#Heart and Soul are kind of in there too so...

[chaes-tea]

── // living the nightmare .

// kpop demon hunters fic. // jinu x reader. // a/n: i looped the ost an unhealthy amount of times. i also haven't written anything in a few years LOL. so things might make little sense. or not make sense at all. enjoy! (pls don't flame me too hard i had a vision idk if it visioned) ⚠️!! WARNING: kpop demon hunters spoilers !! + angst

"Jinu!"

He clutches his head and winces, the familiar voice never leaving his head.

The memories– these damn memories that haunt him every second that passes, every step he takes, every breath he breathes. He painfully recalls his sister's sobs, along with his mother's trembling voice as she attempted to comfort her. But he remembers your cries the most.

You. The love of his life. His heart's desire. His soulmate.

He looks at the glowing patterns on his hands. He did it not just for his mother and sister, but for his future, for you. He wanted to give you the world, even if it ended up sounding like a sappy rags to riches story. You deserved so much more than what he could offer.

When he heard Gwi-Ma's voice in his head that day, he thought that this was his chance. A chance for his family to finally be relieved of suffering. The four of you would enter the palace and spend the rest of your lives there. But things took a turn when only he was allowed entry into the palace. He remembers the pain he felt in his heart when the palace doors shut behind him. Even so, he still pressed forward. He would do well in his time in the palace, make money, and send it home.

But Gwi-Ma kept him from doing so. His voice spat excuses after excuses that made him make selfish decisions. Decisions that prevented him from supporting his family. Decisions that kept a sturdy roof over his head, gave him delicious meals every day, and silk sheets every night, all while his family struggled in poverty. The thought of that ate away at him during his time in the palace. The patterns on his skin slowly grew like vines, until it consumed him whole, completely turning him into a demon under the demon king's rule.

The voice in his mind, and the patterns on his body, were constant reminders of his regret, shame, and guilt. They were evidence of his selfish choices– choices that led him to lose his family. This fact has never left him for the past 400 years.

Every few decades, when he would wander the streets of the human realm in search of souls, he would stumble upon a familiar face. The face reminded him of when he first walked through the palace gates alone. He solemnly smiles to himself each time as he observes you. It was nice to see that your iterations always held your kind smile and strong personality, no matter the era or hardships.

He wonders if fate would have allowed him to meet you in every reincarnation, had he stayed human.

He hates how he always thinks about that. He hates his memories of his time as a human, how they always remind him of his betrayal to his loved ones. If hate could defeat Gwi-Ma, the demon king would have been gone long ago.

Now, he sees his service to him as a means to an end. He would get in his good graces, and in exchange for his great deeds to him, he would request for the memories of his past to be erased. A request that would end this 400-year-long nightmare for good.

The Honmoon will be complete soon. Surely, his plan to destroy it will work. That's all Gwi-Ma wants, after all.

He and the other Saja Boys assume human forms and head through the alleyways to the stage they will be performing on. He aimlessly follows the four, rerunning the plan in his head before the performance. A familiar voice pulls him out of his thoughts.

"What's exactly is in this 'voice juice' anyways?"

He looks up and sees four people: the first in a black baseball cap, a shorter one with a yellow bucket hat, one holding a box, and–

Oh.

It's you again.

What a cruel thing fate is.

[straykidsnerd255]

Omg hiii!!! I’m loving what Saja boys hcs and I loved the pop mart hc u wrote!! (*^▽^*)

What would the saja babes be with an alt/goth gn!s/o? Their demon performance literally sparked this request (0///0)

Oh stop, you are too kind. Thank you so much! And thank you for sending in this request! I hope that you enjoy<3 Had to listen to Your Idol on repeat and don’t regret it. They can have my soul. I’m sure if I wore the goth reader all that well but I hope it's still good! 

Jinu:

Jinu is a sucker for your gothic style. Considering he is a demon, black and deep purple are his colors. 

Seeing you wear those very same colors made both his human side and demon side preen with happiness

Jinu had appeared as his demon one night in your shared apartment and you saw him, in the middle of putting your make-up on. 

You both had a seriously long talk that night

You didn’t understand why he would hide his demon side from you but the fear that filled him when he told you that he believed you would leave him made your heart break. 

You took his hand in yours and pressed it to your chest, just over your heart. 

“You are the only one that makes my heart race like I’m wearing pastel colors and flowers in my hair. Just like when you performed Soda Pop.” You giggled as the tips of his ears turned red.

When you and Jinu went on dates, he wore the pastel colors, you wore the black, a 180 to his demon persona. 

You designed your nails after his actual claws and Jinu could feel his heart racing like he had been running a marathon.

Scratch his head when the both of you are lazing around. Specifically in his demon form because he will purr. 

His demon will practically beg for back scratches when the two of you are lounging in the dorm room watching tv.

His demon form will clasp your hands together and hold them tightly when he feels overwhelmed. 

You show off all your black clothing and make-up on different nights when he is feeling down, hoping that will cheer him up. (It does. He’s a sucker for you.)

Abby Saja:

He is all about the bright colors. He is constantly wearing the bright blues and greens and pinks while you wear only black. You did occasionally wear a dark red whether it be contacts or a belt to hold your pants up. 

You fell for Abby Saja at a concert and when he saw you, he fell harder. Literally, he fell off the stage and landed at your feet, dust slowly settling as he rubbed his head and took your offered hand, worry in your eyes. 

From that moment, he knew he needed you by his side. He asked the security to take you back to their waiting room so he could talk to you and possibly get your name. 

Dating a demon for 3 years is still pretty new to you but you wouldn’t trade it for anything. 

Abby Saja always asks for head rubs when he comes back from a rather long concert or a long tour that has finally ended. 

Even in his demon form, he is gentle when he holds you. He refuses to hurt the person that actually likes his demon and will ask him to show his demon randomly. 

The moment he stepped into the apartment, he saw you sitting on the couch in one of his black t-shirts and black basketball shorts. His demon appeared and he dramatically fell onto your lap. 

He wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face in your stomach as he closed his eyes and breathed in your scent.

“Long day?” You asked, immediately removing the black hat and running your fingers through his hair, occasionally screeching at his scalp. 

He shivered but nodded his head. “The longest day I have ever had. Please don’t make me go back and do it again.” He would whisper but you knew he loved it more than anything.

Mystery Saja:

He loves your goth style. He even asked you if you would be willing to dress him up the same way, his demon getting excited to try it out. 

Mystery had been getting ready for a concert when he saw you putting the make-up on, your eyes trained on the lines you were making on your eyes. 

He stopped, jaw dropped as he watched you. 

“You should apply as our makeup artist. You are talented with that.” He said, walking into the bathroom and stood behind you, his hands on your shoulders as he watched you. 

You giggled and finished the last of the make up before turning around and wrapping your arms around his waist and laying the side of your face against his stomach. 

“Gotta make myself look good for my boyfriend's concert. Where would the fun be if I didn’t show up in the colors that matched your demon side?” You asked, watching as his human form slipped away and his demon form appeared. 

You left an hour after he had left, knowing that was when you would be let into the stadium.

You watched him and his group with a soft smile, your heart pounding as he danced his heart out. 

When he caught sight of you, you smiled and waved watching as his whole face lit up.

The second the concert was over, you made your way to their dressing room but before you could even open the door, Mystery opened the door and pulled you into his chest, nuzzling his face into your neck. “You were amazing, my love.” You whispered.

Romance Saja:

Even in his demon form, he refused to take your soul. The way you looked dressed in all black, chains falling around your hip and the black makeup around your eyes made him feel fuzzy. 

Romance will flirt with you non stop when you are getting your clothes on and makeup on.

When they were on stage in their demon forms, Romance refused to use his voice to control you. He watched you from the stage as you jumped up and down, ignoring the other fans around you. 

His chest swelled with pride as you danced along to the song. 

When the two of you are out shopping for new clothes to add to your closest, he does his best to learn the gothic style and does his best when it comes to choosing something you want. 

At one point, Romance asked if you would be willing to put the same eye makeup on him and you, in a giddy excitement, immediately sat him on the chair in the bathroom as you got to work.

When you two were getting ready for a date, Romance dressed in more lighter reds and pinks, pulling his hair back into a half bun to keep it out of his face while you pulled on a oversized black t-shirt, slipped into black cargo pants, clipping a few chains on the right side, and pulled on socks and combat boots.

Romance wrapped his arms around your neck as you applied the last of your makeup, his eyes shining when you turned to face him.

He will also sit and paint your nails black while he talks to you about his demon side, giving you all the details and such about it before pink smoke surrounds him and his demon is sitting in front of you. 

You can only stare at him mesmerized as he finishes painting your nails. Yes you have seen the demon before but from a distance. Having him in his demon form in front of you makes your heart thud against your chest like it has never done before. 

You are also taller than Romance, and built a little more than him so Romance has a thing for you standing behind him when fans are talking to him. 

Romance, when he is tired and you don’t have your full outfit on, will lay on your chest and sleep.

Romance will actively show you off in his instagram posts, holding your hand or pressing a kiss to the back of your hand.

Baby Saja:

Baby Saja will walk around you, studding the clothing that you decided to wear on your date. 

His hands would graze the chain that sat on your hip, trace over the chain around your neck before taking you hand in his, looking up at you and smiling softly. 

He will never admit it but the way you dress in all dark clothes makes him happy. His demon likes the darker colors. It's easier on his eyes.

When he performed Your Idol, he could see you copying all his moves, mouthing all his words all while staring directly at him. 

You are slightly stronger than him when in human form so he will ask you for piggyback rides, mainly so he can nuzzle into your neck better. 

When he comes home after having to act like a popstar, he just collapses into your chest, while you are laying on the couch, scrolling through your phone. 

His demon appears as he rests his chin against your chest, silently begging for your attention. 

When you finally look at him, he blushes and buries his face in your chest, making you chuckle and wrap your arms around him.

He will insist on doing your makeup when you don’t feel like doing it yourself, carefully do your hair in a half bun leaving half your shoulder length hair down so he can play with it. 

Because of your gothic style, he will beg the rest of the group to let you be their manager, knowing that you have seen their demons and don’t care one bit. 

Your black nails are just long enough that he will ask you to scratch at his head when he is extremely tired and will actually fall asleep against your chest when you do so.

[sweetromanova]

Operation Obedience: Yelena's Home

Natasha Romanoff x Dog Handler!Reader

Summary: It starts with chaos in a pink harness and a trainer who makes obedience sound like a love language. It ends with Natasha finally understanding what it means to be chosen and choosing to stay.

It’s early afternoon when Yelena arrives at the compound. Armed with black sunglasses, platform combat boots, iced coffee in hand and an attitude like she never left.

She punches in the code to Natasha’s apartment door and steps inside with her usual lack of subtlety.

“Fanny! Mama’s home!”

Fanny, shockingly, is not wreaking havoc.

Instead, she’s sitting primly in the center of the living room rug, gently licking a treat stuffed lick mat shaped like a bone. Her tail wags once in greeting but she doesn’t move.

Yelena stares. “Are you… meditating?”

Fanny continues licking with intense focus, as if Yelena wasn’t stood there. She crouches beside her, inspecting the calm posture like it’s suspicious.

“Okay, what the hell did she do to you? Are you… fixed? Did Natasha fix you?”

No answer, just methodical licking.

Yelena narrows her eyes. “She doesn’t even like dogs. There is no way.”

She glances toward the hallway, looking for any sign of her sister. “You know what? I bet she forgot you were even here. Wouldn’t be the first time. I leave you with her for one month and suddenly you’re some kind of zombie. Disrespectful. Unbelievable.”

Muttering, she stands and heads down the hallway. “Natasha, I swear if you’ve been leaving her to rot while you go off doing your emotionally constipated lone wolf Avenger thing, I’m gonna-“ 

She pushes open the bedroom door and stops dead in her tracks.

For one, very long, very scarring second, the room is very obviously occupied. You are there. Natasha is there. There is skin. There is positioning. Then there is a very fast grab for sheets.

“-OH MY GOD?!” Yelena shrieks, spinning around so fast she nearly throws her drink. “MY EYES! MY EYES! MY SOUL!”

Inside the room, muffled chaos begins, scrambling, a thump, someone curses. Fanny barks helpfully from the living room.

“THIS IS WHERE MY DOG SLEEPS!” She wails. “HER CRATE IS IN THERE. SHE HAD A BONE IN THERE-“

Natasha’s voice echoes behind the hysterical rambling. “She doesn’t even use the crate!”

“I USED THAT BEDROOM IN 2019!”

“Oh my god, please stop talking-“ Yelena storms back into the living room, holding a pillow in front of her face like a shield.

“This is betrayal. I gave you my dog. My trust! And you- you-” She gags dramatically. “You’re rolling around with-“

Natasha emerges, now in a tank top and very rumpled sweatpants, looking unbothered but faintly flushed.

You trail behind, mortified but trying to smile politely.

“Yelena.” Natasha says, tone warning.

Yelena doesn’t even look at her.

She zeroes in on you. “You! You’re the one who fixed Fanny!” She says, squinting. “The dog whisperer. The one with the leash and the face and the- ugh- soft energy.”

You smile awkwardly. “Hi.”

Yelena blinks at you.

Then sighs dramatically. “Fine. You’re hot. I get it. But if you break her heart, I will steal Fanny back and set her loose in your sock drawer.”

“Understood.”

“Good.”

Fanny walks into the room, sits next to you and rests her head on your leg. Yelena watches it happen, throws her hands up, and mutters.

“Disgusting. I’m the third wheel to my own dog.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

It’s late when Natasha finally gets home.

She’s sore, annoyed and just slightly dusty from a sparring match that went longer and harder than planned. Some junior agents still think they can go toe-to-toe with a legend. She’s fine with that. What she’s not fine with is how much paperwork came afterward from the medical bay.

She keys into her apartment, drops her bag by the door and toes off her boots with a sigh.

Silence. Too much silence.

“Hello?” She calls out.

From the living room, she hears some faint muffled snickering.

Natasha freezes, her eyes narrow as she zones in on the area.

“What are you doing-“

She rounds the corner and sees you and Yelena crouched on the couch like co-conspirators, both red-faced and trying very hard not to burst into laughter. 

Fanny is in the middle of the room, sitting upright, wearing tiny pink goggles and what looks suspiciously like a baby-sized tactical harness.

Natasha blinks.

“No.”

Yelena grins. “Yes.”

You grin wider. “She’s operational.”

“Operational for what?”

Yelena claps her hands once. “Go time, Fanny!”

Fanny perks up, turns sharply and trots over to the fridge, opens it with a small handle tied to the bottom and retrieves a can of beer. She trots back, very proud and drops it directly in front of Natasha like she’s just defused a bomb.

Natasha stares down.

Then at you.

Then back at Fanny.

“You taught the dog to do fridge recon?”

“Technically. And she’s also trained in ‘emotional sabotage’.” Yelena adds, cheerfully.

“Explain.”

You cover your mouth, laughing. “Okay, you have to say ‘I’m sad’.”

Natasha raises a brow. “What?”

“Trust us!" Yelena says.

Natasha sighs. “Fine. I’m sad.”

Fanny immediately lets out the most theatrically tragic howl known to dogkind then flops to the ground, rolls over and dramatically places one paw over her snout.

Natasha blinks. Hard.

“What the actual-”

“It’s mutual emotional vulnerability conditioning.” Yelena explains, acting like she’s a K-9 expert herself. “Very advanced.”

You’re cackling now, halfway buried in a throw pillow. Fanny looks so pleased with herself.

Natasha exhales through her nose, pinches the bridge.

“I leave you two alone for one afternoon.”

“You’re welcome.” You and Yelena say in unison, sweet as pie.

Natasha glares at Yelena then at you before swiping the beer from the floor.

“She is kind of a genius.”

Yelena bows. “She learned from the best.”

Natasha walks over and leans down to press a kiss to your lips. “Not talking about the dog.”

Yelena lets out a theatrical gag. “I’m going to be sick. I want a new family.”

“You’re the one who invited yourself over for three nights.”

“For the dog!” Fanny barks happily and jumps on the couch between you both, a paw on each of your thighs. "Melina hates having Fanny in the house so it's easier to see her here."

You settle back into the cushions with Natasha settling beside you, beer in her hand, she offers you a sip as you both listen to Yelena threatening to move to the Middle East ‘where PDA is illegal’. She’s pacing near the kitchen like a madman.

“This is disgusting! You’ve gone soft! Domestic! Boring! Where’s the Natasha who used to threaten to cut my hair in my sleep?”

“She’s tired. She’s happy. She has her sister’s dog who brings her beer. Life’s good.”

Yelena narrows her eyes. “You used to hate beer.”

“Yeah but my girlfriend likes it so now I deal with it.”

The room goes still for one glorious second.

You blink.

She blinks.

Yelena freezes mid-sip of her iced coffee.

“…Girlfriend?” You turn to Natasha, eyes huge.

“You called me your girlfriend.” You whisper, stunned. “You- you said it first.”

Natasha’s mouth opens like she’s going to deny it, or roll it back, or make a joke. 

But then she meets your eyes and suddenly, she doesn’t want to take it back.

“Yeah.” She says, softly. “I did.”

You smile, full and wide and suddenly neither of you can pretend anymore.

You grab her collar and pull her in for a kiss, all soft grinning lips and gentle hands, months of tension dissolving into finally. Fanny’s yaps in excitement, shooting up off the couch so she doesn’t get squished.

“OH COME ON!” Yelena cries from the kitchen, throwing a pillow in your general direction. “I LIVE HERE! Kind of!”

You and Natasha don’t stop.

Fanny, in response, does exactly what she’s trained to do when she hears distress.

She lets out her most tragic howl of woe and flops dramatically at Yelena’s feet, whining and pawing at the floor like she’s in mourning.

“WHAT?! NO!” Yelena shouts. “Do not turn my own dog against me!”

Fanny continues whimpering. “This is emotional warfare.” Yelena mutters. “I hope you both choke on each other’s happiness... or tongue, whichever works.”

You finally break the kiss, laughing breathlessly into Natasha’s shoulder.

“We broke her.” You mumble, smiling into Natasha’s own.

“She’ll be fine.” Natasha says, tucking her nose against your cheek. “She loves being dramatic. It’s her cardio.”

You lean back, still curled beside her while Yelena slumps onto the couch across from you, defeated.

Fanny promptly climbs into her lap and she gives in, petting her once and sighs.

“She was never my dog.” Yelena mutters.

Natasha smirks. “No. She just loves being a drama queen. Like you.”

You glance at her, catching that smile, still warm from the kiss, the slip and the fact that she hasn’t corrected it once.

“So… girlfriend?”

She squeezes your hand.

“Yeah. If you want.”

“I really want.”

Yelena groans.

Fanny howls again.

[hawkinsbnbg]

Steve had this kind of stray puppy thing going on that Wayne was reluctant to give him a shovel talk. And he didn't even do anything! All he did was sat there with his perfect posture—straight back, hands politely folded on his lap, big earnest eyes, and calm breathing. He was all good-mannered and nervous smiles, which was both annoying and endearing.

Now, Wayne wouldn't call himself soft or lenient when it came to securing his nephew's happiness. But maybe, he'd mellowed out because of old age. Or maybe, he'd seen how Steve always brought out the best of Eddie, making him the kind of man that Wayne was proud of.

Either way, Wayne didn't have the heart to threaten Steve with something truly malicious, so he just skipped right over it and ended the talk with a well practiced stern look that made the Harrington boy cower just fine.

Later that night, when Eddie came home with a goofy, lovesick smile, Wayne couldn't help but ask, "Anyone given ya the talk, yet?"

"What talk?" Eddie plopped down beside him on the couch and took a long swig from the bottle of Guinness he'd just retrieved from the fridge. A metaphorical lightbulb went off above his head when Wayne gave him a raised brow. "Ah yes, The Talk. 'Course. I'd be offended if they didn't!"

Wayne hummed and continued nursing his lukewarm beer while watching the TV, ignoring Eddie's curious look that slowly turned mischievous.

"What? I just left you guys alone for fifteen minutes and you already adopted him?"

"He's your boyfriend, Ed, not some stray," Wayne responded gruffly, but Eddie could easily hear the exasperation in his flat tone.

"Jesus," Eddie cackled, slapping his knee as if he couldn't believe it. "You're worse than Hopper, old man!"

This time, Wayne just stopped pretending to not care and smirked at his nephew's nativity.

"Ya really think it took that man longer than me?"

Eddie paused and let out a gasp, eyes widening as realization dawned on him.

"He threatened to hunt me down if I dare to hurt Steve." Eddie slapped his forehead. "No way it'd take him months to adopt baby Steve on sight!"

