to do with his hands. But he walks up your steps too fast and sees spots for a second. He blinks them away before he knocks once. 

When you answer, you grin like he’s right on time. He hates how fucking good that feels.  

But you don’t ask him anything real. You never do. He’s not sure if it’s politeness, pity, or self-protection. He’s grateful either way. 

Still, he catches the way your eyes narrow slightly when he presses his hand to his temple mid-conversation. He feels like a cracked radiator and the pressure behind his eyes is getting worse. He tells you he’s fine, though. 

Lie number seven, probably. 

You don’t press. You don’t ask why his body is tense or why he keeps blinking hard like the light’s too bright. He doesn’t know if that makes you kind or reckless. But you do talk a little softer and sit a little closer after that. 

That night, he watches you ride him on the couch with something like reverence in his eyes and doesn’t know why. He tries to keep it routine – rough, quiet, transactional – but his goddamn hands won’t behave. They linger and wander and try to claim. 

His mouth presses to the soft curve of your jaw just a second too long.

He should leave after, but he ends up curled with you on the couch and reruns of Law & Order flickering across the TV. You talk and talk and talk. He doesn’t say much, but he notices everything. 

The way you sit with one leg tucked under you. How your fingers twitch when you’re excited. The little scar on your arm you never mention. 

He thinks about how easily this could feel like home if things were different. If he were someone else. If he had goddamn time. 

You pause the episode mid-interrogation, remote dangling in your hand like a weapon. “Okay,” you say, pointing at the screen, “what would you have done differently?”

Mark chuckles a little and leans back, beer resting on his knee. He’s been waiting for this – your post-scene breakdowns. You’ve got a system now – watch, judge, ask questions. Usually with a snack in one hand and your foot pressed against his thigh like it belongs there.

He doesn’t mind. He never minds. 

Because you always listen, absorbing everything like it actually matters – it doesn’t. It’s a fucking show. Bad lighting, worse writing. But you treat his input like it’s gospel. Somehow, you always make him feel like he’s more than just some body showing up at your door with takeout and a cocky smile.

It’s stupid how much that fucking gets to him.

He realizes it’s not just the attention, but the way you pay it – focused and curious. A puzzle someone actually wants to solve. He’s not used to that. Most people either want a shortcut or none of it at all.

“Besides solving it in half the time?” he retorts, smug as hell – mostly because he enjoys the look you always give him whenever he says shit like that. 

“Yes.”

He decides to entertain your inner true crime nerd before you start your own podcast. “Alright, rookie, how about you tell me. What did this guy do wrong, huh?”

You purse your lips and perk up. “Besides murder?”

He snorts. “Besides that, yes.” 

You think for a second. “He changed his story multiple times.”

“Good. What else?” 

“He never looked at Stabler. Just the floor,” you add. 

“Better,” he says. “And?” 

“He said ‘to be honest’ three times in the same sentence.”

Mark chuckles. “Only liars say ‘to be honest.’”

“That’s comforting,” you huff and nod slowly, chewing on that. “You think like this all the time?” 

He takes a sip of beer, eyes stealing glances at you sideways. You’re tucked under a blanket in 80°F weather with your wine glass balanced dangerously on your stomach, eyes sharp and curious like you’re about to go full profiler. 

You’ve got no training, no badge, no reason to care. And yet, you still try to solve every damn case before the halfway mark. He finds it adorable. Infuriating sometimes, but mostly adorable.

He shrugs. “Can’t really turn it off.”

“Bet you’re fun at parties.” 

He watches the way your mouth twists and has the sudden, stupid urge to press a kiss there. He won’t. Obviously. 

He’s good at this – this line he’s not supposed to cross. He knows what this is, and what it isn’t. No promises, no strings. Just shared space and body heat and your cute, crooked smile when he gets you laughing.

Still, he flashes you a smirk. “You keep letting me in.” 

You don’t answer that, just tip your head a little closer till it brushes his arm. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to. You don’t even notice you do it, but he does. He notices everything. 

And fuck, he shouldn’t. He tells himself that every time. Tells himself to keep it light, casual, surface-level. That was the goddamn deal. That’s the only thing keeping this from becoming something fucking messier. 

But then you have to look at him like this – amused, warm, comfortable – and he fucking forgets why the hell he ever thought pretending not to care was supposed to be the better option. You act like any of this is normal.

And God fucking help him, he wishes it was. 

So, he clears his throat and grabs the remote. “Wanna watch another one?”

“Duh,” you respond and toss a piece of popcorn at him. 

“You’re weirdly into this,” he notes, chuckling.

You grin completely unapologetic. “Well, c’mon, it’s not every day I get commentary from a real-life homicide detective. It’s like my personal Disneyland. And I spent a lot of time at Disneyland. This is way cooler.”

He barks a laugh and rubs a hand down his face. “You make that sound way more glamorous than it is, sweetheart.” 

Ugh, cute pet names. He should avoid them. 

Boundaries are important, yes. But he still stretches his arm across the back of the couch and lets his fingers reach out to graze your shoulder like it’s nothing – like it’s always been there. 

And for the next forty-three minutes, he watches the show – but not really. Not with you right there, half-laughing, muttering about red flags and “douchebag energy” and still somehow getting the killer wrong by the end. He never corrects you too harshly. He likes the way you guess. He likes the way you talk over the commercials. He likes the way these nights feel easy.

Too fucking easy. It feels like a piece of his life finally fits. 

And that scares the hell out of him.

On night five, he tells himself it’s the last time. Again.

It’s the lie he repeats like a mantra every damn night. He should stay away. You’re getting too comfortable. He’s getting too goddamn comfortable – too used to the shape of you next to him. 

To the sound of your voice filling the quiet.

Mark wakes up sweating that morning, headache already humming behind his eyes. The usual cocktail of Tylenol and denial doesn’t hit the way it fucking used to. 

Sadly, neither does food. He throws up twice before noon, wipes his mouth, and jokes around the office like nothing’s wrong. He notices their glances whenever he gets a headache, though. For now, they’re being polite and accepting his weak excuses just like you do.

But he knows if a nanny is already suspicious, DEA and FBI agents will soon be as well. He wonders how long it’ll take them to catch on. If he were a little more sadistic, he’d turn it into a game – see who guesses right first. The winner can hold his eulogy.

On this warm summer night, you then open the door wearing sweat shorts and one yellow sock. He barely notices – or he notices too fucking much. He’s not sure.

He ends up sharing a bucket of fried chicken with you on your back porch, the city buzzing around the two of you, the night sky twinkling above. He spots a shooting star and almost feels tempted to challenge the universe.

That night, you ask him if he believes in fate. He laughs under his breath like the question’s a fucking trick. It feels like it. He never answers. Doesn’t trust himself to without breaking down. Because if he peels away the layers, there’s anger there. 

This isn’t fucking fair. None of it is.   

The sex that night is impatient because he is. He wants more – more time, more chances, more you. Maybe if he fucks you hard enough, it’ll shake something loose. His soul can leave his body and crawl into yours. He could live there just fine. 

He knows it’s not logical, but that’s where he’s at. 

His rhythm matches the pounding in his skull, but it’s not just the headache he’s trying to choke – it’s the thoughts that come with it.

The fucking “what ifs” and “whys” and “what the hells.” 

Then comes the quiet – the one he craves the most. Because he’s not chasing the highs of sex. Not really. He’s chasing the afterglow. 

The moments with you on the couch – talking, laughing, watching stupid TV. Something that makes him feel like this could go on forever. 

Mid-episode of yet another maddeningly unsolved mystery, you stretch your body like a feline. He’s not even really watching anymore. Not the screen, anyway. Your expression’s more interesting – your mouth twitching when the narrator drops a lead, the quick glint in your eye every time you think you’ve cracked it.

Cute as hell. 

“Wanna split some ice cream?” you ask suddenly, eyes still on the TV.

“I just watched you eat a whole bowl of popcorn.” He playfully arches an eyebrow at you. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you’re just an endless hole that swallows copious amounts of junk food. I don’t even know where it goes.”

You snort a laugh and smirk devilishly. “Oh, it’s not just junk food. But you already know that.”

He actually fucking stumps this time. Sometimes he unfairly attributes innocence to you because you spend time with tiny humans all day. In reality, though, it seems to be the complete opposite – bloody murder and filthy sex, apparently.

“That’s–, uhm… wow.” 