Wayne nodded, not so smugly. "Now you're talkin'."

He'd eat his pickup truck if Hopper didn't also immediately yield under those puppy eyes. The Harrington might not be the best kind of people, but Wayne had to admit that their son was a sweet soul with a big heart. No thanks to them, of course.

"Anyway," Eddie smirked, nudging at his shoulder teasingly. "You're not distracting me from the fact that you consider Steve family now."

Wayne shrugged, unbothered. Family was family. He'd lived long enough to know it had nothing to do with blood relation.

"'Course, he's your boy."

And though neither of them said it aloud, they both agreed that Steve had been a Munson since the day he saved Eddie's life and continued to make it better with his presence alone.

"Thank you," Eddie said softly a moment later when they were about to go to bed.

The only good thing that came out of the whole 'earthquake' incident was their new apartment, which was afforded by the government's compensation money. And even so, if Wayne was allowed to choose again, he'd rather they still lived in their shoebox of a trailer than watch his nephew suffer from blatant PTSD that none of the kids were willing to talk about and this town's blind hatred.

"He makes you happy and you love him. That's what matters to me." Wayne shrugged, ignoring Eddie's blush and sputtering N– No, I'm not!

Before Eddie could try to argue against a moot point, the phone rang and he sprinted toward it to snatch the receiver up as if fearing it'd disappear otherwise.

"Hey, sweetheart," Eddie said breathlessly, looking far too smitten for someone who'd just refused to admit he was in love.

Shaking his head, Wayne decided to leave his nephew be for now. The way he saw it, Eddie wouldn't be able to hold back for long. Not with someone like Steve Harrington.

[imtaashu]

Invisible String🪡

Inspired by: “Invisible String” – Taylor Swift

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Setting: Post-Endgame, modern-day Brooklyn

Summary: You’ve always believed in fate, but Bucky never did—until he starts noticing all the invisible threads that led him straight to you.

Genre: Soft fluff, fate, slow burn warmth, soulmates-vibe

Word Count: ~1.3k

Author Notes✍️ : this one is like a warm cup of tea with your name on it. i wrote this with taylor’s lyrics echoing in my heart and bucky’s soul tangled in gold thread. ☁️🩷

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

“Time, curious time / gave me no compasses, gave me no signs…”

But somehow, it led him here…

Bucky never used to believe in fate.

Not after Hydra. Not after the Winter Soldier. Not after everything that taught him the world was chaos and survival was coincidence.

But then he met you Or—maybe he didn’t meet you. Maybe he always knew you.

Maybe it was a thousand little things pulling him toward you across years and cities and silence.

Like an invisible string.

Tied from his heart to yours.

⸻

It starts with something stupid.

You hand him a book in the common room one afternoon. He flips it open and finds his own name underlined on page 17.

“What the hell?” he asks.

You laugh. “That’s from years ago. Before I even knew you. I used to highlight characters with names I liked.”

His name. His.

He doesn’t say anything, but later, he folds the page corner down like a secret.

⸻

Then it’s music.

You hum exactly the same melody he used to whistle as a kid. One day, he stops you mid-hum and stares.

“What?” you laugh.

“Where’d you learn that song?”

You shrug “I don’t know. My grandma used to sing it to me.”

His grandma did too.

⸻

“Do you believe in fate?” you ask him once, lying with your head in his lap on the fire escape, city lights flickering below.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t think it’s kind of crazy? That out of every coffee shop in Brooklyn, I picked the one you were hiding in that day?”

“You were loud,” he mutters.

“You were grumpy.”

“You ordered your coffee wrong and then said ‘oops’ like it was cute.”

You grin. “You remembered.”

He looks down at you. Soft. Barely breathing.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I remember everything about you.”

⸻

There are photos now.

Polaroids tucked into his wallet. One in his book. Another under his pillow, where he swears you’ll never find it. (You do. You smile. You don’t say anything.)

He gets clingier the more time passes.

Not possessive. Just grateful.

Like he can’t believe the universe handed him something good and is just waiting to take it back.

⸻

One night, he’s quiet. Too quiet.

You trace circles on the metal of his arm. “What’s going on in that head?”

He shakes his head. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

He hesitates. Then finally, softly “I think I’ve loved you forever. I just didn’t know your name yet.”

You stop breathing. And then you kiss him.

Not like a first kiss.

Like a memory.

Like coming home.

⸻

You both start collecting little threads.

Literal ones.

You find a gold string in a bookstore binding and tie it around your wrist. He notices. Doesn’t say anything—but you wake up the next morning and there’s a matching string on his.

“No one’s gonna believe how soft you are,” you tease.

“Good,” he says. “I’m not soft for anyone else.”

⸻

Sometimes he stares at you like you’re not real.

Not in a weird way. In a stars are real and so are you kind

One day you catch him whispering something to himself after you walk away from the kitchen.

“What was that?” you ask.

He clears his throat. Shrugs “I just… I think maybe the string showed up because I finally stopped running from where it was trying to take me.”

You blink. “You mean… me?”

He nods. His voice is barely a whisper.

“You.”

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

🏷️ tagging - @surebutwhy 🤟🏻

───────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ─────────

wanna be tagged in all the clingy!bucky chaos and emotional destruction? tell me and i got you ⛓️‍💥♥️

[yuh13lo]

So pretty | matt sturniolo

Matt didn’t know when it happened exactly.

Maybe it was the way she always made sure everyone had their favorite snack before a road trip. Or maybe it was how she’d crinkle her nose when she laughed too hard at a dumb joke he made. Maybe it was every time she wore that one hoodie of his and didn’t realize she looked better in it than he ever did.

But somewhere between being “just best friends” and her falling asleep on his shoulder at every movie night, Matt fell stupidly, hopelessly, absolutely in love with her.

And he hadn’t told a soul.

Not even Nick or Chris, which was rare because Matt didn’t really keep things from them. But this? This felt fragile. Like saying it out loud might make it shatter or disappear. And he couldn’t lose her—not even a little.

It was a rainy Tuesday in LA when it finally hit him how deep he was.

They were at the Sturniolo apartment, just the two of them, sitting on the living room floor surrounded by snacks, thrifted records, and a mostly-finished puzzle that she refused to give up on.

“Okay,” she said, chewing on a Red Vine and squinting down at the table. “You have to admit this puzzle piece looks like a deformed duck.”

Matt glanced up from his phone and looked at her—really looked. Hair up in a claw clip, hoodie sleeves pushed over her palms, socks mismatched on purpose. She was glowing without even trying.

“You’re so pretty,” he said without thinking.

Her head snapped toward him. “What?”

Matt blinked, immediately panicking. Did I say that out loud? Oh god. I said that out loud.

He backpedaled fast. “I—I meant the puzzle! Like, the colors! It’s—uh, aesthetically pretty. Like you know, a nice design—”

But she was smiling now. That soft, small, kind of knowing smile that made his stomach twist.

“Matt,” she said gently. “You think I’m pretty?”

His face flushed instantly, ears burning. “I—yeah. I mean—obviously. You’re—you’re really pretty. I’ve thought that for a while, actually.”

She looked at him for a second, unreadable. Then she tilted her head, voice quieter this time.

“Do you have a crush on me?”

He froze.

And then, because there was no going back now, he let out a breath and nodded. “Yeah. I do. I have for… honestly, kind of a long time.”

The room felt weirdly quiet, like even the rain outside was waiting to hear what she’d say.

But she didn’t say anything at first.

She just leaned closer and rested her chin on his shoulder, the way she always did when they were watching movies.

“I was wondering how long it’d take you to admit it,” she said with a smile. “I think you’re pretty too.”

Matt stared at her, dumbfounded, heart pounding so loud he was sure she could hear it.

“Wait. Seriously?”

She nodded, picking up the puzzle piece and nudging his hand with it. “Now help me find this deformed duck’s neck before I kiss you and forget what I’m doing.”

He grinned—full teeth, full blush, full heart on display.

And for the first time in weeks, he didn’t feel like he had to hide it.

Because she was his best friend.

And she was also his crush.

And maybe—just maybe—she could be his everything.

[kvntonq]

𖤐 — mission: pads and patience

pairing - eddie alden ft. fem!reader

summary - what happens when you ask eddie to buy your pads during the red month?

contents - fluff, period talking, suggestive, dramatic eddie, playful banters, established relationship.

words count -  1493 words

zayn's note - heii guys!! sorry for not posting regularly. I just finished my final exams and yippee I'm glad to be back!! hope you guys will enjoy this and more fics will come soon!! <3

Eddie Alden wasn't supposed to be the kind of man who settles down.

He was the punchline to half of your stories. You've heard the stories—hell, you knew some of the firsthand when you two were just workmates. He was the man your coworkers warned you about: silver-tongued, the coworker who never turned down a party, always five seconds from convincing someone into bed. The man who gave advice no one should follow and got away with it because he looked like that and smiled like sin.

But somewhere along the line—maybe during one of those late nights when you were both tipsy and tired of pretending—Eddie stopped looking at other people the way he looked at you.

And he never looked back.

He's still dramatic. Still flirty. Still hopelessly, Eddie. But the late-night phone calls are only ever for you now. His toothbrush lives beside yours. And when he makes coffee in the morning, he doesn't even ask anymore—he just adds a splash of vanilla creamer, two sugars, and kisses your shoulder as he hands it to you.

The infamous womanizer Eddie Alden is someone's else. 

Rain taps gently at the window as you lie curled up on the couch, wrapped in your thickest blanket. A heating pad hums on your stomach, the cramps coming in steady waves. You've given up trying to move. Even scrolling on your phone feels like too much.

Then, your screen lights up.

Eddie: On my way home. Need anything, gorgeous?

You smile, even through the discomfort. Your uterus is staging a mutiny and the pad stash under the sink is depressingly empty.

You type back: Can you grab some pads? Overnight ones with wings pls :3

Three dots bubble on the screen and you could swear it takes him only THREE seconds to reply.

Eddie: OH NO. THAT MEANS WE CAN'T FUCK?!

You choke out a laugh so hard you nearly dislodge the heating pad. Immediately, you hit the call button.

He picks up on the first ring with a gasp. “Sweetheart,” he says, like he's delivering a eulogy. “Say it ain’t so.”

“Hi to you too,” you say, already laughing.

“Tell me I misread that text. Say it was a typo. Say you meant ‘peach wine’ and autocorrect betrayed us.”

“I meant pads.”

He groans. “I had plans tonight. And not just plans, babe. Schemes. Elaborate, x-rated choreography. And now… ruined.”

“They were never confirmed plans,” you say through your giggles.

“They were spiritual plans,” he argues, “plans of the soul. I was going to light candles, touch your thighs like a gentleman, and do that thing with my tongue—”

“Eddie!”

“—and now, because of your cruel and vengeful uterus, I must live in sorrow. And buy pads.”

You press your face into the pillow, shaking with laughter. The fact that you could actually imagine his reaction through the phone call is hilarious. 

“Do you know what it's like to walk into the feminine hygiene aisle with an erection and a broken heart? I'm a man on the edge.”

“You're a man getting pads for his girlfriend. Be brave. Plus, I'm not dying, you know,” you say once you can breathe again. “It's just my period.”

“Exactly!” he replies. “It's the just that hurts the most.”

You groan playfully.

A pause. Then his voice softens just a little. “The same purple pack, right? Overnight. Wings.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks, baby.” 

You're still smiling long after the call ends. The cramps are annoying, your body is betraying you, and the weather sucks—but Eddie's coming home. With pads. And probably way too many snacks.

That's enough.

You must doze off, because the next thing you hear is the soft clicks of the front door and the familiar sound of Eddie kicking his boots.

“Sleeping Beauty,” he calls, voice low and fond. “Your knight returns. Armed with provisions.”

You stir, blinking blearily, as he steps into the living room with the dramatic flair of a man who has never entered quietly in his life. Rain clings to his jacket, and his hair is damp, pushed back like he just stepped out of a rom-com poster.

He pulls out the purple pack like he's unsheathing Excalibur. “Ta-da!”

You squint at the package. “You really got the right ones?”

“Do you doubt me?” he asks, mock-offended. “I walked into that aisle with the confidence of a man who once had a threesome in the office stairwell and came out reborn as your humble pad-bearer.”

You laugh but your arms are already stretching open. It's automatic now—whenever Eddie's around, you want him close. Touch is like oxygen these days.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Ohhh, look at that,” he says, pointing with dramatic flair. “Cling activated. Look at you. Just a little puddle of neediness.”

“Shut up and hug me.”

“Needy,” he whispers, shaking his head like you've disappointed him deeply. “Desperate. Pathetic.”

But he's already walking over. Already dropping the bag on the floor and crouching down to your level. He slides an arm around your waist and pulls you in like he was born for it—like every cell in his body exists just to do this.

His scent hits you instantly. Rain. Leather. The lingering trace of his cologne.

“God, you're cold,” you murmur against his shoulder.

“God, you're clingy,” he retorts, but his hand is already at the back of your head, cradling it like he's soothing something fragile.

“You love it.”

“I do,” he admits easily. “Sick little koala.”

You breathe him in. He holds you tighter and neither of you moves for a while.

A soft, tired sigh leaves your lips. “Ugh, my stomach's killing me.”

Immediately, Eddie's hand rubs slow, calming circles against your back.

“I know, baby,” he says, quieter now. “I got you. We're gonna make it better, alright?”

His voice is warm and low, almost reverent. He presses a kiss to the top of your head and stays for a long beat before whispering, “Stay here. I'm getting your chamomile tea and snacks.”

Then he disappears into the kitchen.

You hear rustling, the fridge opening, and the kettle clicking on. When he returns, it's with a mug of chamomile tea, a snack bag full of chocolate, and—God help you—a duck-shaped heat pack.

“Why is it a duck?” you ask, your eyebrows raised.

“Because love makes you stupid,” he says. “Now take it. Don't say I never spoil you.”

You trade the old heating pad for the duck and the moment your hand wraps around the tea, you sigh. “You're being very sweet today.”

“I'm always sweet,” he says, sitting beside you and pulling you gently against his chest. “You just usually notice it after orgasms.”

You snort. “So noble. So selfless.”

“I know,” he whispers into your hair. “I should get a medal for being denied sex and still being this amazing.”

“You're so brave.”

“I am.”

Hours later, the sky darkened. The rain is softer now, a hush over the city. You’ve migrated to bed in slow, sleepy steps, your body still heavy with cramps, your heart just a little lighter.

Eddie slips under the covers first, stretching out with a content sigh, then opens his arms in invitation. “Come here, you bleeding goddess.”

You groan and crawl into his arms, finding your place against his bare chest like muscle memory. His skin is warm, his touch soft as he runs his fingers down your spine.

“Better?” he asks.

“Mm. A little.”

“I’d offer a back massage, but I fear I’d get too turned on.”

“Jesus, Eddie."

He grins against your hair. “I’m suffering, baby. I can’t even lie. But I’m being good.”

You tilt your head up to look at him. “You’re not mad?”

“Mad?” He cups your cheek. “Of course not. I mean, am I aroused to the point of spiritual crisis? Yes. But you’re bleeding. And in pain. And you still let me hold you like this. That’s more than enough.”

You blink. His voice is quieter now, the playfulness dialed down to something real.

“Seriously,” he adds. “I used to wake up alone next to people I didn’t even like. And now I get to wake up beside the love of my life. Period or not. That’s a win.”

You swallow the lump in your throat and press your face into his chest.

He lets a beat of silence pass, then says, “Still gonna write tragic poetry in my Notes app about it.”

You groan. “I knew you couldn’t help yourself.”

“It’s called ‘Red Tide of My Despair’—”

You squeak, pushing at him. “No.”

“A River of Lust, A Dam of Sadness—”

“No, Eddie—”

“The Crimson Abyss of Blue Balls—”

“Good. Night.”

He chuckles, then settles down again, arms locked tight around you, mouth brushing your temple.

You feel him relax as you drift. Safe. Warm. Held.

Even with the cramps. Even with the inconvenience. Even with the duck-shaped heat pack between you.

He’s here.

And he's yours.

reblogs and feedbacks are appreciated!!

dividers by: @dollywons

tags!! @princessanglophile @themareverine @wchswift @dimlylittorch @mcrdvcks @briseroyawritingsblog @howlettsangel @flowersforbucky @lubdubology @xxladymjxx @sweetverine @tezooks @loganismybodyguard [lmk if you wanna be added or removed!!]

[sexyandcringe]

As much as you love to spend time with Suna Rintarou, you hate asking for it.

And as much as you hate asking for it, you still catch yourself tapping on his name, texting him to let him know you are free for the day because your friends ditched you.

Y/N: Yo, my girls went to war and left me alone and broken (they ditched me), wanna bangout?

Y/N: I meANT HANGOUT***

Y/N: We can bang too, though. Later.

It takes him around 10 minutes to reply, just as you’re about to hop in the shower.

Rin: Sure, let’s do that

Rin: When are you coming?

Y/N: I’ll take a quick shower and i’ll be over?

Rin: Bet. Text me when you done.

You leave a thumbs up reaction and head into the shower, already excited by the idea of meeting up with Rintarou.

It’s been a year now — this messy, no-strings, fwb thing you’ve got going; And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like him, but these kind of things never end well for you, so you keep it casual, hit him up when you need some company (or a good fuck). it’s not like you don’t have a life; you’ve got your friends, your books to read, a job to do. You’re good on your own. 

You know Rintarou is not one for anything serious, but he is a good guy overall. He doesn’t just reduce you to a fuck-buddy, he sees you as a friend and cares for you, like friends do, but that’s all you’ll ever be to him. A friend and a good fuck.

That doesn’t stop you from parking in front of his building, walking up to the third floor stairs because his lift is always fucking broken, and knocking on his door with a wide smile and a basket full of snacks.

“Hey loser,” you greet, holding up the basket, "Got you some snacks.” 

His face remains stoic, unimpressed as he stares at you, “Fruits are not snacks, Y/N.”

Your only reply is pushing him aside and stepping inside, putting the basket on his kitchen table like you own the place. Suna Rintarou may be a professional athlete, but you really have to put up a fight with him for him to eat some fruits, and this is one of your battle tactics.

“I climbed, like, a thousand stairs. gimme some water.” you demand, flopping down in a chair around the table,  playing with the little cat statue in the middle of it. The one you got him when you were in Milan — black and white, scowling with a tiny green collar. It looks just like him and you still think it’s one of the cutest gifts you got him.

He scoffs but heads to the fridge anyway, grabbing a bottle and pouring it into your heart-shaped glass. the one you made him swear not to let anyone else touch. it was your heart-shaped glass that you bought for yourself, and since Rintarou’s apartment is like a second home to you, leaving it here was just as natural as breathing. 

“Am i your slave now?” he grumbles, setting the glass in front of you.

You grin, “You love being my slave.” 

Rintarou swears he is going to wipe that stupid grin off your face soon. Tonight.

There is always something to talk about when you are with him.

The latest drama about his new manager, your neighbour who you are 100% sure is growing weed in their backyard, your coworker who might actually be satan in disguise; and when you run out of shit to say, you end up watching anime together, stealing each other’s snacks in-between kisses. All normal, absolutely nothing weird about kissing your homies on the lips, you tell yourself, especially if said homie is a complete hot mess of an athlete with the body of a Greek god and the most annoyingly perfect hands you’ve ever seen.

So every time you hang out with Rintarou, you end up with your limbs tangled with his, sharing heavy breaths at the rhythm of his heartbeat, and while you feel so full of him in those moments, he always leaves a hole bigger than before in the depth of your soul.

You’ve lost count of how many guys dumped your miserable ass with some variation of “you talk about suna too much”. Like you could just turn your heart off for him on command.

Not that any of them gave a shit about you either — most of them just wanted a warm body for the night, which, honestly, is probably all you’re good for.

Sometimes you wonder if Rin also sees you just as a piece of meat.

Maybe he’s just really good at acting like a friend.

You tell your friends that it’s just physical and there’s no way you’d fall for someone like him, but you can’t tell them that the idea of him seeing you just as a good fuck and nothing more hurts you more than it should do.

“i’m going to italy in a few weeks,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed next to your half-asleep body, a strawberry lollipop lazily tucked between his lips.

You remove your sheets and sit up slowly before replying: “Okay.”

It’s going to be okay. It’s not the first time he’s gone out of the country, and he always comes back to you, be it in a month or two. You’ve done it before, you can do it this time too. It’s not a big-

“I don’t know when i’ll be back.”

Silence.

Usually, you’re good at hiding your feelings from him, keeping them caged under your throat, unspoken truths that you gulp down like heavy crumbs, but today you are doing a terrible job at that.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” It slips out a little too rough for your liking, a little too desperate.

“I got a sponsorship for an italian team and I want to see where this takes me. If it doesn’t work out in Italy I may shift to Spain or Sweden like Kageyama. I don’t think I’ll be back for a while.” He quickly glances at you, as if scared to meet your eyes. fucking coward.

You sit in silence, letting his words sink, letting the emotions stabilize and settle down for once.

You nod, “I see, i get it.”

You don’t. You don’t get it at all, any of it, but you can’t let him see you this weak.

You pick up your things, from the underwear thrown across the room to the toothbrush you left in his bathroom. You kiss him one last time, a simple peck on the lips - soft, quick, nothing like you want it to be, but you hope it will leave his lips burning, and you wave him goodbye, trying your best not to look at the broken expression he’s giving you. You can’t.

Driving back to your house feels sour and empty and when you open the door to your room the first thing you see is a small polaroid on your nightstand, a picture of Rin lying in the grass, smiling wide, while Luffy, his corgi, lays atop of him, snuggling his nose in it’s owner’s neck, and then there’s you, a blur of hands and open mouth at the edge of the frame because you couldn’t make it in the picture. Yet, it was one of the prettiest pictures you’ve ever taken of Rintarou.

You stare at it long enough to feel your heart cracking bit by bit.

And you break.

Reblogs are really appreciated!

[archivesctrccio]

religion was taught.

୨ৎ pairing.. butcherqueen x reader.

୨ৎ warnings.. bad ending(?), religious guilt, major character death.

୨ৎ words.. 614.

✎ᝰ. jinx notes.. I don't know what I was planning with this one? 😿 but I liked it. I wanted to write something very dramatic, but short.

In a town that smelled of smoke and old confessions, built on the bones of women who dared too much, girls were taught to sew silence into their skin. To cross their legs. Bow their heads.

And never—never—question authority.

You lived like a ghost inside your father’s chapel. Your mother had died giving birth—"a blood price," the priest had once muttered, drunk and grieving. You never forgot it.

By day, you prayed. By night, you bit your tongue until it bled.

Then came Lottie—the poet with ink-stained fingers and eyes that had seen too much. She moved into the old cottage near the edge of town, a place people avoided. They said the trees whispered there. She heard it. She didn't care. She just wrote.

Lottie met you during a sermon. You looked up from your hymnbook and she was staring—not the way men did, but as if she were a story worth reading.

You spoke for the first time under the old willow near the cemetery.

She asked you what you prayed for.

You lied.

She didn’t press.

You met in secret. In fields. In attics. In the hush between heartbeats.

Her lips tasted like ink and defiance.

She kissed you softly at first, like asking a question.

Then harder, like demanding the answer. And your whole body shook with guilt.

“You don’t understand,” you said, eyes wet. “I’m not supposed to want this.”

“But you do,” Lottie whispered.

And then came Shauna.

No one remembered her arriving. One day the pews were empty, the next, she sat in the back, watching. Her beauty was impossible—wrong in a way that made your heart stop. She smiled with teeth too sharp for this world.

you knew what she was the moment your eyes met.

The devil didn’t wear horns. She wore torn jeans and grief like perfume. She looks like someone you might have loved in another life, or maybe this one. Her beauty was unnatural—wrong in a way that made the hairs on your neck rise.

Her smile wasn’t kind. It was knowing.

“You think your shame is holy,” Shauna said to you, the first night you were alone. “It’s just fear dressed in a cross.”

you began to love them both. Lottie made you feel alive. Shauna made you feel like fire. Between their arms, you were something more than a priest’s quiet daughter. You were whole. But nothing that holy survives in a town like theirs.

One morning, Lottie’s cottage burned. They said it was an accident. It wasn’t.

Shauna found you trembling in the ruins, smelling of ash and prayers.

“I tried to be good,” you sobbed. “I tried to kill the part of me that loved her.”

Shauna touched her cheek. “You don’t kill love. You bury it alive.”

The next Sunday, you walked to the altar while your father preached. You looked at the crucifix, then turned to the congregation.

“I am not sorry,” you said.

Your father struck you before you finished the sentence.

You woke up in the chapel’s basement, tied and shivering. There were prayers above you—shouted, desperate. And there was Shauna, sitting in the dark with glowing eyes.

“I can save you,” Shauna said. “But it won’t be the kind of salvation they preach about.”

“I lost my soul,” you whispered, as if it were a secret, or a sin. "the day i choose love."

So you took Shauna's hand.

By morning, the church was nothing but embers.

And if you walk near the ruins now, the wind sometimes carries a poem:

"She kissed the devil to be free,

and burned the cross that caged her heart.

God never came. But she did."

taglist: @moesthoughts

[simp-for-love]

Mattheo sees his child for the first time

A/N: I was just thinking about dad Mattheo, and, oops, a small blurb? Drabble? Idk, just something came out.

Warnings: Brief references to trauma, emotional vulnerability, cursing words

Word count: ~670

The room hums with quiet voices and shuffling feet, but Mattheo hears none of it. Just the pounding in his ears. Just the weight of his own breath.

He stands there like a statue, leather jacket still on, fists clenched at his sides. His gaze is locked on the bundle in white. He just can't take his eyes off them. So fucking small. Wrapped in white, silent in the nurse's arms. Breathing. Alive.

And his.

He doesn't go to them. He can't. His feet might as well be cemented to the floor. Because if he gets too close, if he touches them...

The nurse says his name, soft and coaxing. Asks if he wants to hold them.

He doesn't answer. He just can't.

He was never a fearful man. On the contrary, others were afraid of him. But for the first time in a very long time, Mattheo Riddle is afraid. He is terrified.

Not of blood or death or the enemies who whisper his name like a curse. Not of Azkaban. Not of his family legacy. Not even of the darkness that claws up his spine.

No — he's afraid of this.

Of that tiny life.

Of touching something so clean, so pure, so impossibly untouched by the shadows he drags behind him. Terrified that his hands — hands that have broken bones, cast spells meant to harm, written blood-soaked promises — are not worthy. That if he just touches this child, something in them will break. That his darkness might seep into this little, perfect thing and ruin them forever.

You watch him from the bed, exhaustion in your limbs but love and soft understanding in your eyes. He can feel it, warm and undeserved. It burns worse than any dark magic spell.

He's done too much. Hurt too many. He never thought he deserved you in the first place. Not really. That's been his guilt to carry since the first time he let you sleep on his chest, wondering what kind of broken soul lets someone like you near. But this, this is even worse.

He's not supposed to have this.

Not you. Not this baby.

Not a future.

But your gaze, your love for him — it always tells him otherwise. That he's more than enough for you.

Then the baby stirs and opens their eyes.

Dark hazel, just like his.

It hits him like a Bludger to the chest, like a punch to the gut. Like someone took every shield he's ever built and shattered it in a second. His knees almost give. He swears, quietly, under his breath — a broken, soft sound.

They have his eyes.

Fuck.

They're beautiful. Perfect. And they're his. Part of him. A piece of something good buried beneath all the ruin.

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Just this low and dull ache in his chest. He doesn't know how something can be so small and still make him feel bigger than anything he's ever felt.

A nurse carefully steps forward and places the baby in his arms, and Mattheo panics, truly panics. He stiffens. Every muscle locks. He's holding them like they'll shatter if he breathes too hard. His heart's pounding, loud enough he swears they can hear it. His breath hitches unevenly.

This baby weighs almost nothing. But in his arms, they might as well be the whole fucking world.

He's held cursed artifacts, ancient grimoires, treasures men would kill for. But none of it has ever compared to the impossible weight of this tiny child in his arms. Not because they're heavy — but because they matter. More than anything ever has.

They make a small sound — not a cry, just... a soft sleepy noise.

He nearly falls apart.

You whisper his name. "Mattheo."

He looks at you with something wrecked in his eyes. Then back at them, like he can't believe that it is real.

The baby sighs against his chest, warm and trusting. Their hand twitches, curling loosely into the leather of his jacket. And he just... stands there.

Shaking. Silent. Changed.

"Shh, I've got you," he whispers, the promise rasped into the soft crown of their head. It isn't a threat, not this time — it's a vow. One that's heavier than any oath he's ever made.

[rpwprpwprpwprw]

Disclaimer: okay … this will be long. If you want to read a emocional rambling with personal details about my life (because i apparently like to over share) then stay with me.

• So for starters, i was craving for something like this for two weeks or more. To be simple, i miss namjoon a lot and i miss some depth too. I really enjoy smut of course, but i loooove this: the build up, the yearning, the emocional depth and some layers. Like a really well cooked meal that makes you think “damn… this tastes really nice”.

• I have to repeat myself as i say this for the million time but it is very hard to find fanfics with namjoon. Like i’ve been looking for weeks… (i have some saved to read, but i mean new ones) and there’s nothing. The difference between other members are absurd, the attention is different inside the own fandom. So there’s that…. but when i find something like this…. i just can’t let go yk? it keeps reverberating in my soul.

• The writing deserves an exclusive topic cause what is this? I’m talking about real quality content, well written, thoughtful and raw. This goes beyond fanfic, for me this represents something more. Because someone can explain to me how @cigarettesuga knows all those details about the breakup i had when i was just 19. I had to stop the reading a few times just to look to nowhere and repeat to myself “damn, that’s exactly how i felt or that’s exactly how it sounded”. So i will quote some parts cause i mean… you’re a real poet or something. But i genuinely feel the need to dig inside an authors mind to know exactly how that person perceives reality. Like, people are just living their lives meanwhile there’s someone noticing everything!!!! the shifts in the air, the micro expressions and unspoken feelings… i just want to sit with that person and talk for hours about anything and everything. Before my quotes, let me praise your writing baby cause i’m really admiring you right now, as a writer and as a human being. The flow… you took me by the hands, my breathing was so heavy, my eyebrows furrowed… i mean is this what you wanted from me? I felt EVERYTHING. The yearning, the bass, the loud music and sweaty bodies… i was there. I know it’s easy to connect when there’s similarities but it’s more than that.

——- QUOTES!!!!!!

“she'd dyed her hair, moved apartments, started journaling again like she was a teenager with a heartbreak playlist” — ✋😔 that’s embarrassing stop exposing me fr give me the credits

“like it hadn't ended in the kind of silence that made her doubt the entire thing ever happened” — 🫥 no comments

“just another reminder that he was still good at walking away” — this one is actually nice to comment KKKKKKK so this song i linked here is one of my favorites and i listened A LOT when i broke up and let me quote the lyrics real quick:

“Tell me what I got to prove

I don't mean nothing to you (I hope you're hurting)

You ain't got nothing to say (while I was working)

You're too good at walking away (I hope you're hurting)”

😳😁 so yeah…. my life is made of connections all around.

"you were vulnerable. that's brave. and it doesn't make you desperate, it makes you human. but let's also not pretend that this isn't who he's always been

—someone who disappears when you hand him something fragile."

“amara continued, voice gentler now. "you don't have to chase someone who doesn't know what to do with your heart. it's not your job to teach him how to hold it."

LIKE WHAT THE HELL YOU GUYS CANT TALK SHIT ABOUT FANFICTION IN FRONT OF ME OKAY?

but men….this was needed it. My friend told me something similar this week, so again… connections. I need Amara, like please make her real and put her on a plane to Brazil.

"this feeling. the ache. the shame. you won't always be this girl who sent the text and got ignored." - this is too personal i have to delete this review kkk

“you're allowed to have things that used to belong to both of you” - stop reading my journal please that’s call privacy invasion. That part stuck with me cause i’m obsessed with music and yes indeed i introduced him to a singer and he got to the concert without me with other girl (which was my best friend that now is his girlfriend BUT ANYWAY) i guess you realize i can relate to the feeling…….

——————

• that ALL being said, the smut part was awesome too, like crying during sex cause i missed you SO BAD dear god merge our souls together.

• another disclaimer: i don’t miss my ex and i don’t want him back i promise! this is just a big lore in my life, a piece of my personal museum and i just like to over share to strangers. for no reason.

•My apologies to @cigarettesuga because i’m sure that they’re not expecting this bible and you don’t have to read it if you don’t want 😭 i just HAD to express my feelings

——— The end, if you got until here i don’t know leave some 💜 below KKKKKKKKKKKKKK i’m joking thank you 🫶🏻🌹💌

(forgive any grammar mistakes i’m too tired to fix anything)

꒰꒰⠀⠀⠀text me when you get lonely⠀✸⠀(⠀⠀knj⠀⠀)

pairing: non-celeb!ex!namjoon x f!ex!reader

genre: exes-to-lovers, angst, bit of romance, slow-burn, smut

warnings: explicit consensual sex, graphic oral sex (fem receiving), face ridding implied, overstimulation, rough sex, hair pulling, fingering, slight breath control (hand on throat, not choking), cum on body, praise & degradation mix (if you squit your eyes), possessive behavior, size kink, deep penetration, leg on shoulder position, wet/messy sex, begging, post-orgasm sensitivity, soft dom!namjoon, desperation and emotional vulnerability during sex, unprotected sex , aggressive kissing, marking (bites), mild semi-public sexual tension, emphasis in mutual pleasure and yearning (let me know if i'm forgetting something)

word count: 14.3 k

summary: after a night out stirs old feelings, a late-night text opens a door (y/n) swore she’d locked for good. when fate brings them face-to-face at a packed underground gig, sparks fly, wounds reopen, and the line between anger and desire blurs. one reckless night later, they confront what’s left between them—no promises, just raw truth and the fragile hope of second chances.

lu's note: this is officially my longest one-shot ever—and i loved every messy, tender, smut-filled second of writing it. 🖤

i’ll be shifting focus to finish chapter 3 of opposites don’t attract, they destroy (finally, i know lmao) so if content slows down a little, that’s why!! thank you for always being patient with me and letting me take my time with these chaotic little love stories

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ masterlist⠀ | ⠀taglist⠀ | ⠀more to read

the music was loud, someone had spilled beer on the floor, and (y/n) was clutching a half-warm drink like it was her lifeline. she was supposed to be having fun. that had been the plan—get dressed up, laugh too hard, maybe flirt with someone cute and harmless just to feel something again.

but then steph, all glitter lids and tipsy honesty, leaned over and tilted her head like a curious cat.

“hey... didn’t you used to come here with namjoon?”

and just like that, it was over.

it wasn’t the question itself—it was the way the energy shifted. the air changed. the people around them—friends, old classmates, acquaintances that still followed her on instagram out of habit—went quiet in that careful way. like everyone expected her to shatter.

(y/n) smiled. it wasn’t fake, exactly. just... practiced.

“we’re not together anymore,” she said, tipping her cup back. the alcohol went down rough. “it’s been a while.”

steph’s eyes widened. “shit, sorry—i didn’t mean to—”

“it’s fine,” (y/n) cut in, voice light. too light. “i mean, you didn’t know.”

there was a beat of silence. one of her friends, amara, looked like she wanted to say something comforting, but thought better of it. someone else cleared their throat. the music kept playing but it felt like it had gotten quieter.

no one asked anything else.

the hallway outside the bar was dim, lit only by a flickering exit sign and the vague hum of someone’s vape cloud still hanging in the air. (y/n) leaned back against the peeling brick wall, cold seeping into her spine through her thin shirt, and took a slow breath in.

not to cry.

just to breathe.

the night buzzed behind her—voices, basslines, laughter. it all felt far away now, like she was watching it from underwater. her buzz had dulled. or maybe soured. she couldn't tell anymore.

she hated that a name—just a name—could still change the temperature of her blood.

a year. it had been a year. she’d dyed her hair, moved apartments, started journaling again like she was a teenager with a heartbreak playlist. she’d told everyone she was fine. and she was. mostly. enough.

but the way steph had said his name…

namjoon. like he was still hers. like it hadn’t ended in the kind of silence that made her doubt the entire thing ever happened.

“fuck,” she muttered under her breath, rubbing at her arms. the night was cooler than she expected. or maybe that was just what regret felt like.

she checked her phone—reflex. no messages.

she shouldn’t text him. not now. not like this.

her fingers hovered. it was so stupid. she knew it was stupid. but the truth was—

she did miss having him around.

not just the sex, not the shared playlists or the stupid way he folded her laundry like a librarian shelving books. she missed the quiet. the safety. the way he’d always known when she needed to be held without being asked.

and before she could talk herself out of it, her thumbs were moving.

i miss having you around.

she stares at her phone just a moment before locking the screen. “this is so stupid” mumbling under her breath.

the bass was still pounding when she walked back in, like nothing had happened. like her stomach wasn’t twisted and her throat didn’t feel like it had been scraped raw from the inside. someone handed her another drink—she didn’t even catch who. she nodded her thanks, forced another smile, and knocked it back too fast.

the warmth never hit her chest. it just sank.

she hovered at the edge of the circle, letting her friends’ chatter wash over her like static. the laughter felt too loud. the neon lights too bright. she wasn’t in it anymore—just floating above, watching herself nod, sip, grin. a ghost in her own skin.

steph tried to meet her eyes once or twice. (y/n) didn’t let her.

after another drink, she checked the time. 3:08 a.m. perfect excuse.

“hey,” she said, interrupting a story she wasn’t listening to, “i’ve got things to do in the morning, so… i’m gonna head out.”

a couple of her friends blinked. amara pouted. someone offered her a ride.

“nah,” she smiled. “i’m good. thanks.”

steph didn’t say anything. just looked at her like she knew.

(y/n) ignored it, squeezed a few arms goodbye, and slipped out before anyone could stop her.

the night air hit her like a slap—cold, sharp, honest.

she pulled her phone out of her coat pocket. her unsent message was still open on the screen.

i miss having you around.

still there. still blinking.

she didn’t delete it.

but she didn’t send it either.

by the time she stepped into her apartment, the quiet almost made her flinch. no voices, no music, no bass crawling under her skin. just the soft hum of the fridge and the dull echo of her own steps against the floor. 

she toed off her shoes in the dark, letting them fall sideways by the door. her makeup still clung to her skin, smudged slightly under one eye, and her jacket was slipping off her shoulder, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. everything felt too heavy. her arms. her chest. even her thoughts.

she didn’t bother changing out of her clothes. didn’t brush her teeth. didn’t even check her phone again. she just dropped her bag somewhere near the couch and made the short, autopilot walk to her bed, collapsing onto the mattress like something hollowed out. the city buzzed faintly through the window, a distant lullaby of car horns and wind, and within seconds, sleep took her like a blackout.

when she opened her eyes again, the light was harsh.

her head ached in that familiar, dehydrated way. her throat was dry, and her limbs felt tangled in fabric she couldn’t remember putting on. the sun was too bright. the room smelled faintly like whatever perfume she’d sprayed hours before and the remnants of sweat and bar smoke.

she groaned, dragging her arm over her face. reached blindly for her phone.

6 unread messages. none from him.

she was halfway through a notification from a food delivery app when she noticed the chat still open behind it. his name. his thread.

and there it was.

the text she swore she didn’t send.

i miss having you around.

right beneath it:

read 4:17 am.

she blinked at it. once. twice. waiting for something—anything—to change. maybe a reply would pop up. maybe it had glitched. maybe this was a dream and she hadn’t hit send after all.

but no.

he’d read it.

and that was it.

no typing bubble. no three dots. no follow-up. no you too. not even a dry hope you’re good.

just silence.

the kind that wrapped around her like cold water.

her stomach twisted, hot with humiliation. god, had she really sent it? like that? no punctuation, no explanation, just—that? a drunk confession disguised as a throwaway text?

she dropped the phone onto her sheets and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. she wasn’t going to cry. this wasn’t something to cry about.

it was just a text.

just a ghost.

just another reminder that he was still good at walking away.

she didn’t even get out of bed until noon.

and even then, it wasn’t because she wanted to—it was because her bladder forced her to. the sun spilling through the curtains made her wince, and every part of her mouth felt like sandpaper. she moved like she was made of rust, each step slow, dragging, her thoughts heavier than her body.

she didn’t check her phone again.

not right away.

instead, she wandered to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and leaned against the counter in that hunched-over way she only ever did when she was hungover or emotionally bruised. this morning, she was both.

by the time she sat down at her desk and opened her laptop, her phone was right there next to it—staring at her. taunting her. the temptation was unbearable. not to look at his message—she already knew what was (and wasn’t) there—but to do something about it.

like text him again.

maybe something casual. ironic. a recovery joke.

lol sorry drunk me got sentimental ignore that, rough night lol forget it

but what was the point? he read it. read it. and said nothing.

what the hell else was she supposed to do? follow it up with an apology? beg him to talk to her? no—no, fuck that. she’d already handed him a piece of her vulnerability on a silver platter. she wasn’t about to keep spoon-feeding it to him.

still…

she thought about it.

the entire day, it circled her like a mosquito—tiny, buzzing, impossible to swat away. every time she opened another tab, washed another dish, tied her hair up, the thought came creeping back in: what if he’s waiting for me to say more?

what if he wants her to chase him?

what if he’s just being cautious?

what if he read it and regretted not answering, but didn’t know how?

what if.

what if.

what if.

she typed at least five different drafts of a follow-up. none of them made it past the keyboard. each one felt weaker than the last. some were angry. some were sarcastic. one was just a string of question marks she didn’t even remember typing.

eventually, she just set her phone screen-down and pushed it to the far corner of the table. opened a new document. tried to work. but even her words—normally her safe place, her breath—betrayed her.

every sentence reminded her of him. or worse, of herself with him.

she was halfway through pretending to write an email when the memory of the message hit her again like a slap: i miss having you around.

how pathetic. how raw.

and he hadn’t said a thing.

the knock came just after seven.

soft at first, then impatient. then followed by the sound of a key in the lock.