You laugh at him as you sit up, stretching your arms over your head. His eyes follow the edge of your shirt riding up your thighs and hips – pretty much the moment he decides there’ll be another round later. That never happened before. 

Usually, it’s a one-and-done. He doesn’t go back for seconds the same night. 

It’s not exactly a rule, but it’s something he’s enforcing to keep the lines from blurring. Same reason why he always gets up early and never stays for breakfast. Absolutely no morning sex. No kisses unless they happen during the act. No kiss goodnight, no kiss good morning, no kiss hello, no kiss goodbye. This isn’t a fucking relationship. He’s not making himself at home here.

“Be right back,” you say as you rise. “Have to get it from the garage.”

His brow raises. “Garage?” 

You shoot him a little grin. “If I keep it in the kitchen freezer, I eat it instantly. The temptation’s too big. But if I keep it in the garage, the added inconvenience of distance gives me a minute to reconsider my life choices. Nine out of ten times, I think twice about leaving the couch.”

He snorts, shaking his head, but his heart does a weird little jump. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“I contain multitudes,” you call over your shoulder, already padding toward the back door. 

Mark pushes off the couch and follows you, heading toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab the–, uh…” 

He opens a drawer and pauses.

The word’s there. He knows it’s there. It’s metal. Shaped. Used for digging into cold things. Mouth. Food. Tip of his tongue. 

Why the fuck is it not coming?

You halt and lean in the doorway, amused. “Spoons?” you offer with a cocked eyebrow.

He looks up, masking it with a half-laugh. “Yup, that. Jesus, I’m fucking tired. Long day.”

You shrug it off. “Too much murder TV. It’s rotting your synapses, Detective.”

He forces a smile. “Must be it.”

You vanish into the garage, and he grips the edge of the counter a little too tight. 

Just a fucking blip, he tells himself. A missed step. Everyone forgets a word now and then. His world is starting to blur. No big deal. 

But there’s clarity whenever he looks at you. He suddenly sees the future clearly.

He sees the nights spent arguing with you over fictional cases, sees the smile on your face when he actually takes you out to eat like you deserve. 

He sees the ring, the house, and the cradle. Sees himself teaching baseball to a boy who reminds him too much of himself. Sees himself threatening some poor teenager with his badge and gun that’s trying to date a daughter who looks too much like you. 

He sees himself still sitting on the porch with you, gray, old, and wrinkled – the way it should be. 

He sees fucking everything. 

The thing is, he’s not even sure he wants all of that. It’s not something he’s thought a lot about in his life, mostly because he assumed if he ever did want it, he could just have it. Now that it’s out of reach, it seems like it’s all he’s thinking about, though. Now, everything feels heightened and more urgent.

People want what they can’t have. Isn’t it always this way? He’s not even special in his own goddamn mind, just a fucking cliché of a sick and dying man.

There are two parts of him, and both trickle down to the fucking cancer again. 

There’s the part that says: “What’s the fucking difference? You haven’t planned to live past sixty, anyways. Hell, past forty is a goddamn miracle. You were always supposed to end up here. You’re not missing out on anything.”

But it’s not the fucking same, is it? That’s what the other part keeps telling him. 

Because when he goes this time, it’s not on his fucking terms. It’s not sacrificing his life for a bigger cause. It’s not as himself. 

When he was first diagnosed, his doctor talked about palliative care like it’d be a thing he’d actually consider. He didn’t even listen all that carefully to that part or a lot of the other shit that came with it. Probably why they initially told him to “bring someone” – someone to take notes and really listen. He didn’t, even though he could have, but that’s another story.

Either way, it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need anyone. It won’t come that far. He won’t let it. The cancer doesn’t get to fucking win. He does.

He won’t die in a bed, a fucking vegetable, not being able to speak, to move, to fucking think. If he has to go, it won’t be because he became a shadow of his former self. It’ll be because he threw himself into the fucking sun. 

He’s promised himself that and holds stubbornly onto it, even though with each passing day, he feels a little more like he’s grasping at straws instead of reaching for the fucking stars.

The worst part about this newfound ache in his chest, though? 

He’s not even sure it’s about you or just himself. It’s only been five fucking days. Truthfully, he doesn’t know enough about you yet to dream up any kind of future. He’s even deliberately avoiding asking questions about you that go beyond your job and your little armchair sleuthing. He doesn’t want to know you, but he does. 

What a stupid spot to be trapped in. 

Seeing the potential hurts more than anything else, he supposes. Maybe that’s why he broke it off with Melinda as well. It wasn’t just about protecting her, but protecting himself, too. After all, he could’ve had all of that a year ago already if he’d really wanted to – someone to hold him, keep him company, actually care for him. So, he tells himself these thoughts and feelings aren’t really about you.

But every time he looks at you, he thinks he knows the truth.

On night six, it’s the worst yet. 

He’s addicted. He knows that now. And like any junky, there’s no stopping – only more.

Last night loops on repeat through his mind. He thinks about the sound you made when he pushed deep. How you always sigh his goddamn name and not just anyone’s.

And it all starts by accident. Well, sort of. 

He’s trapped in an SUV with Finau, and the guy’s not giving him anything back. The least he could do is provide entertainment when stuck on the freeway, but Mark can tell by the faraway look in Finau’s eyes that he’s probably thinking about his wife and kids again, wishing to be anywhere but here. 

Mark kind of admires that. He’s never been able to do that. Not even before. Work always came first. Still does. 

And yet, waiting out LA traffic on his way to his next lead is a gray zone – just like texting. 

Part of the rules he’s imposing on himself is no daylight activities with you. He’s keeping you in the dark – personally, emotionally, physically, spatially, and even chronologically.  

All of that translates to no plans during the day that could be mistaken for dates. It’s simple. Black and white. 

But texting? Total fucking gray zone. 

Because yes, it’s bright and Cali-fucking-fornia-sunny out, but he’s not taking a stroll with you through the park or inviting you to brunch at a fucking restaurant. He’s only talking with you about the things he’ll do to you once it’s dark again. 

Loophole.

Believe it or not, but those three little texts take him eight failed attempts and a half hour to craft. And as if to prove to himself he still doesn’t care all that much, he doesn’t waste another thought before hitting send. 

However, all that truly proves is that he’s full of shit, because he doesn’t breathe until you reply. 

Your first response comes within minutes. He can tell you’re playing hard to get – or maybe you’re just shy. Probably a little confused why he’s suddenly texting you filth in the middle of the day, too. Either way, he fucking likes it. 

But then he gets bolder, and you don’t respond for hours. Drives him fucking nuts. Did he go too fucking far? He didn’t think sexting you was crossing a boundary. Maybe it is. 

However, relief comes on his way back from his last lead – stuck in yet another car. This time with Oliveras, which is arguably worse. While Finau didn’t even blink at him, Oliveras isn’t doing him the same courtesy. The woman is fucking nosy. 

He smirks like a goddamn idiot at the last message that comes through and already sees Amber’s brow lifting in the corner of his eye. She catches it right away. 

“What the hell are you grinning at? You look like a lovesick Golden Retriever,” she quips. 

Mark gives an amused huff but doesn’t look up from the screen. “Nothin’. Just something funny.”

“Oh, yeah?” Amber’s brow hitches higher. “Snacktime’s got a lot of jokes? You seriously got zero shame, huh?”

He pockets his phone with a subtle sigh and smirks at her – broad and smug and unapologetic. “Aww, you jealous? That why you’re sneaking peeks at my screen?”

Offense is the best defense. 

As predicted, she scoffs and rolls her eyes. “You held it up like a fucking middle-schooler showing nudes, man! Just figured I might as well get a contact for this girl, so at least someone can warn her about you.” 

Mark exhales slowly and glances out the window, the traffic jam suddenly feeling a lot heavier. No use arguing when she was half right.

Her fucking words roll around his head all afternoon. 

He tells himself it’s bullshit. Noise. Standard Oliveras judgment with a side of moral superiority. But it sits there anyway – wedged under his skin like a splinter. That tone she used. The way she said warn her, like he was a walking red flag with a kill count.

He isn’t. Not really. 

Oliveras doesn’t know the full story, so all she’s really got is being half-right and knowing a half-truth, which cancels each other out and equals down to zero again. So in reality, she’s got fucking zero points. 

Still, he thinks about not coming tonight. Thinks about just driving to his empty home, eating half a protein bar, falling asleep with the TV on and waking up to something cold and quiet and uncomplicated.

Because maybe you should be warned. 