(y/n) didn’t move from the couch.

she was still in the same hoodie she threw on after her shower, the sleeves tugged over her hands, one leg curled beneath her and the other hanging off the edge like a question mark. a half-eaten banana and a cup of tea sat forgotten on the coffee table, next to her phone, which she hadn’t touched in hours. not since the last time she opened their thread. not since she stared at the word read until it blurred.

the door creaked open, and the scent of bulgogi and rice and something fried cut through the stale air of her apartment.

“i swear to god if you’re dead in here i’m going to bring you back just to slap you,” amara called out.

a beat.

then: “...oh.”

(y/n) didn’t look up. just mumbled, “hi.”

amara’s boots clicked across the floor, and then she was dropping two plastic bags onto the coffee table and kneeling in front of her like some kind of holy intervention.

“jesus christ, you look like a sad victorian ghost. have you even eaten?”

“kinda.”

amara narrowed her eyes. “do fridge grapes and ibuprofen count?”

(y/n) cracked the ghost of a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

amara sighed and sat beside her, her presence immediate and grounding. she unpacked the food with practiced ease, muttering something about “soy sauce therapy” and “emergency carbs.” they ate in silence for a few minutes, chopsticks scraping against containers, the only soundtrack a soft playlist humming from (y/n)’s laptop.

then amara said, casually, “so… how bad is it?”

(y/n) didn’t answer at first.

she took another bite of kimchi, chewed slowly. tried to pretend it didn’t taste like regret.

then, finally: “i texted him.”

amara didn’t blink. “namjoon?”

(y/n) nodded.

“when?”

“last night.”

“what’d you say?”

(y/n) swallowed hard, looking down at her hands. “i miss having you around.”

amara’s eyebrows shot up. “oh damn. straight to the throat, huh?”

“i didn’t mean to send it. i thought i didn’t. but i did.”

“...and?”

“he read it.” her voice cracked, just slightly. “and he didn’t reply.”

amara leaned back against the couch, exhaling through her nose. she didn’t look surprised. but she did look like she was calculating something in her head.

“bitch,” she finally said, “i love you, so i need to ask—what were you hoping he’d say?”

(y/n) blinked. “i don’t know.”

“yes, you do.”

“i didn’t expect anything, i just—”

amara gave her a look.

(y/n) sighed, letting her head fall against the couch cushion. “i guess… maybe i wanted him to say he missed me too. or that he’d been thinking about me. or that it sucked for him, too.”

amara nodded slowly, eyes soft but steady. “and instead, he gave you silence.”

a beat.

“again.”

that last word landed hard. (y/n) flinched, just a little. but she didn’t argue.

she hated how familiar this feeling was. the waiting. the not-knowing. the pretending not to care while dying inside.

amara nudged her with her foot. “you know this doesn’t mean you’re pathetic, right?”

“sure feels like it.”

“you were vulnerable. that’s brave. and it doesn’t make you desperate, it makes you human. but let’s also not pretend that this isn’t who he’s always been—someone who disappears when you hand him something fragile.”

(y/n)’s throat tightened.

amara continued, voice gentler now. “you don’t have to chase someone who doesn’t know what to do with your heart. it’s not your job to teach him how to hold it.”

that was when the tears finally came.

not loud. not many. just a couple that slipped down her cheeks quietly, like they’d been waiting all day for permission.

amara didn’t make a big deal out of it. she just scooted closer, wrapped an arm around (y/n)’s shoulders, and pulled her into her side like they’d done this a hundred times before.

and maybe they had.

you don’t have to chase someone who doesn’t know what to do with your heart.

the words hung in the air like incense smoke—sweet, heavy, lingering long after they were said. (y/n) didn’t answer. she couldn’t. her throat was too tight. so she just leaned into amara’s shoulder, blinking up at the ceiling like if she stared hard enough, the tears would slide back in.

amara let her sit there in silence for a moment, fingers tracing idle circles on (y/n)’s back.

then, gently: “you know this won’t be forever, right?”

(y/n) made a soft, scoffing noise. “what won’t?”

“this feeling. the ache. the shame. you won’t always be this girl who sent the text and got ignored.”

she didn’t believe that. not yet. but hearing someone say it out loud made it hurt a little less.

amara sat up a little straighter, nudging her side. “wanna hear something stupid?”

(y/n) wiped under her eyes. “always.”

“i’ve been holding onto this for three weeks.”

“holding onto what?”

amara reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out two crumpled, slightly bent paper tickets.

“you remember Still Moss?”

(y/n)’s head jerked up. “no fucking way.”

amara grinned. “they’re playing saturday. small set. underground venue in itaewon. i saw the flyer on some niche subreddit and snatched the tickets before they were even posted officially.”

(y/n) blinked. “amar—what the hell, why didn’t you tell me?”

“because you were doing better,” amara said, voice soft but honest. “you weren’t thinking about him every day. you were flirting with the guy at your gym. you were laughing again. and i didn’t want to pull you back into memories of the past just because one of our old favorites decided to crawl out of their indie cave.”

(y/n) took the ticket with both hands, staring at it like it might bite.

“but,” amara added, “now? i think you need something real. something alive. not a text thread. not a read receipt. not silence in a chat that used to be your whole world.”

(y/n)’s lips parted, but no words came out.

amara shrugged. “you don’t have to go for me. but you should go for you. for the part of you that wasn’t just his. the part of you that screamed lyrics and danced like a lunatic in your kitchen and wore that ugly green beanie just because they mentioned it in a b-side.”

“that beanie was iconic.”

“it was moldy avocado vomit and you loved it.”

(y/n) laughed. just once. and it cracked something open.

the grief didn’t vanish. but it shifted. made space for something else. not quite joy. not even hope. just a sliver of maybe.

“you really think it’ll help?” she whispered, still clutching the ticket.

“i think it’ll remind you that you’re more than what he didn’t say.”

(y/n) looked down at the printed text again. the date. the time. the name of a band that once meant everything.

she wasn’t sure if she could face it. but something in her chest fluttered anyway.

“okay,” she said. “i’ll go.”

amara raised her brow. “with me?”

“obviously with you.”

amara grinned and tossed a napkin at her. “cool. you’ve got two days to get your shit together, wash your hair, and remember who the fuck you are.”

(y/n) rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered this time.

-----

she stared at her closet like it had offended her.

clothes were already strewn across the bed—black mesh tops, a beat-up denim jacket with a fading patch on the back, her favorite pants that somehow always made her feel like she was too much and not enough all at once. she had half a mind to cancel. text amara and say she got sick. or had work. or—fuck it—just ghost the entire thing.

because this was his band.

not officially, obviously. not legally. but still—he was the one who found them. the one who burned their first EP onto a cheap CD and played it in his car at full volume while they drove through the city with the windows down and their hands out like wings. he was the one who paused every other song to say “listen to this part, wait, right here—this is the line that wrecked me.”

they used to talk about seeing Still Moss live like it was some bucket list item. one day. someday. a future tense wrapped in shared laughter and tangled limbs.

and now she was going without him.

(y/n) sank down onto the bed, the air suddenly thick, her fingers trembling as they pulled at the edge of her comforter.

what was she doing?

what the fuck was she trying to do? prove something? distract herself? reclaim something that maybe never really belonged to her alone?

she reached for her phone, scrolled back to his name—again. the message still sat there like a bruise on the screen.

i miss having you around.

read. still no reply.

and now she was going to the show they used to dream about, pretending it didn’t mean anything?

who was she kidding?

she dropped the phone face-down on the bed and covered her face with her hands.

it felt like treason. like stepping into that venue without him was rewriting history, erasing the version of herself that once existed in his arms. she’d be surrounded by music they once called theirs, lyrics that felt like inside jokes, moments only they knew how to hold. what if they played that song? the one he always hummed when he kissed her shoulder half-asleep?

how could she stand in that crowd and not feel his absence like a blade?

still.

not going would mean something, too. it would mean he still owned that part of her.

and maybe—just maybe—going would be her way of saying: you don’t get to have it all.

her reflection caught in the mirror across the room. she looked tired. haunted. but underneath the exhaustion was something steadier. the shadow of resolve.

she stood up.

grabbed the mesh top.

and started getting ready.

the street outside the venue was already humming with life—groups of twenty-somethings crowding the sidewalk, passing around half-smoked cigarettes and cheap convenience store beers, the faint thrum of bass leaking through the brick walls like the night had a pulse.

(y/n) tugged her jacket tighter around her body, scanning the crowd for a familiar face.

no sign of amara yet.

she checked her phone for the third time in five minutes. 7:48 p.m. she’d said they’d meet a little before eight, but amara was always early. always waiting on the curb with snacks shoved in her bag and a too-loud story to fill the silence.

and then her phone buzzed.

a text.

[amara :] babe i’m so sorry. something came up. i can’t make it tonight. pls don’t kill me ily :(

(y/n) stared at the message.

read it again.

then once more, just to make sure she hadn’t misread it. but there it was. soft. apologetic. and devastating in its own casual way.

for a second, everything felt like static. the noise around her, the lights, the laughter—it all flattened into white.

she looked up at the venue entrance.

the line was shorter now. people were already filtering inside. the music inside was getting louder, familiar bass lines testing the sound system. Still Moss. she could already picture the setlist in her head.

she hesitated.

every cell in her body told her to leave. to turn around. take the train home. crawl into bed and pretend none of this ever happened.

because now it wasn’t just a gig. it was a battlefield.

but the thing was—she’d already fought this fight with herself earlier.

in the mirror, while deciding on her top. while wiping mascara smudges from under her eyes. while whispering to her reflection, you’re allowed to have things that used to belong to both of you.

and now, standing in front of the venue alone, she realized something else: leaving would feel too much like surrender.

to namjoon.

to the past.

to the version of herself that thought rejection meant she had to disappear.

no fucking way.

she took a breath.

pushed her phone back into her bag.

and stepped into the venue.

it was dim and loud and crowded, the floor sticky under her boots and the air thick with anticipation. the lights were still up. people milling around, drinks in hand, conversations half-shouted. she squeezed through the crowd toward a spot near the back—not close enough to feel suffocated, but just enough to see the stage, to feel the throb of the speakers in her chest.

and despite everything—the anxiety still clawing at her ribs, the faint echo of read 4:17 am playing on a loop in her head—she felt it.

a flicker of excitement.

this was her night.

and she wasn’t going to let the ghost of a man who couldn’t even text her back take that from her.

the venue had that familiar, half-feral energy only places like this could hold—dim ceiling lights hanging from exposed pipes, old show flyers layered on the walls like bark, the faint hum of something spilled and sticky in the air. voices rose and fell around her, half-drunk excitement wrapped around slurred words and laughter. no one here knew her. no one looked twice.

it helped.

for a second, it helped.

(y/n) found a spot near a worn pillar toward the left side of the room, far enough from the stage to breathe, close enough to see the instruments already arranged—drum set lit in soft red, mic stands waiting like they knew secrets. she crossed her arms and let herself sink into the pulse of the crowd. the subtle rhythm of people shuffling, talking, sipping, swaying.

Still Moss would go on soon.

she could feel it.

and beneath her nerves—below the tension stitched into her shoulders, below the phantom sting of rejection still lodged in her chest—there was something else. something familiar.

want.

not for him. not for the past.

for the music. for this night. for this version of herself that had always existed under the hurt.

someone brushed past her and muttered an apology. she nodded. took a slow sip of her drink. let the noise rush around her like static. the pre-show playlist crackled overhead, layered with old demos and deep cuts, and when the familiar intro of one of their early tracks started up—their song, the one from their first EP—her throat tightened.

but she stayed.

she didn’t flinch.

the lights overhead flickered once. twice.

and then they dimmed.

a hush spread through the crowd—not silence, but reverence. anticipation. the kind that hit you low in the gut.

she smiled.

just a little.

and for a moment, she forgot about the message. the rejection. the ache.

for a moment, she was just a girl in a crowd, heart beating in sync with the rest of them.

the stage lights snapped on—white-hot and gold—and the band filed out one by one to the kind of roar that felt earned. the guitarist adjusted his strap. the drummer spun his sticks once, twice, like ritual. the lead singer stepped up to the mic, tugged his cap low, and said—

“you guys ready for a loud fucking night or what?”

the room answered with a scream.

(y/n) screamed with them.

and for those first few songs, she let go.

she danced. not like she used to—not wild and fearless—but she moved. she let the bass hit her ribs and the guitar wrap around her neck and the lyrics pull her mouth into half-remembered shapes. her hands were in the air by the second chorus. her voice raw by the third.

she was alive.

she was alive.

and that’s exactly when it happened.

a shift in the air. not dramatic. not cinematic. just something off. like the static changed frequencies.

she turned her head.

and there he was.

namjoon.

standing maybe twenty feet away, half in shadow, eyes already locked on her like he hadn’t stopped looking since she walked in.

her pulse stuttered.

she didn’t look again. wouldn’t. she turned back to the stage with the kind of sharp, practiced movement that screamed I didn’t see you and I don’t care, even though her lungs had forgotten how to work and her drink suddenly tasted like regret.

the crowd surged forward with the start of another song, and she let herself be pulled along, like if she just moved fast enough, she could outrun the sudden roar of thoughts in her head. she focused on the band—on the flicker of stage lights slicing through fog, on the way the lead singer’s voice cracked in the chorus like a prayer, on the guy next to her who was already elbowing into her space trying to get closer. she focused on anything but him.

but she could feel it.

his stare.

like heat at the back of her neck, heavy and deliberate, digging in like he was trying to memorize the way she stood now. the way she danced without him. the way she still came, still claimed this night as her own. it wasn’t romantic. it wasn’t tender. it was invasive. unbearable.

she swallowed hard and lifted her hands, let herself sway with the rhythm, kept her body in motion just to give her mind something to anchor to. the crowd was louder now, rougher—people pushing forward, eager, half-drunk on adrenaline and cheap whiskey. someone brushed up against her, a hand catching too low at her waist before slipping off. another person stumbled into her back, barely catching themselves with a muttered apology and a laugh that didn’t reach their eyes.

the unintended groping, the crush of sweat and sound and strangers—it was a lot. too much. normally she’d lean into it, lose herself. but now every brush of skin felt like static. like him. like memory bleeding into muscle.

she didn’t dare look back.

but she knew.

he was still watching.

maybe trying to figure out if it was really her. maybe trying to decide if he should come over. maybe just… feeling it. the pull. the hurt. the consequence of silence.

her heart beat against her ribs like it was trying to break out.

stay cool. that’s what she kept telling herself. over and over, like a mantra between lyrics. stay cool. stay cool. he doesn’t get to ruin this for you. not again.

and god, she almost believed it.

almost.

but beneath it all, there was still that other voice—small, traitorous, terrified—asking: why is he here? did he know you’d come? is this some kind of joke? or is it fate, sick and stupid, dragging you both back together just to watch you fall apart again?

the lights flashed. the bass hit. the song climbed to its peak.

and she danced.

not for him.

but in spite of him.

she didn’t notice how thick the crowd had gotten until she tried to move.

one song bled into another, and suddenly the bodies pressing in around her weren’t dancing—they were shoving. climbing. surging toward the stage like it was salvation. someone behind her yelled something she couldn’t make out, and the girl to her left kept pushing her elbow into (y/n)’s ribs, eyes locked on the front like she’d sooner break bone than give up her view.

she tried to shift, just enough to step back, maybe slide toward the edge of the crowd—but there was nowhere to go. her foot caught on someone’s bag, someone else’s arm tangled with hers, and in the chaos she realized—fuck—she was stuck.

her breath hitched.

it wasn’t panic. not yet. but it was close.

the air was getting tighter, hotter. the music roared in her chest like thunder, no longer comforting, just loud. she ducked her head, tried to wedge her way sideways—but the wave of bodies moved again, and this time it nearly knocked her off balance. her shoulder clipped someone’s back. her hands went up instinctively, useless.

and then—

a hand.

fingers wrapping around her wrist—firm, familiar, undeniable.

she froze.

looked up.

and there he was.

namjoon.

right in front of her now, eyes wide, mouth tight, brows drawn in that exact expression she remembered from every argument they never really finished—worry twisted into anger. or maybe it was the other way around. either way, it hit her like a punch to the ribs.

his hand was warm.

his grip steady.

and his face—

god, his face.

he didn’t look surprised. not exactly. more like—rattled. like seeing her here was something he’d rehearsed a hundred times in his head, but the reality of it still threw him off balance. his jaw clenched. his eyes scanned her face like he was checking for damage, like he expected her to be bruised and broken just from being here.

she didn’t know what to say.

she couldn’t say anything.

the crowd pushed again, and this time he pulled her toward him—closer, instinctively protective, his body shielding hers like it was second nature. and maybe it was.

he leaned in, voice low but urgent in her ear. “you okay?”

she didn’t answer.

she couldn’t.

because all she could think was: you left. and I still wanted to marry you.

and now here he was, dragging her out of the storm like nothing had ever broken between them.

the crowd didn’t care who they were or what cracked, fragile history hung between them—it just kept pressing in, louder, harder, all elbows and shouted lyrics and spilled drinks. someone bumped into her back, hard enough to make her stumble, and she felt namjoon’s grip tighten around her wrist immediately. not rough, not possessive—just instinctive. like his body was answering a question before his brain could form the words.

he pulled her closer, chest brushing against her shoulder now, his other hand moving to the small of her back without thinking, guiding her through the tide like muscle memory. even after all this time, he still moved like someone who wanted to shield her from the world, still held her like she was precious and breakable—even if he had been the one to shatter her last.

“we should move,” he said, close enough that she felt the shape of the words more than heard them. his voice was low, almost calm, but the tension in his jaw told a different story. his eyes—those warm, unreadable eyes—searched her face in the flickering stage light, darting over her skin like he was looking for bruises, for signs that she’d been hurt. not just by the crowd.

by anything.

and she hated that it still made her want to cry.

she nodded, or maybe she didn’t. maybe her body just leaned into the pull of him, because the next thing she knew he was gently—gently—pressing her ahead of him through the crush of people, using his frame to carve a path through the chaos. every time someone got too close, he shifted, stepping between her and the noise, that quiet, seething frustration radiating off him like heat—not at her. never at her. just the situation. the pushing. the closeness. the way she’d been caught in all of it, small and alone and so vulnerable.

and she could feel it—how hard he was trying not to let it show. the anger simmering under his skin. the fear, maybe, buried somewhere beneath it. but it was there, plain as breath: he cared. he still fucking cared.

and that—more than the hands or the eyes or the words—was the most dangerous thing of all.

the bathroom corridor was narrow and dim, lined with peeling posters and flickering overhead lights that buzzed like flies. the smell of stale beer clung to the walls, and the occasional echo of the concert leaked through the cracked door down the hall, muffled now. distant. the adrenaline from the crowd hadn’t faded, not fully, but out here, in the quiet, everything felt sharper. more dangerous.

namjoon turned to face her the second they stepped into the space. he didn’t let go of her wrist until he was sure she was steady on her feet, and even then, his fingers lingered for a moment longer than they should have. like he didn’t want to. like maybe part of him still remembered what it felt like to hold her like this for no reason at all.

he stepped back then, ran a hand through his hair, and started in before she could even catch her breath.