Maybe he’s not the kind of problem you laugh off in the morning. Maybe you’re too sharp, too kind, too mouthy in a way that sticks. Maybe it’s already getting harder to pretend that those few hours every night mean nothing.

Maybe. 

But instead of backing off, he doubles down. 

He brings pizza and fucks you even harder that night. He picks the movie and laughs too loud at your commentary. He plays footsie under the coffee table with you and steals bites of garlic bread from your plate. He wipes sauce from your mouth and lingers too long after. 

You pause for half a second, meet his eyes, but don’t say anything. 

And maybe that’s fucking worse.

Maybe it’s worse that you don’t flinch or make a joke to soften it. Because it means you took note of it. It means you’re paying attention. And you’re fucking curious. You don’t even seem to notice the way he watches you – like he’s memorizing every goddamn inch of you in case it disappears. 

So he decides to get ahead of it.

He kisses you too hard when the credits roll. Doesn’t give you a second to ask if he’s okay or what this is or if the texts meant something. If he can just get deep enough, fast enough, maybe you’ll stop pulling away and the rest doesn’t catch up with him.

Because tonight, he can feel it prickling under the surface, slowly simmering to a boil – you are pulling away.

There’s an inch more distance now than there was last night. A slight shift in your posture. A flicker behind your eyes. 

He’s not stupid. He sees it. He knows what it is. 

You’re guarding something. Probably your heart. Which means you’re thinking and starting to wonder if this thing with him was a good idea to begin with. 

And shit, it should make him feel relieved. It’s a good thing you’re pulling away and won’t let him in further. He wants that. He should want that. It’s a gift, honestly. 

But instead, it makes him completely fucking reckless. 

It becomes dangerous because he stops thinking about all the things he can’t have and starts pretending like he absolutely fucking can.

He grips your hips like he owns them and you’ll slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold tight enough. He breathes your name like it’s the last tether to this life that still makes sense. He stays in you longer than necessary. He says things he shouldn’t, whispers filth like he’s trying to claim some part of you that hasn’t already turned cold.

You whimper under him, and he wants to say he’s sorry for all of it. 

For the silence. For the pretending. For needing you more than he ever intended. 

But he doesn’t. He just buries his face between your shoulder blades when he comes, gasping like he’s breaking apart. And when you ask if he’s okay, he kisses your shoulder and doesn’t answer. 

What the fuck is he supposed to say? No? 

He’s not okay. He’s dying. He’s lying. He’s dragging you into something you didn’t sign up for, and he doesn’t know how to stop. 

He won’t tell you the truth – that every time you ask, it cuts a little deeper. Because he wants to answer. He just can’t. Not when you’re the one thing he doesn’t want to ruin. 

And you? You just lie there with him, quiet and still, your hand trailing across his ribs like a peace offering. You don’t push. You never do. 

But he can still feel it – you’re starting to see him. Not the reckless guy who fucked up your job or the cop who brings junk food and bad movies. You see the real version. The frayed one. The version who doesn’t sleep well. The one who hears too much and speaks too little and forgets how to say spoon in your kitchen.

Later, when he’s drifted off and the world’s finally stopped spinning, he blinks his eyes open to find you still awake, watching him. He doesn’t say anything, just reaches for you and pulls you closer, like proximity is suddenly protection. 

He’s not sure how many nights he’s got left like this. You’re slipping, and it should make him want to let go. But all it does is make him want to hold on harder. 

Because even if you don’t belong to him, not really, he wants you to feel like you do.

On night seven, Mark knows he’s leaving soon.

Tomorrow morning, prisoner transfer, undercover. Three days. Maybe four. No phone. No contact. No safety net.

Easy. 

Except for the part where it means disappearing. You won’t hear from him. He thinks about telling you.

He doesn’t.

He even considers not coming at all tonight – ghosting quietly, just leaving a dumb little note under your mat: ‘Thanks for everything, but you’re better off.’

Then he remembers how you looked last night when you came – eyes glazed, mouth open, body clinging to him like he’s gravity – and he knows he’s too much of a selfish coward to let go. 

He doesn’t know if you’ll wait. Doesn’t even know if he wants you to.

You don’t know what this is. He doesn’t either. But for a few hours every night, it feels real. 

So tonight, he lets it.

He lets you take your time. Lets you climb into his lap and kiss his throat like it means something. Lets you move at your own rhythm, slow and unhurried, as if neither of you is going anywhere. As if he’s not going anywhere. 

He doesn’t flip you over or take control the way he usually does. Doesn’t try to chase release or command the rhythm. He just keeps his hands on your waist, lets you ride him slow and sweet and devastating, and watches you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get to memorize. And maybe it fucking is. 

Tonight, he wants to remember. 

How your hands feel on him. How your hips roll over his. How your breath ghosts across his jaw like a promise. 

Your fingers trail over his chest like a map, and he lets them. He lets you chase whatever it is you need to find. He lets himself feel you.

Every sound you make is something he files away. Every breath against his skin is something he knows he’ll try to remember later when it’s cold and quiet. 

You press your forehead to his and kiss the edge of his jaw, and he swallows something thick and sharp that tastes too much like goodbye.

Later, when he splashes cold water on his face to wake himself up from something that feels too much like a dream, he stares at himself in the mirror and doesn’t recognize the man looking back.

You offer him a toothbrush. 

He doesn’t take it, but he should. It’s the seventh night in a row he’s spending here. But if he takes it, he’s staying, and he’s not staying, he’s dying. So, he thanks you like it’s a joke and kisses you like it’s not.

It’s a weird hill to die on, especially since his phone charger is plugged in beside your bed. 

He could end it tonight. Clean break. Walk out and not come back. You wouldn’t chase him. You’d let him go. You’d get over him. You’d move on. Probably be better off for it. That’s the smart thing to do. The kind thing. 

But instead, he finds himself shifting closer again under the covers, pulling you tighter against his chest. His arm curls around your waist automatically. It’s muscle memory now. Touching you. Reaching. Staying. 

You fall asleep with your cheek pressed against his chest, and he waits until you’re fully out before letting the smile fall off his face. 

In the morning, he even stays for fucking breakfast. He listens too closely to your stories and smiles too long. He leaves his shirt behind. He could pretend it’s a mistake, an accident, but it’s on purpose. A placeholder. Let it mean something.

When he leaves your house and walks to the car, he wonders what you’ll think when he doesn’t show later.

On night eight, he’s already long gone by the time darkness spreads across the sky.

He has the decency to send you a text before they cuff him and throw him into a van, though. He stares at the screen. Doesn’t say more. Doesn’t let himself. He hits send before he can edit it – before he can make it softer or messier or say what he really means: 

Don’t forget me. I don’t want this to be over. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop. 

He closes his eyes and tells himself it’s better this way – and maybe it is.

Maybe you’ll forget. Maybe he won’t.

▶️ Better Safe Than Starry-Eyed – SOON

Should we do the mental health check-in again? How are you guys holding up? Feel a little dizzy like you ingested mercury? (It's in retrograde.) 😝

I might have spent a little too much time on those texts, but I found doing it in graphics so fitting for this series lol. Next time we have the same dose of emotional angst, but your first twist is coming up 😉

Coming Up:

You lead him in like it’s no big deal, but you glance over your shoulder as if you’re not sure he’ll follow. As if part of you is surprised he came at all. He is too, honestly.

You close the door behind him, and it feels like stepping into a different world – a brighter one. Warm light, low music, laughter bouncing off the walls like the place is alive. It smells like popcorn and something sweet – probably that vanilla candle with that hint of citrus you always light when you want to make things feel cozy.

Two women sit in your living room – one on the armchair and one cross-legged on the floor beside a half-finished bottle of wine.

The brunette on the floor is the first to light up – big smile, messy bun, the kind of energy that makes Mark brace for impact. The redhead on the armchair, however–

That’s when it hits him. It’s just a flicker, but he feels it sharp in his ribs.

Shit.

She’s not in scrubs, no badge clipped to her white lab coat, no clipboard in hand, but he knows that face. He’s seen her before – in passing. Maybe twice, maybe more times, in the hallway at the oncology clinic. Not his doctor. Not in the room when they told him he had months, but she’s around enough. She’s seen him in that fucking waiting room chair, tired and washed-out.

Fuck. She knows.