“you shouldn’t have been in there alone,” he said, voice low but tight, like he was trying not to snap. “you know how packed these places get. it’s not safe, not when you’re by yourself. what if I hadn’t been there? you could’ve gotten hurt, trampled, or—”

she blinked, still catching up, heart pounding like a drum in her chest.

namjoon’s eyes stayed locked on hers, jaw clenched like he was still trying to hold the anger in his mouth, but it was starting to fracture—splinters showing through the edges. the fluorescent light above them flickered once, casting shadows across his face, and she hated how familiar he still looked in this lighting. like every too-late night in their old apartment, like every fight that ended with her curled up in his hoodie and his hands in her hair whispering, we’re okay, aren’t we? we’re okay.

but they weren’t okay now.

they hadn’t been in a long time.

“i wasn’t alone by choice,” she said, arms folded tight across her chest. “amara was supposed to come with me.”

namjoon’s mouth parted slightly.

she didn’t wait for him to speak.

“she bought the tickets. said i needed to get out of my head for once. i was going to cancel when she bailed but—” she swallowed hard. “i told myself i’d be fine.”

his expression shifted. not dramatically. not in that open-book way most people’s faces moved. but in the subtle ways she still remembered—his brows pulling in just enough, the set of his mouth softening like it suddenly hurt to keep it closed.

“seriously, what were you thinking? you don’t even like crowds like that. and if amara was supposed to be with you, why didn’t you just leave when she bailed? jesus, you could’ve—”

“you’re such an asshole,” she muttered.

the words slipped out before she could stop them. not loud. but loud enough to cut through him.

he froze.

the silence between them was immediate, electric.

she shook her head, chest tight, throat burning. “you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to show up out of nowhere and act like you’re worried about me when you left me on read.”

he stared at her, jaw tight, but he didn’t interrupt.

“you don’t get to act like it’s still your job to take care of me,” she said, her voice trembling just enough to piss her off. “i sent you one fucking message. one. and you couldn’t even be bothered to answer. and now you’re here lecturing me like you give a shit?”

his eyes darkened. “what was I supposed to say, huh?” he snapped, stepping forward. “you text me in the middle of the night after we haven’t spoken in over a year. what the fuck was I supposed to do with that?”

her mouth opened. then closed.

namjoon kept going, voice rising like he was finally letting himself feel the thing he’d been pushing down. “you think that didn’t mess with my head? you think I haven’t spent the last few nights wondering if I should’ve said something? if I was allowed to say something? because for a second I thought—fuck, I thought you were drunk, or lonely, or both, and if I said the wrong thing, I’d make it worse.”

she laughed, bitter and breathless. “so you decided saying nothing was the better choice.”

“it was a dick move, on both ends” he said, quieter now. not denying it. just... laying it out.

they stared at each other.

her back against the wall. his shoulders drawn tight like he was holding something back with both hands. and the air between them? thick with everything they didn’t say after they broke up. everything they still don’t know how to explain.

the silence after his last words stretched taut between them, like the air was waiting for one of them to break it. (y/n) felt her breath coming fast, too fast, chest rising and falling like she’d just run a mile. her heart was pounding for all the wrong reasons—rage, confusion, grief. want. all tangled together so tightly she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

namjoon was standing barely a foot away, his jaw clenched, arms stiff at his sides like if he moved even a little he’d reach for her, and he didn’t trust himself to do it.

and fuck, she hated how familiar he still felt.

the heat between them was unbearable. it had nothing to do with the venue. nothing to do with the crowd they’d escaped. it was just them, trapped in this too-small hallway, skin prickling, hearts racing, eyes locked.

his gaze flicked down—her lips. then back up.

hers did the same.

and it was like time held its breath.

her mouth parted just slightly, and he leaned in a fraction of an inch, like he couldn’t help it, like something in him needed to be closer. and for a second—one long, shattering second—it felt inevitable. like their mouths were going to meet, and this whole night would collapse into something hot and reckless and full of everything they’d been avoiding.

but they didn’t kiss.

neither of them moved.

and the restraint hurt worse than any breakup ever could.

namjoon exhaled shakily, his voice suddenly quiet. “i should walk you home.”

just like that, the fire between them shifted. cooled at the edges. but didn’t go out.

she blinked, throat thick. “what?”

he met her eyes. no anger there now. just something raw. something so tender it made her chest ache.

“it’s late,” he said. “and i don’t want you going alone.”

her lips parted, but she didn’t know what to say.

because she should say no.

she should tell him to go to hell. to let her be. to stop doing these stupid, soft things that made it so hard to hate him.

but the part of her that sent that text? the part that never really stopped missing him? that part wanted to say yes.

god, it wanted to say yes.

the walk back to her place unfolded like a dream they weren’t sure they were awake for—quiet, disorienting, charged with too much everything. neither of them said a word, not at first. not when they left the venue. not when they crossed the street or turned down the familiar blocks of her neighborhood, shadows stretching long under the streetlights, the faint pulse of the city flickering somewhere behind them.

they didn’t have to speak to feel it.

every step buzzed with unsaid things. every brush of his arm near hers felt like an accident that wasn’t. she could feel his body heat like a second skin. like he was walking too close, not quite touching her, but there—solid, steady, present in a way he hadn’t been in over a year.

and she hated how natural it felt.

hated that her body still remembered the rhythm of him. the pace. the weight. the subtle, invisible pull like gravity still worked differently when he was near.

she didn’t know how they got to her building so fast. one second she was replaying their argument in her head like a song stuck on loop, and the next—she was unlocking the front door, his hand hovering behind her like it used to when she fumbled for her keys, like he still had the instinct to catch her if she dropped anything at all.

they stepped inside.

dim hallway. elevator out of service. and then the climb—three floors of quiet tension, every footfall like punctuation. they didn’t speak, not even as she led him to her door, not even as she stood there with the key halfway into the lock, heartbeat thudding in her throat.

and when she turned to face him again, everything came rushing back.

the fight.

the guilt.

the aching, unbearable want.

“you’re still mad,” he said quietly, eyes locked on hers like he couldn’t bear to look away.

she scoffed, soft and tired. “of course i’m mad.”

“i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“yeah?” she said, voice tight, bitter. “then why did you act like i didn’t exist?”

his face twitched, jaw clenching. “because i didn’t know how to handle it, okay? you don’t get to show up in my messages like that and expect me to be fine.”

“i didn’t expect you to be fine,” she shot back, stepping toward him now, all the space between them collapsing. “i didn’t expect anything, namjoon. i was drunk and stupid and—god, i just missed you. i wasn’t trying to trap you or make some kind of fucking dramatic statement—i just… i don’t know. i didn’t think. but you did. you saw it. and you chose nothing.”

he was breathing harder now. so was she. neither of them looked away.

“do you know how much it hurt?” she whispered, voice breaking. “after everything? to be left on read by the one person i thought would at least… at least say something?”

his mouth parted. something crumpled behind his eyes. but he didn’t speak.

they were so close now that she could feel the edge of his breath against her cheek, smell the faintest trace of something warm and familiar clinging to his collar. the scent of him broke her more than anything he could’ve said.

she wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly they were standing toe to toe, barely a breath apart, the keys in her hand forgotten, her back nearly brushing the door. his hands clenched at his sides like he wanted to reach for her but didn’t trust himself. her fingers curled around the hem of her jacket like they were the only thing keeping her grounded.

the silence between them? it wasn’t empty.

it was full. heavy. breaking at the seams.

they weren’t done.

not even close.

namjoon’s eyes searched hers like he was looking for an opening, like if he could just name the thing between them, maybe it would make sense. but it didn’t. it never had. and now, standing inches from her door, with his chest rising and falling like he’d just run here barefoot, all he could manage was, “i didn’t want to make it worse.”

she blinked. slow. disbelieving.

“worse?” she echoed, voice low and razor-sharp. ���you think ignoring me made it better?”

he flinched, just a little. his gaze dropped to the floor, like the tile pattern suddenly held the answers. “i thought if i said something, it would… reopen everything. and i didn’t think you wanted that.”

“so instead you just pretended i didn’t exist?” her voice cracked, raw now, too open. “you were the one person who knew how hard that year was for me and you—god, you didn’t even ask if i was okay. you just watched me bleed.”

he took a step back, not far, just enough to pace, to get his bearings—but even that small distance made her feel cold.

“you think it was easy for me?” he said, louder now, no longer calm. “you think i’ve just been—what—fine? do you know how many times i almost called you? how many fucking nights i picked up the phone just to hear your voice and had to put it back down because i didn’t trust myself not to fuck everything up even more?”

“then why didn’t you?” she snapped, stepping toward him again. “why didn’t you call? or text? or do anything?”

“because i loved you too much to hurt you again!” he said it like it burned coming out, like it wasn’t meant to be said at all, not now, not here. but it was out there now. between them. sizzling like an exposed wire.

her breath hitched.

he stared at her, wild-eyed and wrecked. “i still fucking love you, okay? even when i shouldn’t. even when it’s a terrible idea. even when i know you deserve someone who doesn’t keep you waiting at two a.m. for a message that never comes.”

her hand went to the doorknob, like she needed something to hold on to. like if she didn’t, she might collapse under the weight of his words.

“you don’t get to say that now,” she said, barely above a whisper. “you don’t get to stand here and tell me you still love me when you spent the last year pretending i was nothing.”

“i never pretended you were nothing,” he said, voice breaking, “i’ve been pretending you were everything, and that i could live without it.”

and just like that—the thread snapped.

they didn’t move toward each other so much as fall into the space between them, mouths colliding not with grace but with desperation. her back hit the door with a soft thud, his hands finally finding her waist like they were made for it, her fingers tangling in his hair like no time had passed at all. it wasn’t soft. it wasn’t sweet. it was feral—the kind of kiss that tasted like every word they didn’t say, every night spent apart, every second of missing wrapped up in heat and teeth and breathless curses.

there was no going back now.

not after this.

his mouth tasted like all her worst decisions and all her best memories.

they didn’t stop kissing when they left the hallway. they didn’t even pretend to. his hands stayed glued to her hips, dragging her closer with every step like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go. and she couldn’t let go, not when every inch of him felt like muscle memory, not when her hands had minds of their own, sliding under his jacket, fingers curling into the soft cotton of his t-shirt like she needed to feel the warmth of him to believe this was real.

her keys fumbled in the lock, hands shaking too much to find the hole, her mouth still locked on his, lips bruising against his, his teeth catching her bottom lip just enough to make her gasp and drop the keys entirely.

“fuck,” she breathed, laughing against his mouth, frustrated and drunk on him.

he reached around her, growling low under his breath, picked up the keys, found the lock like it was his apartment and not hers, and shoved the door open.

they stumbled in, mouths never parting. she kicked off her shoes without looking, dragging him inside by the collar. his jacket hit the floor with a dull thud, followed by hers. the air in the room was warmer than it should’ve been. or maybe it was just them. heat radiating from every inch of skin, every frantic touch, every groan pressed into a mouth too busy to stop.

they didn’t bother turning on the lights. didn’t need them.

his hands were everywhere—fisting the fabric at her sides, sliding up her ribs, down her back, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. like he was still angry, still caught in the argument, and this was the only way to speak now. she didn’t mind. she wanted it. wanted to be touched like this. wanted him like this—desperate and undone, like he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her either.

they reached the bedroom door, breath ragged, foreheads touching, lips still grazing each other’s in frantic, broken passes. her hand was on his chest, nails dragging lightly down muscle, his fingers pressing bruises into her waist like punctuation marks.

“this is a stupid idea,” he whispered, voice strained, wrecked, like the words hurt to say.

she grabbed his face, pulled him in again, kissed him like she could erase the thought.

“i don’t care,” she whispered against his lips. “stay. just tonight.”

the way she said it—soft, cracked, a little too close to pleading—broke something in him.

he didn’t answer. didn’t have to.

his mouth was back on hers before she could take another breath, rough, needy, starving, like he was trying to carve his name into her all over again. their bodies collided in the doorway, hands fighting with layers of clothing, mouths locking again and again, each kiss more desperate than the last.

they were already past the point of no return.

and neither of them gave a damn.

they didn’t make it to the bed right away.

he had her pinned to the wall just outside the doorway, their mouths crashing again like every kiss was a bite, a battle. namjoon’s hands gripped her hips hard, dragging her against him, and the low groan he let out when their bodies collided was guttural, like something primal had been knocked loose.

his lips broke from hers only to move down her jaw, his breath hot and heavy against her skin. “fuck—do you know what you did to me?” he muttered, voice rough, gravel-thick. “a year, and you text me like that... then just disappear again?”

her fingers scrambled at the hem of his shirt, yanking it upward, her breath hot against his throat. “you think i didn’t suffer too?” she snapped, dragging the shirt over his head. “you think it didn’t kill me to say nothing when you didn’t reply?”

he stepped forward, forcing her back again, until her shoulder blades hit the hallway wall. his bare chest pressed against hers, skin to skin, and he didn’t pause—just dipped down and pulled her shirt up with both hands, ripping it off in one quick, frustrated motion. his palms roamed her sides, rough and urgent, fingers curling around the waistband of her jeans like he couldn’t stand one more second of fabric between them.

“then why’d you do it?” he growled, mouth crashing to hers again. “why’d you send that message if you didn’t want me to come back?”

she gasped into the kiss, nails dragging down his spine, her jeans already half undone by his fingers, tugging hard, yanking them past her hips. “i didn’t know what i wanted,” she breathed, teeth grazing his bottom lip, “i just—i missed you.”

something in him snapped at that.

his hands locked under her thighs, lifting her with an easy, angry grip. she wrapped her legs around his waist instinctively, clinging to his shoulders as he carried her into the bedroom. their mouths never parted—just shifted, hungrier, rougher, teeth clashing in the dark. he dropped her on the bed like he couldn’t stand not having her underneath him any longer, following her down with a kiss that was all teeth and tongue and fuck, finally.

her bra was gone next, pulled off with a practiced twist, his hands covering her like he was making up for lost time. he kissed down her neck, over her chest, marking her with lips and teeth, every touch bruising, claiming. her moans were breathy and desperate, her body arching into him like it remembered every time he’d touched her before.

“you should hate me,” he murmured against her skin, voice strained, like the words were choking him.

“maybe i do,” she whispered, dragging his belt open with shaking fingers, “but not tonight.”

he kissed her again, harder this time—his hips grinding against hers, both of them still half-dressed, bodies slick with heat and hunger.

“then don’t stop me,” he whispered, teeth on her jaw, one hand gripping her thigh so tight it made her gasp. “because i don’t think i can.”

his mouth found her neck first—hot, open kisses dragged along her skin like he was starving for it, tongue tasting, teeth grazing. she tilted her head back with a breathy gasp, giving him more, and he took it like a man possessed. he sucked hard just under her jaw, the kind of kiss meant to leave a mark, and she arched beneath him, hands threading into his hair, tugging as if that would tether her to the moment.

he groaned low in his throat, one hand already sliding between their bodies, palming her over her underwear—rough, slow circles of pressure that made her gasp again, hips twitching up against his touch. the fabric was already damp, and he swore under his breath like that fact physically wrecked him.

“fuck, you’re soaked already,” he muttered against her throat, voice dark and hoarse, almost angry about it. “you miss me that bad, huh?”

her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting skin. she didn’t answer—not with words. just a moan that caught in her throat, a roll of her hips into his palm that said everything.

his mouth trailed lower, dragging over her collarbones, down the center of her chest, pausing only to breathe her in like she was the last clean thing in a filthy world. and then he was on her breast, hot mouth closing around her nipple with an obscene sound, tongue flicking before he sucked hard, making her back arch off the mattress. her breath hitched. her thighs tightened around his hips.

his other hand gripped the other breast, rough fingers toying with the sensitive peak, thumb brushing, pinching lightly, just enough to make her whine. he switched sides without warning, lips wrapping around the other nipple like he’d been starving for it, groaning into her skin as if he could get drunk off the taste alone.

his mouth never stopped moving—sucking, kissing, biting gently—while his hand between her legs kept working her over the thin cotton barrier, dragging slow, cruel circles over her clit that made her legs tremble.

he pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes half-lidded, mouth slick, chest heaving.

“you think about me when you touch yourself?” he rasped, fingers curling against her cunt through her panties. “you still moan my name when it gets too much?”

her eyes fluttered shut, lips parting with a shuddered breath, and god—he wanted to hear her say yes. wanted her to admit that she’d been ruined for anyone else.

and he hadn’t even gotten his mouth between her legs yet.

his mouth trailed lower, leaving a hot, open path down the center of her stomach. her skin jumped under his tongue, her body twitching as he nipped along her waist, his hands spreading her thighs wider, slower, like he wanted to savor the shape of her more than the act itself. like being between her legs again was holy ground—and he was a man at the altar, worshiping through gritted teeth.

he looked up, caught the way she was already squirming beneath him, her chest heaving, lips parted as if every breath was costing her something. and fuck, she was beautiful like this—undone and trying so hard to hold it together.

then he got to her underwear.

he pressed a kiss just above the fabric, then let his eyes drop to the soft elastic hugging her hips. he hooked one finger under the band, tugged it lightly—just enough to make her feel the tension of it. a quiet, predatory smile played on his lips as he murmured, “you look so pretty in these.”

his voice was low, dark, velvet-drenched and filthy. he snapped the band gently against her skin, then ran his thumb along the curve of her pelvis, dipping dangerously close to where she was already soaking through the cotton. he let his mouth follow, mouthing her through the thin fabric, slow, wet drags of his tongue that made her hips buck up off the mattress.

and then—rip.

one swift motion. the fabric gave with a sharp tear, and her gasp echoed off the walls, eyes snapping open just in time to see him toss the ruined panties aside like he didn’t give a damn what they cost.

“i’ll buy you new ones,” he muttered, voice rough as gravel. “but fuck, i couldn’t wait. not with how wet you are.”

and then he was between her legs.

not teasing. not easing in.

devouring.

his tongue licked a long, slow stripe from the bottom of her slit all the way to her clit, ending with a soft suck that made her choke on a moan. his hands gripped her thighs hard, thumbs digging into her skin, keeping her spread open as he buried his face in her like a man possessed.

he groaned into her, the sound low and almost pained, like tasting her again physically undid him.

“missed this,” he growled between licks, one hand sliding under her ass to pull her closer, his mouth working her over like it was his job. “missed how you taste. fuck.”

her hands found his hair, tugging, anchoring herself. her hips rolled, helpless, chasing the pressure of his tongue as he sucked her clit into his mouth again, harder this time, relentless now. his tongue moved fast, slick, filthy strokes while he moaned into her like he was getting off on the sound of her falling apart.

“joon—” she whimpered, voice cracked, fingers curling tight in his hair.

he didn’t stop.

if anything, he smiled against her cunt.

and then—two fingers slid inside her. slow at first. deliberate. crooking up, finding that spot that made her eyes roll back as his mouth never left her clit, his tongue flicking faster, filthy, precise, focused. like he was making up for every second they’d lost.

she was close. so close. and he knew it. he could feel it in the way her thighs trembled, the way her moans got higher, tighter, more desperate. he pressed his hand against her stomach with his free hand, holding her down like he wanted to feel her break from the inside out.

“cum for me,” he murmured against her, voice dark and hungry, “right on my fucking mouth, baby. let me taste you fall apart.”

her orgasm hit hard, sharp and fast, like her body had been waiting for his mouth for too damn long. her back arched, her thighs clamped around his head, and a broken, high-pitched moan tore out of her throat as his fingers kept moving inside her and his tongue never stopped. he held her through it, firm hands pressing her down like he needed to feel her shake apart against his mouth, like he didn’t trust her to stay grounded otherwise.

she whimpered his name like a prayer, like a curse, like she didn’t know what else to hold onto—and still, still, his mouth was on her, tongue dragging through her, catching every twitch, every pulse, like he wanted to memorize the shape of her climax.

only when her body gave out, slumping into the mattress with a wrecked, gasping breath, did he pull back—slow, deliberate.

he licked his lips once.

his chin was glistening. soaked in her.

his mouth was swollen, cheeks flushed, and there was a wild, wrecked look in his eyes as he hovered over her—something between pride and hunger, like tasting her had only made him more desperate, not less.

“fuck,” she breathed, staring at him like he was a hallucination.

and then she dragged him down.

no hesitation. no time to breathe.

her hands curled into his hair, and she kissed him—hard, filthy, open-mouthed, tongue tasting herself on him, moaning into his mouth like she was trying to suck the soul back out of him. his weight pressed down on her, solid and heavy, but it wasn’t enough. she needed more.

“please,” she whispered into the kiss, nails digging into his back, hips lifting up against the weight of his still-clothed cock pressing into her thigh. “joon—please. keep going. i need you inside me. now.”

he groaned into her mouth, like her begging physically hurt him. his hands fumbled at his pants, pulling them down far enough to free himself, the sound of his zipper and her ragged breath the only thing between them. her hands went to her own thighs, spreading them wide beneath him in an offering, desperate, ready—wrecked.