Tag List Pt. 1:

@alwaystiredandconfused @xlynnbbyx @lyarr24 @deans-spinster-witch @blackcherrywhiskey

@deansbbyx @foxyjwls007 @ladysparkles78 @roseblue373 @zepskies

@agalliasi @yvonneeeee @hobby27 @iamsapphine @globetrotter28

@lori19 @lacilou @suckitands33 @onlyangel-444 @syrma-sensei

@perpetualabsurdity @yoobusgoobus @jessjad @dayhsdreaming @hunter-or-the-hunted

@k-slla @just-levyy @mrsjenniferwinchester @illicithallways @muhahaha303

@ultimatecin73 @nancymcl @leigh70 @brightlilith @nesnejwritings

@samslvrgirl @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @fromcaintodean @barewithme02 @impala67rollingthroughtown

@star-yawnznn @spnaquakindgdom @thej2report @americanvenom13 @lamentationsofalonelypotato

@supernotnatural2005 @stoneyggirl2 @kr804573 @m0e0v0v @youroldfashioned

[babachira]

(i didn't link it to the ask, i'm sorry!! but here is part 2! also s2 minor spoilers! this is also not checked..)

he gazes into your eyes like he's enchanted like he still can't believe what's in front of him. "i've got everything i want."

nagumo yoichi x reader

── ⟢

+ it's been a good few months since you met nagumo and those 'good few months' were, indeed, very good.

+ he's never showed you anything except his perfect side. of course, since he's so insistent on marriage, he's determined to keep you until you both grow old, but it never clicked how actually in love he was until that incident.

+ the incident that really made you realise that you're dealing with a man who takes the word 'forever' to the grave.

+ it was a week ago and honestly, you're still not recovered from it completely, so nagumo continues his regular checks at your bookstore. it seems as if he's grown more protective of you, he even advised that you leave and find a new job, but you're not sure if you can do that just yet.

+ nagumo hadn't arrived for his usual daily chat, so you were cleaning out old books by the counter, sorting them into alphabetical order just like how the boss likes it. they were all caked with dust, so you had to have a small paper fan to brush them all off before putting them in a large cardboard box to be donated.

+ the morning was quite quiet too. maybe because it was midday and children were at school, adults were at work, but you didn't complain. if anything, it allowed you to get your tasks done as quick as you could.

+ all sorts of people entered the bookstore. japanese, foreign people, children, elderly and even teens who wanted to joke around the 18+ section, but it was the first time you saw a man this tall before.

+ you always thought nagumo was tall, but whoever this was had him beaten so easily.

+ a foreigner. he had black dreadlocks, two barcode tattoos and a nose ring. he wore a plain black shirt and olive green trousers, so you were sure that it wasn't his clothes that made him stand out. to be honest, if he wasn't as tall as he was, you might have been surprised by the barcode tattoos, but because of his monstrous height, nothing seemed normal about him anymore.

+ ducking under the door, he straightened up a little. any more and he would've been stuck in between the floor and the ceiling. to you, it's a pretty big gap, it's a pretty average sized store that has most people saying, 'wow! what a beautiful place!' not, 'my head will pierce through this place if i stand up any straighter.'

+ you were the only one in the store that day, and for some reason, you had a feeling that this man knew that with the way he wasted no time walking over. he had his hands stuffed in his pockets and his blue eyes bore into your head. you couldn't exactly read his expression, it looked as if he had a reason to be here but at the same time he didn't.

+ but you shook off the strange feeling. odd customer or not, you had to treat them fairly. "welcome to our bookstore, is there anything you'd like? i'm just tidying up some old books here, but feel free to ask for help!"

+ you didn't know if it was because of what you said, but he didn't even bother looking down at the piles of books you had in front of you. he tilted his head just slightly, his eyes drilled into you. "where is nagumo yoichi?"

+ out of instinct, your brows furrowed. nagumo? why was he looking for him?

+ "nagumo?" you repeated. "do you know him?"

+ "says he comes here," the man answered. "don't waste my time, bring him out."

+ it was from here that something felt off, a life or death situation type of 'off'. this wasn't a gentle giant like you'd see in the movies, you were sure that one wrong move could result in something irreversible. "nagumo? he's not here right now."

+ "don't," the man began, basically ignoring your words, "waste my time. i hate small talk."

+ "sir, i really don't think you'll find him here─"

+ in seconds, he grabbed around four of the thickest books from your pile and crushed them. his arms almost made no movement, no effort, no emotion. all that was left was a tiny ball of what you were meant to donate by the end of today. it rolled around next to your hand and a strong scent of faded books suddenly flooded into your nose.

+ "that's what will happen," he said. "don't waste my time. tell me, where is nagumo?"

+ nagumo had warned you that because you were willing to stay with him too, you had to be ready for some things, but this wasn't something you were expecting at all. you always thought that whatever he carried in that big silver case of his was strange, but no matter how often you had asked, he always brushed it off with a laugh, poking your cheek and saying that he'd tell you another day.

+ and you'd lived in japan for a good few years now, you were able to fend for yourself just like any normal person, but in this moment, you were absolutely helpless. sweat formed on your hands, back, arms and feet. the bookstore felt colder than ever and the man was seemingly growing taller with each ticking second. you wanted to ask yourself the same question. where was nagumo?

+ the man reached forward and grabbed your wrist, his veins pulsing and the snarl in his voice growing more impatient at your silence. "you were on his dossier, which means i know you're connected to him."

+ his vice-like grip grew tighter and you did your best to not shriek out in pain, to not give him the satisfaction. whatever was going on, you knew you had to ask nagumo, but for now, no matter how badly you felt like running, something in you was ordering you to stay, fight for yourself, to survive.

+ "enough of this," the man snapped. "you've wasted my time."

+ then, suddenly, the doors to the bookstore burst. wooden splinters shot across the room and about a quarter of the ceiling came crashing down, ripping the books apart as they splat onto the floor. some of the sharp edges stuck to your skin as you tried your best to shield away from the hurricane of dust and mini-debris, but the man hadn't let go.

+ there was silence, until a voice you'd never been so glad to hear came from the entrance.

+ "here you were."

+ your head snapped up and amidst the thick cloud of smoke clouding the store, you made out the silhouette of nagumo yoichi dangerously stalking over to where you stood. his eyes flickered down to your wrist, which was on the brink of being snapped. it darted between you and the man and you swore there was a glint in his eye that only a beast could make.

+ and despite this, despite all of this, he flashed a small reassuring smile. "my darling, give me one second."

+ and . . . in that second, nagumo's hand was embedded into the man's face as he smashed his head into the ground with a thundering crash. you watched with wide eyes, with your heels drilled into the ground, your good wrist cradling your injured one as nagumo dug his fingers into the man's forehead, making sure that it was deeply wedged into the floor before he stood up and rushed over to you.

+ quickly, he whisked you up in his arms and jumped to the farthest corner of the bookstore as quietly as he could. he set you down on your feet, his hands on your back and shoulder as if you'd break with a single touch, and gently took a hold of your bad wrist. you looked up as he did so, but his eyes throbbed with hurt, anger and a dark colour of grief that you'd never seen before. his thumb swiped over your knuckles and he folded your fingers in with both his hands.

+ "i'm sorry you had to see that," he said. he brushed your hair away from your face. "i'm sorry i wasn't here any sooner."

+ "yoichi," you managed to say, your voice barely audible. he took your shoulders and eased you into a chair behind you. "what's going on?!"

+ "i'll explain after this," he smiled. you didn't know how he could smile in a situation like this. "trust me, just stay back here, i'll be right back, my love."

+ he leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, almost lingering, before he sprung off to the front of the store. you had to trust him, you always did.

+ a series of slashes, the sound of steel, snapping and grunts vibrated through your skull. you did your best not to look, assuming the worst, but he had promised.

+ after what felt like forever, you heard the soft footsteps of nagumo approaching you. you looked up from your chair and saw that he was in the same condition as he was when he left you to wait. you shot up, reaching up to touch his cheek, letting your hands slide down his arms to his hands. "are you ok? what happened? who was that?" unknowingly, you felt yourself shaking, but nagumo rested his over yours before bringing the tips of your fingers to his lips.

+ "i told you i'd be back," he teased, but it didn't last long when he saw the way your lips were trembling. you weren't worried for yourself but for him. "hey, this isn't something to cry over."

+ "how can i not?!" you exclaimed. "some weird guy comes in asking where you are, talking about some dossier and that i'm also in it, then you come in and almost kill him! did you kill him?"

+ he stayed quiet for a moment. when he spoke, it was soft and low. "if i said yes, would you run?"