“you sure?” he panted against her lips, forehead pressed to hers, cock in hand, lining himself up with a grip that looked almost painful. “you say the word, i’ll stop.”

she looked him in the eye, voice shaking but certain.

“don’t you fucking dare.”

he slammed into her in one deep, brutal thrust.

his hips slammed into her with one long, deep thrust that knocked the air clean out of her lungs. the stretch burned so good she cried out, legs shaking around his waist, hands fisting the sheets as her head dropped back in utter shock.

“fuck—joon,” she gasped, voice raw, almost stunned at how full she felt, at how much she’d missed this. missed him.

he groaned like the sound of her voice broke something in him. his hands grabbed her thighs, yanked her even closer, then pulled out almost all the way just to slam back in again—harder, sharper, each snap of his hips making the bed creak under the weight of it all. her body jolted with every thrust, his cock thick and heavy inside her, dragging against every spot that made her legs tremble and her breath hitch in real time.

“you feel so fucking good,” he growled, leaning over her, teeth gritted as he fucked her like he meant it. “so fucking tight. fuck—i forgot how tight you get when you’re losing it.”

his hand reached up, tangled into her hair, pulled just enough to tilt her head back. she moaned for it—loved it—the little edge of pain sharp enough to drive her crazier, her back arching up into his chest. his mouth was on hers again before she could speak, all tongue and teeth and gasping moans, swallowing every breath like he couldn’t stand the space between them.

their mouths clashed, messy and open and hungry, like kissing had turned into its own kind of fight.

she clawed at his back, dragging nails down muscle, digging in every time his hips snapped forward and buried himself to the hilt inside her again. each thrust hit so deep she swore she saw stars, his pace fast, merciless, like he was punishing both of them for every second of distance they’d ever had.

“you missed this?” he panted into her mouth, voice low, almost mocking, like he knew. “missed getting fucked like this? stretched out on my cock like you were made for it?”

she choked on a moan, nails raking down his spine. “yes—yes, joon—fuck—don’t stop.”

“wasn’t gonna,” he growled, grabbing her wrists and pinning them above her head with one hand. “not until you’re screaming.”

and then he really let go.

hips slamming into her, deep and fast, skin slapping skin, her whole body sliding up the mattress from the force of it. his free hand went to her waist, holding her down, keeping her steady as he wrecked her, thrust after thrust after thrust—her mouth open, no sounds coming out at all for a second, just wrecked gasps and the kind of expression that would stay burned in his memory forever.

he dropped his forehead to hers again, breathing heavy, fucking her so deep and so hard that tears prickled at the corners of her eyes—not from pain, but from relief. from the way everything in her finally broke under the weight of him.

he pulled out just long enough to manhandle her into a new position—grabbing her thigh, lifting one of her legs and pressing it high onto his shoulder, folding her open for him like a fucking gift. the angle changed everything. he slid back in slow just to feel it, to watch the way her mouth fell open and her eyes rolled back the moment he bottomed out again, deeper now, better.

her moan broke open the silence like a scream, one hand gripping the sheets, the other clawing at his forearm as he started fucking into her again—hard, relentless, that new angle making her feel everything more. every thrust hit home, punching a whimper from her lips, her cunt wet and hot and clenching around him so tight he nearly lost control.

“fuck, baby,” he groaned, leaning over her just enough to bring his hand to her jaw, gripping it, thumb pressed under her chin to tilt her head back so she looked at him. “you look so fucking good like this. making a mess on my cock. soaked all the way down my thighs—shit.”

she couldn’t answer. not really. just breathless, broken sounds, tears threatening to fall because it was too much—not just the sex, but the feeling of it. the heat of his skin, the grip of his hand, the filthy way he was watching her like she was something he’d been dying to touch again.

he leaned in, close enough that their faces almost touched, still pounding into her like he needed to fuck the memory of her into the walls.

“you missed this?” he whispered, voice rough, dark, mean. “missed me splitting you open like this? filling you like no one else can?”

her hands grabbed his wrist, her nails digging into his skin, nodding frantically, eyes wild and desperate. “yes—fuck, yes, namjoon—don’t stop—don’t fucking stop.”

he growled, pure animal, his grip tightening on her jaw as he kissed her again—messy, filthy, tongue and teeth and moans—his other hand sliding down to where they were joined, fingers finding her clit and rubbing in tight, fast circles while he thrust into her like he was chasing a high he couldn’t come down from.

“gonna cum again for me?” he murmured against her mouth, thrusting harder now, faster, body slamming into hers like he meant to break the bed. “you gonna make a mess all over me, baby?”

she was already there. legs shaking. body locking up. her breath caught in her throat and she whimpered, choking on his name like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to earth.

“cum for me,” he growled again, voice raw, mouth at her ear now. “fuck—cum on my cock. i missed this so fucking much—missed you.”

and then she shattered.

again.

her body convulsed beneath him, legs trembling, thighs twitching around his hips as she came again—louder this time, back arched, mouth open in a soundless gasp that broke into a moan when he kept thrusting through it. her nails raked down his back, her whole body pulling him in, tighter, deeper, like she wanted to keep him buried inside her forever.

he couldn’t hold it anymore.

the way she clenched around him, the heat, the mess of her under him, the way she looked when she came—completely ruined, all soft and raw and his—it tore the last thread of restraint out of him.

“fuck, i’m—shit, i’m gonna—” his voice cracked, low and hoarse and wrecked, his thrusts stuttering as his body locked up.

he pulled out fast, just in time, his hand wrapped around himself once, twice, and then he came with a broken, strangled whimper right into her ear, forehead pressed to hers, breath hot and fast. thick ropes of his cum landed across her stomach, slick and warm, and he let out a shaky breath as he collapsed halfway over her, chest heaving, fingers still gripping her thigh like he couldn’t let go.

for a moment, neither of them moved. just the sound of their breathing—heavy, ragged, in sync.

but then—he kissed her again.

soft this time.

just under her jaw, then across her throat, right where her pulse still fluttered like a drum. his hand smoothed down her side, his lips slow and deliberate as he pressed them into the soft spot under her ear—the place that used to make her shiver when he loved her gently.

and then—he slid back in.

slow.

gentle.

soothing the ache he’d left behind.

his cock was still hard, still thick, but now every roll of his hips was tender, like he was apologizing with his body. like he couldn’t bear to stop touching her just yet. he buried his face in her neck, groaning quietly as her walls fluttered around him, warm and slick and still so damn tight.

“could stay like this all night,” he whispered, voice barely a breath. “just like this. fuck, you feel so good. like you were made for me.”

her fingers found his hair again, gentler now too, stroking through the sweat-damp strands, her own breath shaky but steadying.

“then don’t go,” she murmured, barely audible.

and he kissed her again.

not fast. not hard.

just full of everything they’d said without words.

the shift was almost too much. like the weight of it all finally sank in once the sweat cooled and the urgency dulled into something deeper. something unbearably tender.

he was still inside her—moving, slow and careful, like he wanted her to feel every inch, like he was afraid to lose the warmth of her if he stopped. their bodies rocked together, hips moving in soft, deliberate rolls, his hands planted beside her head, his chest pressed to hers, their foreheads touching.

he kissed her again, slow and deep, tongues brushing with the kind of hunger that had turned gentle, reverent. her arms wrapped around his shoulders, clutching him close like she was scared he’d vanish. she moaned softly into his mouth, breath hot and broken, each little sound spilling into his throat like a secret.

“you feel so good,” she whispered, voice tight, shaking, almost tearful.

and he felt it. every syllable. the way her voice cracked, the way her body clung to his like she couldn’t let go.

he kissed her harder, but not rough. not anymore.

his hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw as he pulled back just enough to look at her. his eyes were heavy, glazed with lust and something aching behind it—something close to regret, or maybe grief, for everything they’d lost between then and now.

“i missed this,” he murmured, his forehead pressed to hers, the rhythm of his hips slow and steady, still buried deep inside her. “missed you.”

her breath hitched, eyes fluttering closed as her legs tightened around his waist. she didn’t say anything for a moment, couldn’t—not when her throat was closing up, not when every slow thrust made her feel everything she’d spent the last year pretending didn’t still live under her skin.

“me too,” she finally whispered, brushing her nose against his. “so much.”

he kissed her again. deeper. longer. her lips trembled against his, but she didn’t cry—not yet. just held him tighter, her soft moans landing in his ear like confessions, her hands running down his back, memorizing every ridge of him like he might slip away again.

he moved inside her like they had all the time in the world.

and for a moment, they did.

he was still buried inside her, hips moving in those slow, shallow rolls like he never wanted to stop. but the urgency had passed. the storm had calmed. and when she brushed her fingers gently along the nape of his neck, murmuring his name soft and low, he sighed against her mouth, like her touch was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

he pulled out with a soft groan, breath catching as he left her warmth. but before the space between them could feel too wide, she reached down and wrapped her hand around him—slow, smooth, and intentional.

he hissed, his body jolting from the sudden touch, already so close from everything they’d done that he twitched in her palm, leaking for her.

“shh,” she whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear, “just let me take care of you.”

her hand moved slow at first, slick and steady, her thumb brushing the tip every so often in a way that made his hips jerk and his breath come harder. her other hand rested on his hip, anchoring him as she stroked him with a rhythm that was both loving and filthy. his eyes fluttered shut, forehead falling to her shoulder, chest rising and falling fast as she murmured to him—sweet nothings and soft gasps of filth.

“you’re so fucking perfect like this,” she breathed, kissing his temple, “so hard for me still. you liked fucking me that much, huh?”

he groaned—whimpered—a quiet, broken sound that made her clench around nothing. she could feel him tensing, his muscles twitching under her hand, his moans getting tighter, shorter, more desperate.

“gonna cum for me, baby?” she whispered, lips dragging along his jaw now, her pace quickening just a little. “all over my hand? let me feel you lose it, joon.”

his hips stuttered once—twice—and then he did, cumming hard, hot, thick spurts painting her hand and her stomach again, his mouth open in a soft, wrecked sound that died against her throat. he trembled, completely spent, and she held him close, kissing the corner of his mouth as he shuddered through the aftershock.

he collapsed on top of her a moment later, body heavy and boneless, his breath loud in the quiet room, mouth still parted against her skin.

she didn’t mind the weight. not one bit.

her clean hand slid into his hair, damp with sweat, fingers gently massaging his scalp, nails lightly grazing as she whispered soothing little circles into his crown. he hummed against her chest, nuzzling in deeper, her heartbeat loud and steady beneath his cheek.

neither of them spoke for a long while.

but in that silence, her hand never left his hair. and he never moved from the curve of her body.

he stayed on her chest for a moment longer, breathing deep, eyes closed like he could hold back the tide if he just didn’t look up. but even with her fingers carding through his hair, even with her heartbeat steady beneath his ear, the weight in his chest kept growing.

he lifted his head slowly, and even that felt like too much. the air shifted. the warmth between them cooled by a breath.

“what are we doing, (y/n)?” he asked, barely above a whisper, his voice already frayed. his eyes searched hers—deep, dark, desperate. looking for something. for regret, maybe. a sign that she wanted to take it back, that this had just been a moment of weakness, a one-night undoing they’d sweep under the rug come morning.

but there wasn’t any.

not in her eyes. not in her touch.

she blinked, then gave a small smile that didn’t quite reach all the way. “well,” she said, breathless, trying for lightness, “you�� fucked the shit out of me just now. so… i’d say we’re about four orgasms past asking that question.”

he let out a short, breathy laugh—but it didn’t last. not really.

his eyes didn’t leave hers. and hers… started to falter.

because she could see it. that flicker behind his gaze. the one that said he was trying not to feel too much, not to fall too hard all over again when the edge of her skin still felt like home.

and god—she could feel herself starting to unravel.

“joon,” she whispered, softer now. her clean hand cupped the side of his face, thumb brushing along the line of his cheekbone. “it’s okay.”

“is it?” he asked, the words sharp but the tone anything but. it wasn’t anger. it was fear. “because it doesn’t feel like it should be. it feels like I just—like we just opened a wound we spent a year trying to close.”

she bit her bottom lip. looked up at the ceiling for a second like she was searching for the courage not to let the sting in her eyes turn into tears.

“i’m not sorry,” she said eventually. quietly. “not for a second.”

he looked at her for a long time, as if her answer both soothed and destroyed him.

his hand found her waist under the sheets, gentle now, grounding. like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to hold her—but he couldn’t not.

“me either,” he said.

and yet… the silence said everything else.

“we should probably clean up,” she murmured, voice husky but gentle as she traced lazy fingers down the line of his spine. “we’re both covered in sweat and cum.”

he let out a low, sleepy laugh, forehead still resting against her collarbone. “mmm, that we are.”

it took them a minute to untangle. not because they were too tired, but because every time they shifted, one of them stole another kiss—slow, unhurried, more lips than tongue now. soft breaths, forehead touches, the kind of kisses that meant stay without ever needing to say it.

they padded to the bathroom in silence, limbs heavy, hands brushing. and once inside, under the dim overhead light, the intimacy only deepened.

he turned on the shower and stepped in first, then held out his hand for her without a word. she followed, the water pouring down over both of them, steam curling around their skin as he reached for the shampoo like it was the most natural thing in the world.

he moved slowly, fingers in her hair, massaging her scalp with gentle care. her eyes fluttered shut, arms resting around his waist, her cheek pressed to his chest. and when it was her turn, she did the same—dragged her fingers through his hair with a touch that made his knees weak, washed his shoulders and his neck with the pads of her fingers like she was memorizing him all over again.

there was no hunger in it. no spark of lust.

just something closer.

every few moments, one of them would lean in to kiss the other—wet, slow kisses that tasted like water and exhaustion. a kiss to the shoulder. one to the temple. one on the mouth that lingered longer than it should’ve.

they dried off together, standing close, sharing a towel, her eyes following the slope of his back like she was afraid it’d disappear.

he pulled on the shirt she handed him. it was one of his, left behind long ago—somehow still folded in the back of her dresser drawer. she didn’t say anything when he smiled at it. didn’t have to.

and when they were standing in her bedroom again, the air thick with the scent of clean skin and old memory, he moved toward the door almost instinctively—like he should go.

like this had been enough.

“you don’t have to leave,” she said softly, her voice cutting through the quiet like a thread pulled loose.

he turned slowly, met her eyes.

and god, she looked so bare. not just physically—wrapped in nothing but a towel and damp hair—but emotionally. open. honest. a little afraid.

“stay,” she added, quieter this time. “please.”

his throat worked. like the word caught there.

and then, finally—he nodded.

not dramatic. not with a speech. just a quiet, yes written into the way he came back to her, climbed into her bed, and pulled her into his arms like she belonged there.

because maybe she still did.

they slipped under the sheets like they’d done it a thousand times before—because they had. the weight of the covers settled over them like a secret, like something sacred. her head tucked under his chin, one of his arms curved tightly around her waist, the other splayed across her ribs, his thumb brushing gentle lines over her skin like he had to keep reminding himself she was real.

his breathing was steady against her hair, his legs tangled with hers, the kind of closeness that was impossible to fake. and for the first time in over a year, they weren’t bracing for the next blow. no accusations. no fear.

just truth. in its rawest, sleepiest form.

“i thought you hated me,” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

his hand tightened around her waist, just a little. “never,” he said, almost immediately. “i just… didn’t know how to stop missing you without falling apart.”

she closed her eyes, felt that break something in her. a soft exhale left her mouth. “i never stopped missing you,” she admitted. “even when i said i was fine. even when i laughed with my friends and told them i was over it.”

he didn’t answer right away. just pressed his lips to her forehead, long and warm. like he was apologizing for the space that had stretched between them.

“every time i passed that coffee place you loved,” he said, voice low, “i had to walk the other way.”

she blinked hard, tears threatening. “i deleted your number like three times. memorized it anyway.”

he let out a soft laugh through his nose. not happy, not sad. just knowing.

the silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. full of everything they’d carried in their chests for twelve long months. full of what-ifs and why-nots. full of the ache of having loved each other and the even deeper ache of still loving each other now.

she turned in his arms, nose brushing his, their eyes meeting in the dark. “i didn’t mean to send that message,” she said. “not really. i was drunk, and sad, and tired of pretending i didn’t still—”

“i’m glad you did,” he interrupted softly. “i’ve read it at least a dozen times. didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t ruin us all over again.”

she reached up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “you didn’t ruin anything, joon. we just… broke. but we never stopped meaning something.”

he kissed her then.

slow. deep. different.

like he heard her.

when they pulled apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together, their breath tangled, hearts pounding in quiet sync.

“can we stay like this?” he murmured, not quite a question, not quite a plea.

“for as long as we want,” she whispered back.

and they stayed.

no promises.

just warmth, and weight, and the hope that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the end.

he stayed quiet for a moment longer, just watching her, the way her eyes blinked slowly up at him in the dark. the way her breath steadied when he touched her like that—gently, reverently, like touching something breakable but beloved. his thumb traced her cheekbone, her jaw, the curve of her lip, and when she kissed the pad of it—just a light brush, soft and sure—something inside him settled.

“okay,” he said at last, the word nearly swallowed by the stillness.

her brows furrowed, and he saw the flicker of uncertainty before he caught her chin between his fingers and smiled, just a little.

“we can try,” he said, clearer this time. “if you want to… really try. no more running. no more pretending we’re fine when we’re not.”

her lips parted—surprised, maybe—but she nodded almost immediately. like she’d been waiting to hear that exact thing from the moment he walked into that bathroom corridor and looked at her like she still mattered.

“i do,” she said. no hesitation. “i want to.”

he exhaled then, not shakily, but with the kind of relief that made his whole chest sink into hers.

“me too,” he murmured. “so much.”

they kissed again. slower now, but full. full of things they hadn’t said. full of the ache and the years and the breathless kind of hope that blooms when you stop lying to yourself.

his arms wrapped tighter around her. hers curled beneath his. their legs tangled like they’d never been untangled in the first place.

and this time, when the silence settled around them, it wasn’t heavy.

it was safe.

the kind of quiet you only get when the worst part is over, and something better is starting.

they’d hurt. they’d healed. they’d found their way back through the noise and the hurt and the time.

and now—together, in the dark, skin warm, bodies still humming with memory—they were choosing it.

again.

and this time, they meant it.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove

[dulcecherub]

Sugar! Honey! Love!

Summary: Rafe’s point of view of Sofia. (My version of it at least)

Author’s note: I know this man is delusional as fuck. So I will be writing him as such. This does not reflect how I see him. Or what I think. We know this boy thinks highly of himself. Or at least he tries to justify everything he does. I consider him to be an unreliable narrator.So I am writing him as such. That man is twisted. So his narrative to me has always been twisted as well.

So sweet to me/ So sweet to me

He remembered the first ever time he’d seen her. He had done a double take, taken aback by her beauty. His heart lurched, his glass still pressed onto his lips. She spoke amicably to her co-worker. Her beautiful eyes fell onto him and he felt his world stop. She was so beautiful; fuck…

He was never the shy type. Once he knew he wanted someone, he didn’t wait to go and get them. He remembered their conversation, the way she fluttered her lashes at him. The way a surge of pride spread across him. He felt for once he was truly seen. Someone who could possibly genuinely care.

Maybe they’d done things too fast. But she had been so kind to him. So damn sweet. He couldn’t help not showing up as himself. As his true self. The one that no one ever got to see. The one that wasn’t labeled a monster. To Sofia, he wasn’t a monster. He was different. He wasn’t like the other Kooks. He was someone worth caring for.

Woop, there's another one, who could I ever trust

Anger; red hot and icy traveled down his body. He could only clench his jaw as he hung up on her. His leg kicking at any nearby object can find.

“Fuck!” Tears were pricking his eyes, obscuring his view. He wiped violently at his face. His hands shook into fist, “Fuck!”

He’d promised himself; he wouldn’t let anyone hurt him the way others have. He had kept too many promises he clearly couldn’t keep.

And neither could she.

He felt so foolish. He’d given her his mother’s ring, for crying out loud! He had made sure to reassure her that she was the only one he wanted. That she was who he wanted to be with. There was no one else. So why did she stab him in the back? Letting him feel crossed. He zoomed faster on the bike. His anger festering, becoming an ugly thing.

Woop, there's another one, who, tell me who can I trust?