+ you knew what he meant, but that's not what you wanted. you knew what he wanted you to say and you wanted that too.

+ you felt his hands curl around your injured wrist as he waited for your response. the warmth of his palm pouring into the raw red mark like he was curing you. he was leaning into you too, his lips practically ghosting over the crown of your head. "even if you'd run, you won't be dying on me."

+ "i won't run," you answered. you felt the corners of his lips rise as it tickled your head. "you have to tell me everything."

+ he grinned and for the first time that day, it saved you. "good. not that i'd let you go even if you said you would."

+ "if this is something i have to get used to," you began, looking up at him, "i swear─"

+ but you stopped once you felt his lips on yours, one hand resting on your waist and one on your jaw. you could only describe it as delicate as if nothing could make him happier than you, as if you're all he needs, all he wants, and that your answer is more than perfect.

+ he pulls you closer and when he speaks, you can feel his lips move against yours like he's making your entire body remember this moment. "i swear you won't regret it."

─

+ so now, you know. it was a risk and apparently one nagumo was willing to take if he really wanted you to be his forever. now that you know about his world, you're more prone to be a target, or dare you say, a liability. when he told you, you actually brought up splitting up once and for all for his good, but the look of shock on his face gave you your answer.

+ when you said that, he looked absolutely astonished as though someone was holding his heart and dangling it in front of him. to be honest, you're not sure if he'd be as surprised about that anyway. "i live for two lives now. yours and mine."

+ no one else knows that you know and the two of you plan to keep it that way. it's your turn, if you think about it. nagumo's entrusted his entire life and safety to you. even though it's not to the same degree, even if you can't protect him the same way he can protect you, you promised him that you'd do what you can, you'd stay by his side when others don't, you'd love him when he can't love himself. with you, he won't be alone.

+ and after you told him all of that, he had a wicked smile on his face as if he'd completed a successful heist. his arms encircle your waist and his nose grazes yours. he gazes into your eyes like he's enchanted like he still can't believe what's in front of him. "i've got everything i want."

[enreveria]

haven - l.hs

she never had a home that felt safe — until he gave her a home that feels safe.

pairings : bf!heeseung x gf!reader word count(s): 3k+ genre : slice of life, angsty on the reader's side, fluff, slight humor (ive tried 😓) warning(s) : mentions of some insults (useless, being unemployed); reader has depression and toxic family (or maybe parents); pet names (angel, darling, baby, my love, amor, babe); heeseung had that 'every family is happy' in his mind (only mentioned few times); use of (y/n) maybe once; mentioned of reader kinda craved for male validation; DADDY ISSUES; and reader is the eldest daughter 🧍🏻‍♀️ do let me know if i missed anything 😁

notes : (1) my second fic 🥹 it takes so long my brain is frying like a grilled chicken atp 😭 this is for the eldest daughters out there who becomes a second parent 🥹 big hug and loud cheer for all of you for staying strong and powerful 💪🏻 (2) this is not proofread and english is not my first language, so i apologize if there are mistakes in my writing whether in grammar, wording, etc. (3) the characters are only in the story and it doesn't implying to how they are in real life and please read on your own risk 🫂

you just went back home from hanging out with your boyfriend, heeseung. you feel exhausted after walking around the amusement park, playing some games and buying gifts for your siblings and for your mother. now, lying on the couch with your eyes closed, you feel a sense of peace and calmness, not realizing you doze off right after you put your head on the pillow.

after a few moments of your peaceful nap, your mom suddenly throws a pillow towards your face, making you jolt awake and open your eyes.

“pretend to sleep just to run away from your responsibility?” she says sarcastically.

your heart aches. pretend to sleep? when you really dozed off earlier after a tiring day?

“i really fell asleep earlier, mom.. i was tired.. what are you saying?” you ask with full of confusion and pain.

“don't act dumb. i know you're trying to run away from your responsibility as the eldest daughter! and you're trying to use that “feeling tired after hanging out with that guy” reason?” she asks with full of anger and sarcasm. “you're such a useless daughter! you've unemployed and always in those depressive shit episodes of yours! literally toughen up and fight it! it won't help you if you keep sitting there, scrolling through your phone and texting with some men.”

now, your heart is breaking into a million pieces — as if it can't be fixed anymore.

you stare at your mom with confusion and hurt in your eyes. you did your chores as the eldest daughter and as the eldest sister. you've unemployed because you've just finished your degree certificate and are waiting for your graduation day. after all, it's hard to find a job since most of the jobs that you want and align with your major require a higher than degree certificate. so, you keep trying to earn money by searching for small jobs on social media, but still haven't found any.

you also did your chores while she's gone to work. washing dishes, sweeping the floor, washing and drying dirty clothes, and even taking care of your cats, which require some energy most of the time.

and today is the only day you can hang out with your boyfriend, well, monthly hangout — since it's the weekend and the only free day without a schedule for you.

and that's why what your mom said to you hurt you very badly. i mean, who wouldn't feel hurt, right?

“go to your room. seeing your face makes me feel like i'm going to blow out soon,” your mom said coldly with a hint of slight annoyance in her tone.

you immediately get up and take your handbag while holding your tears. you swallow the lump in your throat before exhaling shakily. “i bought a gift for you and the others. heeseung also bought something for you. it's on the dining table,” you say before heading towards your room.

heeseung walks out from the bathroom towards his bedroom with only a towel wrapped around his waist and a towel on his head before he dries his hair with the towel.

he sits on his bed and immediately lets out a long exhale after resting his upper body against the headboard. he takes his phone from the bedside table and turns on the screen, revealing a photostrap wallpaper of him and you that he took earlier at the photo booth.

one photo of him making a ribbon pose on top of your head, and you squishing his cheeks with your palm, making him pout and you smiling widely.

a second photo of them wearing silly props — him wearing a flower sunglasses and a fake black mustache, pretending to be cool and you wearing a tiara and holding a diamond wand, poking the edge of the wand at his button nose while making a cool expression.

third photo of them, now without any props, with him wrapping his arms around your waist and your arms loosely wrapped around his neck. you're looking at him like he's the love of your life while tilting your head slightly and smiling full of love. while heeseung looking at you like you're his whole universe, someone who he won't trade for anything in this world. his smile? well, let's say the smile on his face was very endearing and full of love too, but dreamily. yeah.. a dream to make you officially his.

heeseung grins like a loverboy when he looks at the wallpaper. “she's so beautiful.. how am i so lucky to have her as mine?” he mutters to himself.

he's still drying his hair and when he feels like it's not too damp for him, he puts the towel on the bedside table and lies down for a moment before he wears his pajamas and puts the towel that he used to dry his hair on the towel rack.

heeseung closes his eyes and lets out an exhale, finally feeling rested after today.

but not so long after, you call him and he immediately answers it because the ringtone that he sets for your contact is different from others.

he clears his throat and puts the phone on his ear. “babe? hello?” he asks with a hidden excitement in his voice.

don't get him wrong. of course he's already spent all day with his girlfriend today but his day isn't complete without her calls even if it's just listening to her breathing. he attached to her.

not that you mind though, with listening to his breathing through the phone, it somehow calms your mind from being loud and it's easier for you to fall asleep because the only thing you're focused on is, his breathing… also his mumbling and how he dreams of eating ramen but again, not that you mind.

heeseung waited for you to answer but when he didn't hear anything, he immediately frowned.

something is wrong. he thought to himself.

“(y/n)? you okay, angel?” he asks in full of concern. and after being silent for so long, that's when he heard something he really doesn't want to hear from her.

her cries. her silent cries.

only sniffles can be heard and silent sobs that sound like it would burst sooner or later.

heeseung immediately sits up on his bed and try to pinpoint what's going on.

you were fine all day but why are you crying tonight?

“can.. can i please see your face, heeseung? p-please..” you say between your sniffles on the other line.

heeseung immediately agreed. “yeah.. yeah sure.. i will turn on the video call, okay?” 

once he's got confirmation from you, he fixes his hair and switches the voice call to the video call.

and he thought hearing his girlfriend's silent cries already hurt him. but seeing her tears streaked face with red puffy eyes and how she hugged the cat plushie that he gave as her birthday gift tightly on her chest.

his heart aches two times than before, like a brick just smashed his heart.

you tried to hold it in by yourself, not wanting to burden heeseung anymore. you've really tried.

but your mother's words keep repeating in your head like it won't stop and that makes your heart aching even more.

you've tried to hold yourself to call him, thinking he must be tired after a very long day with you at the amusement park.

but here you are, have a video call with him while hugging your plushie that he gave you on your birthday and looking at his face that full of worry and hurt.