He sat away from the others as they spoke amongst themselves. His attention briefly going to Kiara. Another person who’d betrayed him too. That one didn’t sting. He shouldn’t have been so trusting then. But it did hurt when he thought back to it. He’d done her a solid and she completely tucked the rug out of his feet. But she was one of them. So of course—

Did that mean Sofia was—

He wiped away at his eyes, lying to himself that it was only sweat from the heat. They were on their way back home. Defeated. Unsure where Groff was. And the only thing Rafe really cared about; was Sofia. He couldn’t wrap his head around why she’d hurt him. What had he done to make her do that to him? He closed his eyes and hoped an answer would come up somehow. He knew it wouldn’t.

Woop, there's another one, swear at this point, I've seen it all/So nothin' shocks me anymore

Barry let out a belly laugh as Rafe told him what happened. Rafe could only glare at him, humiliation pooling in his stomach.

“Holy shit, country club. She did you dirty.”

“Shut up Barry.”

Barry just continued to laugh. He stared at Barry, another person who had betrayed him. For what, money? Just like Sofia had. Fate had an odd relationship with him. This was always the outcome to anyone he’d ever gotten close to. Anyway, he bared his soul too.

“You’re an asshole.”

“I’m a lot of things, country club.”

That was the end of that. Rafe left Barry to sit outside of his trailer.

Sick and tired of betrayal, tell me, who can I trust?

And I did all my time/ for a crime that wasn’t mine

He had to be cursed. Maybe he should have heeded Barry’s warnings when they’d melted the cross. His greed is was a hungry thing. He wanted to prove to everyone that he could do it. Be the man of the family. That was what had so important to him. Nothing else mattered. He wanted to prove to his dad he could do it. Be the leader. Be the one he relied on.

His dad was gone now.

It all felt so trivial now. Why did it matter so much? Why did he risk so much to get absolutely nothing back. Was this what being a man was truly like? Give, give, give. Then everyone else just took, took, took. He wasn’t sure if he was even thinking straight anymore.

He had to be cursed. His fate was sealed the day he’d— he’d killed Peterkin. But he had a reason! He wasn’t doing it just to do it. He had a reason. She was going to kill his dad. But he wasn’t so sure anymore. He couldn’t remember past the cocaine haze. His brain had been going faster than a minute. He couldn’t think straight.

Made it out alive, now I'm letting the sun/Shine on me and my sweet sugar honey love

She was something special. The moment he had met her, he knew that to be true. His eyes met hers and it was like he was stucked in. No one else mattered.

He would do anything for her. Give her anything she wanted if she asked. So why, what the hell did he do to deserve what he got from her?

Things had been so good between them. What was the straw that broke the camels back?

And I, I had almost given up hope/Till I met a love so pure and true/Day I met you, babe, freed me from the fear, you put the blood back in my heart

He wanted answers and he was going to get them. A weird part of him knew he could never get rid of her. Not in his heart nor his soul. He wanted answers and he was going to get them. She’d imprinted herself onto his heart and he was going to keep it like that. No matter how much it hurt. Despite the pain. Despite the betrayal. Call it toxic for all he cares.

She was still his.

Every day was gray, you put color back to my world/Sugar honey, you gave me so much more to live for

[zyart-jpg]

“404: Not Just a Gremlin”

Pairing: Wooin Yoo x Reader

Summary: He thought you were just a dude that supplies him drugs.

Tags: Genderbender, Suggestive, Drugs mentioned, Clubbing, Alcohol usage, Reader is a storefront runner, COMEDY I SWEAR I TRIED

A/N: im unemployed, yall!!!!!!!!! finally have freedom ;D

It wasn’t clean work, never claimed it was.

But it paid well—and you were damn good at it.

You weren’t out pushing pills or mixing chemicals in some underground lab. You were behind the screen. Rerouting transactions, scrubbing trails, keeping the network alive. Fake storefronts, crypto wallets, ghost accounts—you knew the supply, the runners, the paths.

Call it what you want. You called it business.

Tucked behind flickering monitors in your busted old PC bang, you ran a quiet little empire. To outsiders, it was just a gaming café—cheap rates, sticky keyboards, and the constant drone of teens yelling over gunfire and lag.

But to those in the know? It was the pickup point. Dealers came in, grabbed their box, left. No names, no faces. Easy.

You? Just the owner. Quiet, forgettable. Exactly how you liked it.

Well—almost.

“Heya~”

There it was—the downside.

“How’s my favorite manager doing, huh?”

You didn’t even look up. Hoodie low, fingers typing. Just sighed loud enough for the dramatics to hear.

The duo was already leaning over the counter like they paid rent. The shorter one—trademark smug grin, lollipop in mouth—popped it out just to talk more shit.

“Still giving me the cold shoulder? You’re breaking my heart, manager,” Wooin whined like a brat who didn’t get his candy.

You stood, grabbed the box from the back shelf, dropped it on the counter without a word.

Wooin Yoo: Club rat. Dealer. Professional pain in your ass. Somehow turned pestering you into a nightly routine.

He picked up the box with a grin. “Thanks, bro. You’re the real MVP.”

“Shut your ass up and scram,” you muttered, sliding back into your chair.

“Cold as ever.” He clicked his tongue. “Seriously, what do you even do in here all day? Jerk off to code?”

You didn’t look up. “Yeah. And you just ruined the climax. Thanks.”

He laughed, slapping the counter. “You’re such a freak. I like that about you.”

“Overdose already,” you mumbled.

“See? This is why we vibe,” he said, tapping the lollipop against your monitor. “Mysterious, hostile, probably sleep-deprived—you’re just my type, bro.”

You finally glanced up, just enough for your eyes to meet his.

Flat. Bored. Unbothered.

“Flirting’s not gonna get you a discount.”

Wooin grinned. “Didn’t say it was. Just sayin’—if I swung that way...”

You raised a brow. “If?”

He blinked. “Wait, are you flirting back now?”

You leaned in slightly, deadpan. “Do you want me to?”

He blinked again. Laughed nervously. “Okay, kinda scared. Kinda intrigued. Can’t tell if you’d punch me or kiss me.”

“Flip a coin,” you said, already turning back to your screen.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, staring a little too long. “I swear, you’re the hottest gamer goblin I’ve ever met.”

You didn’t correct him.

Let him think what he wants. It's easier that way.

–

Clubs were a balm for his messed-up soul—no doubt about it.

Let the bass rattle his bones, let the lights blur his thoughts. Scope the room for someone pretty, slip a tab or two, maybe end the night tangled with a stranger. That was the rhythm of nightlife—the kind he lived for.

Morality? Please.

He was never gunning for sainthood—where’s the thrill in playing it safe?

If he wanted a quiet life, he wouldn’t be out here pushing pills for fast cash. Hell, he wouldn’t have split his tongue, pierced half his damn face, or carved himself into someone society couldn’t swallow.

So yeah—look him in the eye and see if he gives a damn.

And speaking of things he does give a damn about—

There she was.

Perched at the bar, legs crossed, skin glowing under the wash of neon. Pretty. Effortless. Bored enough to be dangerous. Just the kind of trouble he liked to chase.

Wooin slid in beside you with the ease of someone who’s never been told no in a way that stuck. Elbow on the counter, lollipop tucked between his teeth like punctuation. Confident. Lazy. Dangerous.

“Hey,” he said, voice dipped in syrup and sin. “You look like you need something sweeter than whatever’s in that glass.”

He caught the sideways glance you gave him—sharp, bored, and unimpressed. Your lashes barely lifted, and yet that one look rolled straight through him like you’d already read the script and hated the ending.

He smirked, unbothered.

“Damn, rolling your eyes when I haven’t even misbehaved yet?” he chuckled, teeth flashing as he leaned a little closer. “That’s cold, ma.”

The bartender slid over a glass of whatever he always got—he didn’t look, didn’t need to. His focus was locked. There was something about the curve of your jaw, the way you leaned against the counter like you owned the night. 

Familiar. Too familiar.

His smile twitched, just slightly.

He took a sip, studying you from the rim of his glass.

“Have we met?” he asked, tone still smooth but a shade more cautious now.

You turned to him slowly, all deliberate grace—like you had no reason to rush, like time moved for you. Hair slid off your shoulder as you tucked it behind your ear, revealing a discreet earpiece that gleamed under the bar’s chaotic lights.

Wooin’s gaze dragged over you, and yeah—he’d smash. Obviously. Silk slipping over skin like a whisper? lips painted that deep, cruel red? You looked like trouble in the prettiest packaging, the kind of girl who walked away with a guy’s pride in her purse. 

But something tugged at the edges of his mind.

The way your eyes narrpwed. The tiny sigh that escaped you. That look of exasperation like you’d known him all your life and were already tired of his shit.

His smile faltered. Just a flicker.

He squinted at you, the light shifting overhead. Shadows rolled across your face and for half a second—something clicked.

His stomach dropped.

No way.

It couldn’t—

“Shut your ass up and scram, Wooin,” you muttered, not even sparing him a full glance.

His jaw practically hit the floor.

“Manager?!” he half-shouted, then slapped a hand over his mouth as a couple at the end of the bar turned to look.

He leaned in closer, eyes bugging out, voice dropping to a frantic whisper like it was state secrets he’d just uncovered.

“No fucking way—you’re a chick?!”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle you didn’t pull something.

“Wow,” you muttered, flat and unimpressed. “Sexist and stupid. What a combo.”

“Holy shit,” he exhaled, practically vibrating as he stared at you like you’d just sprouted a second head—one he was weirdly into. “You’ve been hot this whole time? And you never said anything?!”

You cocked a brow, already exasperated. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I mean, I just—” He gestured vaguely at your face. “I always thought you were, like... some dude...or a gremlin in a hoodie. You always looked like you hated daylight and happiness.”

You sipped your drink. “Still do.”

“Yeah, but now you’re—fuck, you’re, like—dangerously hot.”

You turned fully to him, resting an elbow on the bar as you looked him over with deliberate slowness. “And you’re still wearing that ugly-ass yellow glasses and thinking it’s a personality.”

He clutched his chest. “Oof. Brutal.”

“Accurate.”

He let out a laugh, grinning even wider. 

“I can’t believe this. All this time, I’ve been annoying the hell out of you thinking you were some grumpy little dude with carpal tunnel and a porn addiction—”

“And I let you think that,” you said, tilting your glass toward him in mock cheers, “because you’d never shut up otherwise.”

“I don’t know whether to be offended or turned on,” he muttered.

“Go with turned on,” you said dryly. “You’re easier to handle when you're distracted.”

He snorted into his drink, then leaned in, eyes gleaming now—not with shock, but curiosity. Interest.

“Okay, but, like—real talk. You always this hot under all that fabric? Or did you do this just to mess with me?”

You smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

His gaze dipped—subtle, lingering, not even pretending to hide it now.

“Actually,” he said, his voice dropping a touch lower, warmer, “yeah. I really, really would.”

The air between you thickened—less banter now, more charged. More aware.

You raised your brow again, but your smile was slower this time. 

 “Wooin.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I am.”

Silence. Or maybe not silence—just that kind of hum that fills the air when things shift. When tension stops being playful and starts becoming something else.

You looked down at your drink, then back up at him, eyelashes brushing your cheeks as you spoke.

“My shift ends in twenty,” you said. Casual. Measured. But not vague.

Wooin’s smile twitched, then grew into something unholy.

“Cool,” he said, leaning back with a lazy stretch. “I was just about to ask if you wanted to keep talking somewhere less... flourescent.”

“Oh?” You sipped, slow. “And where would that be?”

He shrugged, eyes glittering.

“I dunno. My place has softer lighting. Warmer... atmosphere. Fewer strangers.”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. 

“Sounds sketchy.”

“Only mildly,” he grinned. “But I’ll even throw in a second lollipop and let you bully me the entire night.”

You laughed into your glass, shaking your head—but you didn’t say no.

Didn’t have to.

You just said, “Twenty minutes, then.”

And Wooin, already victorious, tapped his glass to yours.

“Worth the wait.”

MASTERLIST

[ladyhoneydarlinglove]

one piece fic | zosan | pride kisses 2025 challenge

{REMEMBERED KISS}

(CONTEXT BEFORE READING: so i was going back through WCI while working on this prompt and discovered this particular panel of sanji telling reiju "i thought i could just sacrifice myself and everything else would be fine! what kind of fantasy world was i living in?" and thought 'oh hell yes, i can TOTALLY make this moment that has objectively nothing to do with zoro into a zosan thing about thriller bark' :)c )

It’s funny, Sanji thinks as he trudges back to his room through the pouring rain. Ever since he arrived on Whole Cake Island, every time he thinks he’s finally hit rock bottom, the ground goes out from under him again to swallow him whole. He wonders briefly what could possibly be the next thing that’s going to go catastrophically wrong, and then decides that it doesn’t really matter.

He’s going to die tomorrow. Nothing matters anymore.

His jaw clenches, tears dripping slowly down his cheeks as he grapples with this new reality in which everything he’d tried to do—for his crew, for Zeff, even for himself—has ultimately served no purpose. Sanji really, truly thought that if he just sacrificed himself, if he was the only one suffering, then everything else would be fine. He knows that his life has never been worth much, but he had hoped that it at least had enough value to buy some safety for the people he loves. To realize he can’t even achieve that much…

It sort of feels like Thriller Bark all over again, with Sanji offering himself belly-up upon the altar only for Zoro to say in everything but words that no, that isn’t good enough, you’re not good enough—

What kind of fucking fantasy world are you living in? 

Sanji stops, tears welling up hot and heavy as they begin to pour down his face in earnest while a pitiful sob forces its way out of his throat. No, he thinks to himself. That’s not fair to Zoro. Sanji was the only one on Thriller Bark who thought that even if his life didn’t mean much, at least his death could. Who naively believed that if only he could sacrifice himself, then everything else would be fine. It stings something fierce to realize how much he apparently didn’t learn his lesson.

Why the fuck didn’t you let me take your place, asshole! This crew needs you!

Oh what, and they don’t need you?

You could always find another cook, shithead! But a first mate—

Oh, bull fucking shit, twirly-brow! You really think we could just go out there and find another cook capable of even half of what you do on a regular basis? What kind of fucking fantasy world are you living in?

This is nothing like Thriller Bark, and Sanji knows it. Zoro didn’t stop him from offering himself up to Kuma because he thought Sanji wasn’t good enough; he’d stopped him because he thought Sanji’s life was too valuable to simply throw away. 

Zoro has…

Zoro has always been good at that. Seeing the inherent value in people that they can’t see themselves and reassuring them of it in his own awkwardly blunt way. Sanji has always admired that about him.

Sanji has always admired a lot of things about Zoro.

He slumps against the nearest wall, uncaring of the rough scrap of stone against his back as he slides down, or the wetness that begins seeping into his pants the moment his bottom hits the ground. Sanji buries his face in his hands and then cries like he hasn’t cried since the day his mother died—with all of his body, heart, and soul.

And in the midst of all that crying, remembers something that happened what feels like an entire lifetime ago.

Sanji.

Thanks for being there when I woke up.

Sanji slides one hand down his face until the tips of his fingers rest against his lips as he recalls the soft, barely there brush of Zoro’s kiss that night in the galley, a mirror of the one he’d left at the corner of the swordsman’s mouth three days prior, when Sanji sat by his beside and quietly begged him to wake up because he couldn’t imagine a life that didn’t have Zoro in it. 

Zoro in front of him, heads butting together in another heated argument. Zoro by his side, helping in the kitchen and doing dishes after meals whenever Sanji asked him to, no matter how much he might grumble and complain about it. Zoro at his back during a fight, in perfect sync with each other without either of them ever having to say a word, because that’s just how it’s always been between them. A push-and-pull, a back-and-forth, a song-and-dance that no matter how at odds they might find themselves, has always ended in a perfect balance, a perfect harmony.

Sanji wanted so badly to believe that he could find that somewhere else too. That maybe Pudding—dear, sweet Pudding, the one silver lining he thought he had in this whole fucked up mess—could fill the Zoro-shaped void in his chest. That even if all his other dreams were shattered, this one—a life spent with a wonderful, loving wife, the kind of wife Sanji’s always thought that he should want—might be able to survive intact.

What kind of fucking fantasy world are you living in?

Sanji lets both his hands drop into his lap, tipping his head back against the wall and staring blankly up at the dark clouds and pouring rain above.

He’s going to die tomorrow. Pudding said herself that she plans to put a bullet between his eyes. Nothing matters anymore.

And if nothing matters anymore, then maybe…

Maybe Sanji can stop lying to himself. Just for a little while. 

He’s been doing it for so long, after all. Since the day they got separated at Sabaody, since the aftermath of Thriller Bark, since riding the sea train from Water 7 to Enies Lobby, since the Davy Back Fight, since that first messy, violent kiss in Alabasta.

Since Arlong fucking Park, when Zoro yelled at him—

Thirty seconds! I won’t last more than that!

And Sanji had yelled back—

That’s plenty!

It was the trust, he thinks. Trust is something that has never come easily to Sanji; usually it has to be painstakingly earned with blood and sweat, tears and time. He knows Zoro is the same way; has seen it in the sharpness of his gaze whenever they enter a new place and meet new people, always watching, always waiting for the next threat to the crew.

And yet, even though they barely knew each other back then, Zoro gave Sanji his trust at Arlong Park without a second thought. 

What was Sanji supposed to do, except try and return it in kind?

What was he supposed to do, except start falling in love?

Sanji could never admit it to himself before now—too scared, too stubborn, too in his own head about what he should want versus what he actually wants. But he’s going to die tomorrow and nothing matters anymore and Sanji loves Roronoa Zoro. He loves him so fucking much. He has for a long, long time.

And it doesn’t fucking matter because unless there’s a goddamn miracle waiting in the wings for him, Sanji is going to die tomorrow.

Fuck.

(optional reading: bsky thread feat. my thoughts on why i think this particular moment is the one where sanji can no longer hide from his feelings for zoro (click the second post to get the whole thing, i fucked up the thread somehow).)

[be-ready-when-i-say-go]

Heart of the Matter--Chapter 7: Catalysis

Joe meets his rather elusive football icon, Trey Dominic, and worries he might barely be able to get a sentence out. But what waits for him is so much bigger than one singular first impression.

With matters of the heart on the line, every play will count.

Black F!OC (Marlowe) x Joe Burow.

Series Masterlist | Series Playlist | Joe Burrow Masterlist | Main Masterlist

___________________________________

Joe chews on the corner of his phone. 

The plastic of his case is bland. Not to mention, it’s not hygienic. Yet, it’s the only thing he can think to do that’s not commenting something entirely inappropriate under the post. It’s not like he didn’t get first hand glimpses at these photos.

His phone rattled while he was in the midst of a bite—the pulled pork sandwich was messy and the sauce dripped all over his hands. But he still stretched to type in his passcode with his pinkie. And there, sat on his screen were a collection of pictures. The kind of pictures that Joe swore he’d never actually get from Marlowe—not right now, not while they were still in limbo between friends and something more—until they were staring back at him. She seemed much too shy, not much the type to play that kind of card in the game they were in. Yet, Marlowe managed to shock him. 

Joe wouldn’t have been able to tell a soul what was happening in the background of any of those photos of his first look through, even if his life depended on it. He wouldn’t be able to list a single person who was also in the shot either. All there was was Marlowe in the fucking red string bikini, her gold jewelry dazzling off her skin, calling out to the sun around her to make them sparkle over her wrist and ankle and ears. 

Joe salivated at the sight. Well, he choked first around his bite and then salivated. 

Was this what time brought? Was this the reward for patience? Because if so, Joe would find zen. He’d meditate, find stillness even when his stomach churned for more if this holy grail of photos waited for him at every turn.

In all honesty, Joe’s still salivating nearly a week later, especially now at the sight of those photos again in her latest photo dump. 

He unlocks his phone again. The device takes him immediately to where he left off--Marlowe’s Instagram page. Her latest post is tiny on the screen until he taps it and the first picture in the carousel loads--a group shot of her and her friends, drinks in hand, cheersing. He swipes again: a close up shot of Marlowe grinning. Joe swipes a third time and his heart rate spikes, thundering against the thin muscle: a full body shot of Marlowe, teasing her fingers around the strings of the bottoms, hiking them up just a hair on her hip. He wants a taste as notices the few drips of either sweat or water on her skin, salty or sweet doesn’t matter. Joe wants it on his fucking tongue. 

Marlowe’s no tiny woman. She’s not thin or petite. 

She’s tall, a muscularity that tells Joe she does work out, even if it’s not religiously so. The curve of her ass peeking out just enough from the side shot to turn every one of Joe’s thoughts perverted. The soft ‘B’ shape of her stomach is on proud display with her stance--a line that Joe would kill to trace her from hip to hip with kisses right at the top of her pelvis. She’s not all hard lines, not airbrushed in a way that makes her look faked. Marlowe is meticulously made, shaped with care, intentionally solid and human. She looks carved, the kind of shape that Joe thinks gods would fight over. 