“oh, amor.. what makes you cry?” he asks softly with his eyebrows furrow slightly.

you hiccup and bring the plushie close to your mouth, muffling your quiet sobs.

heeseung keeps staring at you through the screen before he finally connects the dots.

“is it your mom again? hm?” he said after a long thought. you nod slowly, making him sigh slightly.

truthfully, he didn't understand at first why on earth a mother could do that to her own child. that's because he lives in a family where there's no such heavy conflicts between them. his mother never downgrades him and understands him very well. the same goes to his father and his brother. sometimes they argue and sometimes there's a misunderstanding, they immediately talk it out or his brother would ask him to play basketball together.

but, your family? it was his first time hearing the heavy conflicts and how messed up some families are. at first, he was a bit judgmental because there's no such thing as a messed up family, right? in his life, he's surrounded with nothing but love. so, when he finally realises there's a family that has their way to bond, he starts to accept that there are families that aren't like his family. but your family? that makes his jaw drop.

you as an eldest daughter and the eldest sister for six younger siblings; three younger sisters and three younger brothers. you raise your younger siblings as a second parent since your mom provides for all of her children, including you. she's a businesswoman, a rich one but of course with your father who does nothing in the household adds a burden to your mom, and you.

heeseung didn't understand why your father is not like his father at first. his father would always be there for him, and he thought a father should treat the daughter better.

but for you, your father is your first heartbreak.

he's not always at home, doing only God knows what he's doing. at home, he's either sleeping, eating, or playing on the phone. when something is not going on his way, he would be damn furious even if it's just the smallest thing. never give love to you and never provide for your family.

he now understands why you told him you easily get attached to a man when they just show slight interest. no validation from your own father.

he now understands why your mother is always on edge. she's the only provider in the house.

but he still thinks it's unreasonable to lash out at the children when the husband is the problem.

“tell me about it, baby.” he said softly as you burst into tears even more, but still holding onto your sobs.

heeseung stares at you on the screen as he finishes listening to your stories. he frowns sadly as he stares at you.

he understands both sides actually. your mom is probably tired of being the only provider. you're also exhausted from being the eldest daughter and a second parent.

you hiccup slightly before you wipe your tears, “i’m sorry for ruining your night, heeseung-”

“amor.. hey.. i told you before, right? you don’t have to apologize..” he cuts off gently.

he was right, he told you before — not to apologize if you ever want to tell him anything. he wants to hear it. he wants to be someone you can rely on after so long.

“well, baby.. you know you’ve been such a strong girl. i mean, carrying the whole responsibility at your age? hell, it makes me feel like i want to kneel in front of you and worship the floor you walk on, darling.”

he can feel his heart bloom again when he hears you giggling behind the plushie when he says that, and the way he can see your eyes wrinkle when you giggle.

oh, the way that man swears he wants to see that smile and that eyes wrinkle in happiness again and again and again.

“you always know what silly things to say,” you say with your voice still wobbly due to crying but there’s a hint of smile in your voice.

well, heeseung takes that as a compliment and a sign to continue.

“i shall not let my queen let down her tears from thee majestic eyes, soaking thee breathtaking cheeks with thee salty tears.” he said with a mock serious tone and mimics how people in victorian era talked.

and because of that, you let out a laugh behind the plushie that covered your lower face. your cheekbones rise in joy, and your eyes crinkle in happiness. “lee heeseung!” you playfully scold him while giggling.

heeseung stares through the screen with adoration and love. he doesn’t want to let the sound of your laughter disappear from you. he wants to protect your laughter and happiness from everything.

he wants the joy always in you and never let the sadness control you always.

“don’t ever let these kind of things ruin your laughter, baby,” he starts gently, referring to your problem with your family, “especially when i’m the reason you laugh — even from how silly i am.” he says while staring at you through the screen, making you stop laughing because the way he looks at you with full of love and adoration in his eyes — making you feel loved.

“i promise, baby.. once you’re ready, sorting things out, planning well, i’m going to propose you and we can live together — far from everyone that ever hurts you, everyone who makes you sad and questioning yourself, everyone who makes you carry the heavy burden since you were young. okay?” he says with gentleness in his voice and a silent vow for him to make sure you can escape from the hellish place that looks like a heaven from the outside.

“and i will be the best husband for you. if you ever feel i do something wrong, we can sit down together, eat cookies, and sort things out, yeah? if you ever feel you do something wrong, reach out to me and make sure to tell me the truth, even how bad it is.”

“even i break your Nintendo Switch?”

“even you break my Nintendo– oh! not that one! i’m going to crash out.” you laugh while covering your face with your plushie.

you know very well how he cherishes his gaming consoles, keyboards, and his Nintendo Switch. and ramen, obviously.

but you also know he didn’t mean like that. yes, he would probably going to crash out if his Nintendo Switch broke — but he won’t get too worked up and yell at you. maybe he’s going to nag and being sulky all day.

and heeseung knows you knew he didn’t mean it in an aggressive way. that’s how much you trusted him.

and he vowed not to break the trust. never.

“but seriously, baby. i promise, okay? i will work harder and harder, earn money to provide you and help you with your mental health problems. we can go to the therapy together since i know you really want to ask for help from professional but with these circumstances around you, you can’t ask for help without people judging you.” he says while staring into your eyes through the screen. his words make you emotional ‘cause he was right — it’s so hard to ask for help in these surroundings.

your eyes start to get teary again — before he said something that made your tears going up again.

“and we can going crazy at the arcade and eat ramen all day.” he says before he shrugs his shoulders as if that’s the normal thing. for him.

you chuckle while sniffling and wipe your tears with your plushie. “you’re so annoying sometimes. we could get sick and be on the deathbed if we eat ramen all day, baby~” you say with those whiny yet playfully scold him tone.

“well, we could be Romeo and Juliet but in modern days.” he has that lazy smirk on his face after saying that as if he dropped something flirty that makes your heartbeat thumps loudly.

it is, but at the same time, it’s not for you.

you wheeze for a moment before you laugh. “why are you like this, baby~?” he giggles along when he hears your laugh through the screen.

heeseung stares at his phone screen as he sees you start to feel sleepy after your emotional breakdown and maybe from how much you laugh. he brings his thumb close to his phone screen as he looks at you with full of love in his screen. his thumb hovers his phone screen before he makes a caressing gesture.

“heeseung..?” you call him softly yet sleepily. “yes, my love?” he replies with softness in his voice, like he’s afraid his voice would jolt you from your sleepy state.

“you really promise you will do that if we ever get married, right?” he stares at the screen into your sleepy eyes.

at first, he questioned himself if he wasn’t sincere and genuine enough, but then he remembers — your father broke his promises to be a good father.

he finally come back from his sense before he let out a soft whisper, “i promise, my darling. i promise you will get your happy life.”

he shifts himself on his bed, laying down on his right side, hand underneath the pillow, his right side of his cheek squish slightly on the pillow, other hand holds the phone steadily in front of him. “but,  i also promise — there’s no rush for you, okay? we can take it slow and do it without any pressure.”

you smile sleepily before you nod slowly. “mhm.. no pressure,” you say before you close your eyes. heeseung sees that as a sign you’re going to enter your dreamland. with that, he starts to hum a soothing tune, keeping his voice low and soft.

after some time, he can see your breathing is steady and how your face looks so peaceful in the sleep, as if your mother didn’t hurt you verbally earlier and how you cried your heart out.

he smiles to himself as he feels lots of emotions in one time — feeling grateful he could call you his, feeling sad how you face this burden as the eldest in your siblings for so long, feeling the determination to make you his wife; and feeling the overwhelm in his heart of how much he loves you.

“i love you, my darling. i love you so much. please stay strong for me. i promise we can get our own flower path.” he says to you who’s already sleeping peacefully and to himself as a vow.

and little does he know, you heard his words one by one in your sleep, making you smile slightly as if the words were from your dream. you don’t need to be at home to feel at home.

heeseung himself makes you feel like you’re home — a warm, peaceful home.

⋆༺𓆩❝ a reverie by enveria ❞𓆪༻⋆

© 2025 · all rights reserved

[pomrania]

Smaugust: "gem"

If you want your cat drawn as a dragon, using the prompt in the title, reblog this post with a photo of your cat, with the cat's name included in the body of the post.

Requests are open on this prompt so long as it's 1 August 2025 somewhere in the world.

Further details below the cut, read it before the first time you make a request.

One request per person per prompt; one cat per request. Multiple photos are allowed if you just want to show off your cat, but be clear about which photo you want used as reference, and please limit it to a reasonable amount.

It can be a former or current cat, it can be the cat of a friend or relative; but it has to be a cat you have a name for, and a cat you have some form of personal connection to, it can't just be a random picture you found online.

Non-cats are allowed so long as you give reasons why the creature is actually a cat.

Do not say "only draw my request if you feel like it" or "I hope I'm not too late". If you're worried about being late, check to see if it is still the given date somewhere in the world; if it is, you're not too late, and if it isn't, then better luck next time.

I will draw all the valid requests I receive, in the order they come in. If you think I missed yours, either it wasn't a valid request or I didn't see it; feel free to DM me and ask.

New prompts will be opened on an irregular basis throughout August, depending on how long it takes me to draw everything from the previous prompt and how much energy I have. If you don't know whether you'll be available on a day with an open prompt, get in touch with me and we can work something out.

[greenokapi]

So... I've seen ship memes like this around but can never decide which ship to do for them so at this point I just did... many 0v0;

Unsurprisingly, we have: Link/Ghirahim, bcs of course~!

(Meme by awfulalignmentcharts)

[aggravatedanarchy]

Hello Kind Soul 💕

I am trying to evacuate my family from Gaza to safe area to save our lives ASAP 🙏

I Ask if you could support us by share my blog and boost my campaign?

https://www.gofundme.com/f/Stand-With-AlBalawi-Family

If you are generous enough, you can donate any small contribution, it really helps ❤

Of course!

Anyone who can donate, please consider doing so! It looks like they're currently at just under halfway to their goal.

If you're unable to donate, please consider reblogging this so that it might reach someone who can! (And hey, maybe consider reblogging it even if you did!)

Wishing you the best; I don't generally pray, but I will keep you in mine moving forward.

Here's a photo of my cat to hopefully get this more traction (and so I can put this in more tags)

[bookishjules]

juliaaaa do you have any advice for fanfic writing I might write something for the hunger games universe

i think the best advice i could give to someone writing fic specifically would just be to trust the characters, to listen to them. dragging characters around to do your bidding never works well imo, but i think it can feel especially obvious and jolting with fic because the characters, assuming they aren't ocs, already live in your audience's heads as well. and it's not just about how the fic is read, but also the ease in writing it, the strength of voice. you already know these characters, trust them to take the reins. (this is also fun because while you may already know them thoroughly, listening to them in this way, channeling them almost, can reveal even more about them that you may not have otherwise discovered)

and even more than trusting the characters, trust yourself. you know and love the media you're writing about and that's enough. (this is one i'm constantly having to tell myself and never hearing so hopefully it'll stick with you <3)

[oidheadh-con-culainn]

i'm sorry i'm not being fun enough on my personal blog which is the only place on the internet i get to just be a person and not have to be professional because it's the only place my colleagues and employers don't follow me but also i'm not sorry because sometimes being grumpy is part of being human and i'm so goddamn tired of having to perform perfection on the internet

[marshmellowtea]

lord help me i'm googling hypoglycemia induced seizures again

[quietmarie]

What is Async Anyway?

Explaining async/await and general concurrency concepts in programming languages.

A lot of modern languages have async/await syntax built directly into them, and the construct can be extremely useful. Examples of languages that include these concepts are JavaScript, C#, Python, and Swift, and even modern relatively low-level languages like Rust have this syntax. Even though it's usually thought of as a more advanced feature, I think it is really not that hard to use once you get the hang of it, and it is super useful and rewarding when you really understand it.

This is going to be a bit of a long and pretty technical post, but I hope it can give you some confidence to know what async/await really does when you use it, and maybe it can help you use it more effectively. Keep in mind that I will not be able to go over everything in super deep detail, and that I am going to simplify stuff, but it should give you an idea how these systems work.

I am a little curious about eventually following this up with a post looking at how these systems compare under the hood in different programming languages, so let me know if you'd be interested in that.

Big post under the cut.

Parallelism and Concurrency

Computers today can do many things at the same time. And I mean that literally: in one instant, a modern CPU can be working on multiple instructions. That's because a single CPU has multiple cores that can all execute code (mostly) independent from each other. This is called parallelism, and the way we as programmers interact with that is through threads. Most programming languages, especially "lower level" ones, have a way for programmers to create a thread that will run some part of your code. Creating a thread is telling the computer that it can, and should, run the code in your threads in parallel (although various systems such as the OS still have discretion over when and if that actually happens).

Parallelism is not quite concurrency tho. Where parallelism is about your computer literally doing multiple things at once, concurrency is about your computer doing multiple things, but not at once. With concurrency, you kind of pretend you're doing a parallelism. But in reality, stuff doesn't happen at the same time. Instead, your system (runtime) does some work on task A a bit, then on task B, then maybe again on task A, etc., but doesn't work on the two at the same time. So, in a concurrent system it might look like task A and B are progressing simultaneously from the outside, but work actually only happens in sequence.

Let's Talk About I/O

I/O stands for input/output and describes data in your program that comes from elsewhere, or that gets sent elsewhere. So for example, user input is I/O. And similarly, a web request can be I/O, whether you send it or receive it. So let's use that as an example: you send a web request to some API to fetch you the cutest bunny images and facts:

But the service is taking its sweet time to respond.

Fact: Loading bunny fact…

With how we did it here, we halt execution of the entire thread until the response comes in (at least in most languages, more on that later). In this case, we call get a blocking method because it, well, blocks the thread without actively doing useful work.

What if we could instead use the thread for other tasks instead of just sitting there, twiddling our thumbs and waiting on the server? This smells of concurrency…

Callbacks

Callbacks are a way for programmers to avoid that period of thumb twiddling. The new getWithCallback function now returns immediately, but it doesn't return a value. Instead, we have to register the code we want to run once the server responds with the function:

The function we pass to getWithCallback is called the callback, and it gets called by the client* only once the response arrives. Oh look, here it is:

Fact: A rabbit's life span is about 8 years, though sterilized rabbits (those who are spayed/neutered) can live as long as 10-12 years.

*"The client calls it" is a big simplification, there might be a lot more stuff happening here. But the important bit is that the client magically does not need to block to wait for the response.

Promises and Futures

What JavaScript calls Promises and what a lot of the other languages call Futures is essentially sugar sprinkled on callbacks - it makes our callback code a little nicer. Callbacks can commonly create a concept called "callback hell", where you have to call a function that takes a callback inside the function that takes a callback inside the function that takes a callback…

(Code modified from https://developer.mozilla.org/en-US/docs/Web/JavaScript/Guide/Using_promises)

To avoid this, functions now can return a Promise instead of taking a callback. Promises represent the promise that, while a concrete value might not exist right now, it will in the future. Once the value exists, we say the Promise resolves. The code above with Promises would then look like this:

It still doesn't look perfect, and there are things you can do to make it look a little nicer, but it's so much less nested. The callback in the then function will be called once the value is ready, and the callback itself can also return a Promise. The then function then returns a Promise which will get resolved once the future from the callback is resolved. Many other languages have a concept similar to JavaScript's Promise, and it's often called something like Future or Task (because it would be too easy to have consistent naming across languages).

Now keep in mind neither of those solutions above are really "concurrency" in the definition we used above. This is because the thread we call, for example, getWithCallback on still completely belongs to us. We could keep using it, and we would not get interrupted to execute the callback. Depending on the language and runtime, the callback might get executed on a different thread, or the runtime might have to wait until we are completely done with what we were doing to then use our thread to call it. The same thing goes for the callbacks in the then method of promises.

Async/Await

And async/await is just some sugar and magic fairy dust on top of Promises (or Futures or whatever). It makes our code look like it should be blocking, but in reality it isn't. Here's what our bunny image code looks like with async/await:

So here, a couple things happen. First, the Promise is created and the web request is initiated. Then, the Promise is awaited. For that, (if the Promise is not resolved at this point already,) the task first yields, meaning it tells the runtime that it is not doing any useful work at the moment, and that the thread it ran on can be used for other tasks. The runtime then makes a note of where to continue execution when that Promise resolves, and looks around for other tasks that currently need executing to put them on that thread. After a while passes, the Promise resolves, and once the runtime has some resources available for us (maybe because another task just yielded), execution on our original task is continued with the API response.

Fact: A rabbit's teeth never stop growing! Many people believe they need to chew to keep their teeth short. While they do enjoy chewing, it's the normal wear from where their top and bottom teeth meet that keeps a rabbit's teeth short.

This is more in line with the concurrency we sought out above. We can interleave other computations while our task is still running, but during times where it is not doing any useful work. (Still, because you may have multiple threads your tasks can run on and move between, it might not always be 100% technically accurate to call this system concurrent.) This is also why it is important to not block for long in async contexts: if you're hogging the thread for too long, you're stopping other tasks from progressing and throwing a lot of the benefits you gained from doing it concurrently in the bin. Most async runtimes will give you some option to run expensive or blocking code elsewhere, so that you can keep the benefits you gain from async.

So that's the explanation what async/await does, and the broad strokes of how it works. If you have any more questions regarding the topic, feel free to ask! I think it'll be fun to occasionally write a longer post on interesting things I've learned, so if you have topic suggestions, don't be afraid to tell me!

Further links and sources

Don't Block The Event Loop! - Why you should avoid blocking in Node.js, and what pitfalls to look out for.

I got the bnuuy images and facts from the animality API. The licenses on the images are not super clear, but I'll assume it's okay for me to use them here with credit because it's an open API.

I lifted the definitions and some of the explanation for parallelism and concurrency from Steve Klabnik's talk on Rust's Journey to Async/Await. The talk is more technical and very focused on Rust, but it's a great talk.

I referenced the mdn web docs at various points, they're a great resource.

I created the code screenshots using the carbon app.

[cherrysinner]

ANTI-BULLYING ASSEMBLY ♡

♡ pairing: husband!clark x teacher!reader

♡ summary: when your school's principal catches you on the phone with superman, not realizing it's your husband, you come up with an excuse as to why you were on the phone with him.

♡ warnings / tags: fluff! wc: 1.3k

♡ author's note: i feel like clark with a teacher wife makes a lot of sense!! i had sm fun writing this!! feel free to send me some clark requests + read something similar!

CLARK KENT MASTERLIST ♡

"sooo, your ma finally gave me the recipe for her casserole. yes, that casserole." you laughed into the phone, when you heard your husband's excitement over the phone, "and i was thinking i'd drop by the store to get the ingredients and make it tonight. can't guarantee that it'll be just as good, but martha said that the most important ingredient was love."

"i'm sure it's going to be delicious." you could hear clark smiling through the phone, as well as a slight swoosh!

"what have we talked about texting and flying, mister?" you scolded playfully as you took out a stack of exams for your students, "well, technically i'm speaking on the phone and flying." "and technically i'm still gonna scold you when you get home tonight."

"i'll bring dessert from papa's donuteria?"

"fine, you're forgiven." you chuckle softly, "and you better make sure your superman duties don't take too long, or there'll be hell to pay."

"of course they won't. have a good day at work, honey."

"you too." you smile, hanging up your phone, only now realizing that someone was standing right outside your classroom door, the middle-aged woman's eyes wide and jaw slack. you clear your throat, putting on a friendly smile, "principal kelly! i was just on the phone with my hu—"

"superman."

"whhhaaaat?"

"i couldn't help but overhear you just say superman." the woman clapped her hands together, "mrs. kent, were you just talking to superman?"

"no, no." you clear your throat, "i mean, that'd be strange. how could i have superman's number?" you let out an awkward chuckle, your forming into a tight smile.

"well, your husband works with him, doesn't he?"

at the reminder of clark's supposed connection to superman, a lightbulb turns on over your head and you clapped your hands together, "oh, yes! i was indeed talking to superman. my husband gave me his number."

"how come were you talking to him at this lunchtime?" the woman looks down at her watch, "did you tell him about the bullying problem we've been having?"

"yes, i did!" you cleared your throat, "i actually asked superman if he could… come have a… talk. about how bad bullying is. i feel like he's a figure that many of the kids look up to and it might help."

"oh, that's a fantastic idea!" the woman exclaimed, "do you think he would do that?" "well, i think i can find a way to convince him..." you smiled awkwardly.

you hear the front door close the moment the infamous kent casserole is out of the oven, listening as he takes off his shoes and places his satchel down on its usual spot. you chuckle softly, your husband coming into the kitchen with a wide smile and a white box with 'papa's donuteria' written on it, placing it down on the dining table, his jacket already ditched and tie loose around his collared shirt.

"hi." clark bends slightly to press a kiss on your cheek, "i could smell the casserole. it smells just as good as my ma's." "good. i remembered her advice and put extra love in." clark turned to take some plates out of the cupboard, placing them on the table as you looked for forks and knives.

once the table was set and the two of you had sat down, you pursed your lips in thought, watching as your husband started serving himself food; however, when you didn't start putting food on your own plate, clark furrowed his brows, blue eyes flickering from your empty plate to your eyes, "what's wrong?"

"i... i have a favor to ask you." your husband nodded, telling you to continue, and you took your husband's ringed hand in yours, rubbing it, "so, today, principal kelly... heard me talking to you. well, more specifically, she heard me call you superman."

your husband's eyes turned comically wide at your words, and you could see his adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "w-what...?" he mumbled, his throat dry. the hand that wasn't in yours took off his glasses, and he rubbed the corner of his eyes. "she knows?"

"oh, no! god, no." you let out a soft chuckle when you realized what your husband must be thinking, "no, she just knows that i have superman's number... she thought i got it because you two work together."

"oh." clark let out a breath, "whew, you scared me." the man shook his head as if shaking the thought away, stroking your hand with his thumb, "so... what's the favor, honey?"

"there's been some issues with bullying at my school, and i was wondering if superman would be willing to come by, maybe give a little talk on why it's bad...?" you looked at him with a slightly pleading look on your face, your husband simply smiling, bringing his hand to his lips and pressing a small kiss on it.

"of course. you don't even have to ask."

clark cleared his throat before speaking into the microphone on the podium in the middle of the school gymnasium, "hello. first, i want to thank mrs. kent for, uh, asking me to come speak to you about bullying."

"thank you, mrs. kent!" a gymnasiumful of students echoed back at him, making you let out a soft, quiet chuckle as you watched your husband, your head tilted to the side. "thank you, mrs. kent, indeed." principal kelly whispered in a hushed tone, "he really does look more handsome in person."

"he does." you smiled fondly as you listened to your husband speak.

after clark was done with his presentation, he received a round of applause that echoed throughout the gymnasium, and you started leading him towards your classroom. "you did really well. i think they really listened to you." you said with a wide smile, not even noticing the way your husband was itching with the urge to hold your hand, so used to doing that whenever you walked side by side, now tapping his fingers against his thigh to keep himself occupied.

"here's where the magic happens. aka where i pray that eight-year-olds don't pick their noses." you chuckle as you were pulling the door to your classroom open, "ta-da!"

clark looked around as he stepped inside, many of the walls covered with drawings clearly made by children, along with cards that had your name written on them in scrawly, colorful handwriting. you even had a picture of you and the children you taught hung up that had been taken on picture day.

"wow..." clark's reaction made you chuckle, your kitten heels clacking against the floor as you walked to your desk, picking up a stack of papers. "just wait until you see these."

your husband closed the small distance between you two, taking the papers you were holding and starting to shift through them; each of them a different kind of drawing of clark, of superman, a lot of them with messages like 'superman rules!' or something along those lines. "these are... of me?"

"they are. when i told them you were coming to visit, they got really excited, so i said that they could make drawings for you. i assured that superman would get them." you raised your brows with a grin on your lips, "did i do good?"

clark put the drawings down onto the table, bringing one of his large hands to cup your cheek, stroking the soft skin og your cheek, "how did i get so lucky?" he asked softly, his beautiful, bright gleaming as he looked down at you. "i love you so much."

before you had time to respond to your husband's affections, clark brought his lips down to yours for a soft kiss, your lips melting into his, a warm feeling blooming in your chest.

however, the moment was cut short when you heard a gasp at the door, your husband pulling away from the kiss, the two of you looking to see a small figure skittering away from the door, your eyes wide as you and clark turned to look at each other, his cheeks reddening.

"i think one of my students just saw mrs. clark kiss superman." you mumbled, a moment of silence passing between you before you both burst into laughter, clark pulling you close to him, "what a scandal."