To make matters worse: Joe picked this photo too. 

He didn’t have to. When she sent the initial batch there were plenty of others, some of her sitting down, others of her leaned over the railing of the boat, a coy smile on her lips as she looked over her shoulder to the camera. But Marlowe asked so simply: Which ones are your favorite? 

Joe answered. He fucking answered with little thought, with little hesitation that this photo right here was his absolute top choice. Joe, of course, selected others that were much more platonic—the group shot because it looked like she was actually having fun, the one of her smiling close up, one of her reaching for the phone in a blur of what looked like, if Joe could imagine, was her attempting to end the photoshoot, laughing at something. 

But this side shot of her teasing at the thin, oh so thin, string of the bottoms makes Joe’s toes curl.  If he had known it would’ve made the post on Instagram, Joe would’ve chosen differently so that he could savor this one just for himself. A selfish and greedy desire, but goddamn is Joe selfish and greedy right now. 

“She’s going to kill me,” he mutters to himself, staring at the photo. He doesn’t think he’d mind it either, if Marlowe did. 

Joe’s dilemma is not helped that he’s sitting on a text to her too. He really needs to send it too. Rip the bandaid off. It just feels like too much. Like instead of giving Marlowe the space and time she asked for, Joe would instead be smothering her. It’s low stakes. Or maybe not. Inviting Marlowe over for his July 4th barbecue that his family would undoubtedly be attending early on in the day too does not feel like low stakes.

There is a gentler way to broach the topic Joe’s sure but he can’t think straight right now. He stares at the post again—spies the already filled heart from his earlier like of the post. It’s burning his fingers the longer he waits. He doesn’t know if he should say anything—probably not—but he wants to say something. Doing so would surely cause a riot though for his username to show up. 

It’s a dangerous game as his fingers tap over the keys. Looks like you had fun. A true statement. But lame. He deletes it. 

Wish I could’ve been there. Comes across too strong. Joe wishes he could’ve been there, but it’s a little too direct for his liking. He taps the backspace until there’s nothing left but the blinking cursor. 

Did Q need the floaties? It’s funny, an inside joke. But Joe’s worried that it’ll seem too aloof. Like he’s not aware of the banter that she’s engaging him in. He sighs as he deletes the typed comment. 

You’re telling me this is what I missed out on in Miami? Something about the tease feels right. It teeters right on the edge of too much without falling flat. It’s just flirty enough. Even if it took Joe too long to get to it. 

His thumb shakes above the arrow. Should he comment? Joe doesn’t want to cross the line. He doesn’t want to pressure Marlowe. But he thinks to the teasing text: Which ones are your favorite? That didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like chess, like her moving pawns and rooks. 

It felt like a glimpse of hope, the teasing edge of promise. 

Commenting isn’t his style. Yet, Joe likes the tease. Likes that both he and Marlowe know he chose those photographs. 

He wants to comment. The fact that he follows Marlowe and that he checks her page for each new reel or post she makes is more than his normal. There’s no need to talk about how many of them are saved. No need in the slightest. Hell, just the like alone feels like it’s going to shatter the earth a little.

Joe can play chess too though. Joe can play the game. And if the earth shattered, if it all crumbled, at least he played it the way he wanted to play it. At least he would’ve put everything on the line.  

The moment he taps the up arrow and watches his comment fully load, Joe knows that gasoline only needs a match. He wonders if this could catch a spark. He doesn’t stick around to read the comments, though he can see them already trickling in before he can lock his phone: What is Joe doing here?! Hello?! 

It’s all he sees though as the darkness takes over the screen. If it weren’t him, if he were on the other side of the screen, he might wonder the same thing too. But Joe’s not. He’s living this; he’s the one, with eyes closed, still conjuring the sight of Marlowe’s body, the tease of the strings, the sun radiating off her skin. 

The daydream is interrupted by the chime of his ringtone. A sound he’s not shocked to hear, but does jolt him. Joe reaches blindly for the device, eyes just barely cracking open enough to swipe the right way to answer the call. “Hello?” he answers. It’s not a true clipped tone, but it’s firm. Joe can hear it echoed back to him. 

“Hi, Joe.”

The slight teasing rough edge to the voice forces Joe’s eyes open. His throat jumps with the rhythm of his heart. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. “Hi, Marlowe,” he nearly chokes out, her name an exhale over his lips. Did she see the comment already? 

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” The question comes even and slow. 

Joe’s hoping that’s a good sign. “No, sorry. I wasn’t looking at the caller ID. Was just…almost napping.” There were certainly a few more steps before Joe settled in for a nap, yet that information is better off withheld. 

“So yes, I did catch you at a bad time.”

“No,” Joe corrects. “Not a bad time.” Such a thing as a bad time doesn’t truly exist in relation to Marlowe. 

“You’re going to correct me no matter how many times I disagree with you.”

Joe grins. “Anyone ever told you you’re a fast learner?”

“A time or two,” Marlowe concedes. “Since, this is not a bad time, I’m curious if you have plans for the 4th.”

Direct. To the point. Maybe she hadn’t seen the comment yet. Though, the more Joe reflects on it, he’s not sure if he wants to know if she did see the comment. He likes that it’s brewing under the surface for him, a dirty little secret that would eventually get discovered. Joe exhales around her inquiry and pushes up from the reclined position. “I do. Do you?”

“I do. What are your plans?”

“I’m hosting a barbecue. What are yours?” 

A dance between their words. Each of them, Joe assumes, trying to assess who might be the first one to pull the trigger. Marlowe laughs, the sound vibrating through the receiver. “Damn it. We’re hosting a cookout too. What time is yours starting?”

“I told people 1. But I have a feeling some of the guys won’t show up until 2 easily.”

“Why so early?” she laughs. “Do you have a strict bedtime? You still have time to be free, you know?”

Joe snorts at the jab. “1 isn’t early. And my bedtime isn’t in effect just yet.”

“Joe, 1 is very early. We’re not starting until 3 and that’s at my mother’s insistence.”

“People are going to be starving.”

“They won’t. Would you be okay if I crashed yours for like an hour? I’ll bring a dish.”

Joe knows he has to come clean, has to tell Marlowe who is going to be there too if she decides to show up. The guys are easy, Ja’Marr and Tee will rib him, cackle in their corner. But his parents are a different can of worms. 

“I would love that,” Joe starts, slow, and pushes all the air out of his lungs before he inhales again. “My family’s coming down though too. So I don’t want that to blindside you.”

Her inhale is sharp—the harsh rush of air coming in that tells Joe exactly what he anticipated. Not the kind of news Marlowe was prepared for nor is the kind of situation one wants to put themselves into when they’ve asked for time neither. Not that Joe faults her. He’d met her family by total accident, an invitation that he extended and on a prayer to actually be able to talk to Trey. A kind of strange arrangement of chance encounters. This would be decidedly different. 

“Well, that makes sense.” Marlowe’s words are careful, always careful. “Who else did you invite?”

“Some of the guys from the team too and their families.”

The silence settles for a beat. Then two. Joe would not be upset if she decided to rescind her offer. It is a lot to knowingly walk into. He would be sad though. The image of her walking around in his backyard, laughing with his teammates, meeting his mother, it settles into his chest like it’s always fit there. 

“What’s on your menu?”

Joe blinks at the question. He should probably stop underestimating Marlowe, making assumptions only really makes an ass out of himself. “Uh, well, hamburgers, hotdogs,” Joe starts and then runs down the list of all the sides: coleslaw, potato salad, pasta salad, his mothers snickers salad, pies, drinks. He lists everything he can think of. 

“Mac’n’cheese? And what kind of potato salad is being made?”

“Uh, no on the mac’n’cheese from what I can remember.” It feels silly now that he had that kind of missight. Or maybe he’s just not remembering it right now correctly. “And potato salad—the right kind, I promise.” 

“With mustard?”

Joe snorts at the clarifying question. As if Marlowe does not trust a potato salad without the mustard. Not that Joe thinks he’d trust it either now that he’s had the dish with mustard. “Yes, with mustard, mayo, relish, eggs, the whole nine.”

“I will be there with mac’n’cheese and something extra. I’m glad to hear you have the correct potato salad. Any allergies?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue, begging to be released—a question about if she’s okay with his parents being there, knowing that they’ll definitely ask about her. “No allergies,” Joe answers in a whisper, throat jumping before it bobs with his hard swallow. “You’re sure you’re okay coming over? Knowing my parents will be there too?”

“You’ve met mine,” Marlowe returns. 

“I did invite your dad to my event, so it doesn’t really count.”

“It counts. I’ll see you on the fourth at 1PM. Mac’n’cheese in hand.”

“1PM. On the 4th.” An agreement, the kind of finality that Joe knows he doesn’t need to give with Marlowe. She is going to show up no matter what. 

“Do you dance by chance?” Marlowe asks. 

Joe’s not sure where the question will lead, but he sits up a little straighter. Marlowe’s a box of surprises. “I don’t do it well,” he huffs with a tuft of laughter escaping him. “But I’m not that terrible at it.”

“I’ve been trying to keep the art of the old school dancing alive by teaching Korey. It’s not as successful as I’d hoped. But she’s requested I send you the video. Be gentle with her.”

His phone shakes in his hands, a chime ringing right next to his ear. There’s still no mention of his comment. It’s still his dirty little secret for now. “Would you happen to have sign ups for these lessons?”

“It’s a trial run with our class of one currently. But we may have space for guests on a case by case basis.”

The tuft of laughter is soft as he pulls the phone away from his ear, taps to put her on speaker and then swipes to the notification. “Watching now,” Joe narrates, tapping to make the video full screen. 

The video starts with a rumble of Marlowe’s laughter. “Okay, bug, you have to excuse Auntie’s knees if they crack,” she states in the video. 

The sound of the music softens through the speakers of Joe’s phone as a new text comes through. Justine’s name at the top, Code 10. I repeat Code 10. Call me as soon as you get this, Joe. 

The roar of his heart makes his pits sweat. Even though Marlowe’s voice is in the background and the music thumps against the speakers of his phone, Joe’s focus is narrowed. There’s been very little in terms of a Code 10, damn near nothing except for the time that Justine requested a response as proof of life after Joe got sick with food poisoning. 

“Hey, Marlowe, can I give you a call right back? I’m so sorry about this. It’s urgent though.” He can’t explain what’s urgent though he can feel the words bubbling up on his tongue: something’s terribly wrong. 

“Yeah, of course. Hope everything’s alright. Call me back whenever. I can hang with the midnight oil.”

It’s a joke. It’s supposed to make him laugh. Even Joe knows that, but he’s staring instead at the Call me as soon as you get this, Joe. He’s never Joe with Justine. She’s always been professional in their interactions—a familiar jest to their exchanges, yet and still always professional. Their conversations are pretty direct—leaves no space for minced words and there’s little need to use names. But his name stares back at Joe. 

“Thanks, Marlowe,” Joe returns. 

His fingers are swiping out of text threads. The call to Marlowe ends with the distinct three beeps before Joe starts to dial Justine. He doesn’t take the phone off speaker, though the anxiety starts to crawl up his calves. Joe feels that right knee is starting to bounce the longer and longer the phone rings. 

The ‘pick up’ bashes at his teeth but he doesn’t get the chance to utter them. Joe doesn’t give himself the chance; instead choosing to exhale out all his breath before inhaling deeply again. 

The call connects. Joe watches the calling turn over into a timer. 

“I’m forwarding you everything I found. Have you checked your email?” The words are urgent, slip over Justine’s lips quick and clear. She sounds worried. It’s unlike Justine to truly worry. Even though she is young, she’s been focused, sharp— steady; Justine is steady, seemingly unshakable. But not right now. 

“No,” Joe answers, her fear making his words firm. Joe’s built for these moments when his heart is racing, when he’s holding everything by the fraying ends—Joe is built for these moments. He’s moving before his brain can comprehend that he needs to be moving. Justine’s email rests at the top, though Joe can see emails from his manager too underneath. 

“It’s not my business, I know,” Justine starts, “and it’s relatively small right now but I know there are corners of the internet that will take this and run with it.”

Another call lights up his phone before Justine’s email can finish loading—Frank, his manager. This is bad. Whatever it is that waits for him in the depths of these emails is bad, bone-chilling, sweaty pits bad. 

His inhale is sharp and deep and then he lets it out slowly. He can handle bad. Bad won’t break him. “Okay, thanks, Justine. Let me take this other call and I’ll get back with you.” 

“Yeah, sure, sure.” 

Joe switches calls over; the one from Justine slipping away with her hanging up. Once his manager connects, Joe goes back to his emails. He clicks on the first link, realizing now that the email is just a list of links—three—and one sentence. This is all I’ve seen so far about it. 

 “How you holding up?” Frank asks. 

It’s a rather simple question, at least on the surface. But Frank’s not the kind of guy to ask that without knowing what’s happening. Four little words that can bury a person, could bury Joe. The website’s faster though as it loads the bare light grey, white, and black background, the text a funky san serif font that Joe can’t place but hates nearly immediately as he reads, Bengals QB’s ex-lover tells all. The thundering roar turns into a crash of lightning. His grip on his phone tightens, the plastic is frail, the scratches from use etch into the calluses of his palm. 

“Paige,” Joe spits. 

“I take it you’re reading the email.” 

“I am.” It’s hot in his mouth, leaves his throat in a growl as he reads through the quick six or so paragraphs. None of what’s stated is technically wrong: met in secret, agreements, no public appearances, late night phone calls and texts, rules. It’s what Joe thought they both understood was to keep things just sexual. That would protect them both. But maybe it was just protecting him. 

Until now. 

“No one major has really picked up from what I can see. How do you want to handle this?”

“I need to make a call first. But we’re not moving just yet.” 

“Fair enough. This is shit though.” Joe’s glad to have people like Frank and even Justine—who get to the point. They don’t mince words. They don’t hedge. “We can do our best of course to keep it quiet, if you prefer. You know we’re always going to take care of you.” 

Quiet, Joe scoffs at the word. He’s not sure if there’s much in the way left with quiet. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, I know. Quiet right, so much for that. But we’ll do what we can. Just keep me posted. Good luck with that call.”

“Will do.”

As the call ends, another series of beeps to denote the hang up, Joe leans over to the coffee table to grab his second phone. Paige might’ve blocked one number, but she didn’t have both. It feels silly, tapping in her number off one phone into the second’s keypad, but Joe does it, muttering the digits back out loud to himself, area code and all. 

The line rings in his ear, a hollow sound against the beating of his heart. His heart rate has not slowed totally, but it is back to normal. Just like on the field, just like before a game, he tells himself to focus on one drive at a time, one pass at a time, one play at a time, one ring at a time. 

And the line rings, and rings, and rings. 

“Hello?” Her voice is timid, high pitched as always. 

“Paige,” Joe starts, “do you have a moment to talk?”

She could hang up. Joe realizes as the seconds hang that if she wanted to truly avoid him, she could and probably would hang up and block this number as well. Yet, she doesn’t. “I thought you would’ve called from your personal. Or is that number I have the burner?”

“We’re not doing this. If you’re upset with me for how I treated you, I understand. You could’ve talked to me about it. Instead, you went to the press about it and that’s a line too far.”

“What? Is your girlfriend making you do this? Does she even know about me, Joey?”

“Joe,” he corrects. “You can call me Joe. Or,” he brings his personal cell back up to his face, the article still where he left it after the screen went dark for the sleep mode, “I can be addressed as ‘a pathetic excuse of a man.’”

“I didn’t call you that, Joe.” The correction comes swift from her, burns with an anger that Joe feels in his bones.

It doesn’t scare him, her frustration and indignation. Just irks him. “You blocked me Paige. I texted you, to apologize for how I handled things.”

“You treated me like shit.”

Human, he wants to correct. But it’s not about Joe’s perception, that much is clear. It’s about how Paige was made to feel. It’s about how Joe made her feel. Joe saw the signs in Paige before Marlowe, but he didn’t want to cut off the arrangement—a selfish and greedy desire. He would’ve continued to justify her behavior if it meant he could keep getting what he wanted from her. And that’s not fair, nor right, but it definitely doesn’t justify her smear campaign either. Any problem Paige had with Joe should be brought to him. 

“I’m sorry for treating you like shit, for stringing you along.” It wasn’t right of Joe to do that. Joe didn’t handle that right. He’d admit to that. He had admitted to it, even if Paige hadn’t seen it. “I messed it up. I’ll own up to my mistake. But the press, Paige? The fucking tabloids?”

“I wanted you to hurt, like I did. Like I do.”

“And you picked a hell of a way to do it.” Joe’s not sure how much this is actually going to hurt. Though he does think about what would happen should Marlowe find out about this. She’s yet to seem like the type to listen much to the noise on social media. Yet, the thought still creeps up. Still makes him worried about the reaction. What if it’s not just about her either in the way she chooses to respond to this mess?

“I looked her up.” The confession is soft, sounds low and sad in Paige’s throat. “I saw those pictures when you were about in LA. And I’m angry it’s not me. And you’re not hiding her like you did me, if the comment today is any indication. It still makes me angry.”

Joe’s not sure if he should comfort. Because he understands why she’s angry, why she’s hurt. Yet in still, her retaliation feels low and underhanded. It feels deliberate and calculated. Because Joe doesn’t talk about his love life. He just doesn’t. The media doesn’t need it. It doesn’t change anything about how he plays on Sundays. There’s no reason to correct Paige either about how he and Marlowe aren’t technically together either, knowing how it might give her the wrong impression.

Joe sighs before he starts, “You can be angry, Paige. But what you did wasn’t right. I would’ve appreciated it more if you just came to me and cursed me out or something. I would’ve given you that space to vent to me.”

“Really, Joe? The same man that told me he was just treating me like a human being even though he was using me for sex?”

“I’m not perfect, Paige, no. But that doesn’t mean I won’t ever come around. Did my text ever go through to you?” He knows he deleted the thread from his phone, but he’s sure it’s still on his computer.  He doesn’t think he’d gone that far to delete it from there. Joe stretches out for the device, closed on the coffee table. 

“I don’t think so. I don’t have anything from you besides the text of you asking me to come over.”

The bottom of the laptop is cold against his thighs as Joe types in his password. He finds the messages app and scrolls to find the thread with Paige. There, near the bottom of the list, he finds her contact again. And there, like Joe hoped, is the last text he’d sent to Paige, or attempted to send to her rather. He takes a screenshot, including the date from back in March and sends it. 

“There’s something coming your way.” Would it even go through this time? Joe doesn’t hold his breath though, and sends the screenshot just so that he knows he did everything he could’ve done. The bubbled picture fills up his screen and Delivered settles beneath it in a soft grey.

The line is just the silent exchange of their breathing before Paige breathes out, “Oh.”

It’s childish to feel the ‘I told you so’ bubbling on his lips. Joe won’t say it. It’s not the time nor the place, but her dumbfoundedness feels right. Makes him feel even the tiniest bit vindicated. He could very well be wrong for that too. Yet, the truth remains: He wasn’t perfect about their agreement. And neither was she. 

“Yeah. Now, can I ask you something?”

“Oh, I feel like an idiot. But yeah.”

“You don’t ever have to answer this. I just want you to hear it: was it worth it?”

The seconds tick by slowly. More of their breaths rattle the speakers. There is only silence. Joe lets it thicken, lets it simmer between them. A minute passes. Joe counts the seconds. Then two. Joe hopes he can weather the storm he smells brewing now. Knows chaos is the only thing that’s to unravel here. 

Joe pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes shutting close and in the small bursts of reds and pale yellows from the light streaking into his house, Joe sees Marlowe’s face and he worries not about himself now. But about her. Would this affect her and her business? Would it impact her livelihood? He thinks about Korey, how Marlowe’s sure to protect her niece more than herself. 

Joe wouldn’t fault Marlowe if she didn’t want to pursue things further with him after this. Even though Joe wouldn’t treat Marlowe the same way he’d treated Paige. This would, and within reason should, reflect on him a little poorly. But God, he doesn’t want to let Marlowe go. Doesn’t want this to ruin his shot before he’s truly gotten it. 

Paige says nothing the entirety of his pondering. Joe’s not sure if her silence irritates him more or less, or if there’s a bubbling fear that’s getting masked by anger. The terror settles into his chest, if this is how he loses Marlowe, God save him now. Though, maybe he should request that his place in Hell be solidified now. 

Nothing like this would happen together. Joe’s going to make sure of it. 

“Don’t go to the press again.” His voice is low, words pressed up over his tongue and past his teeth with a hiss. “I don’t care if it’s even to apologize, at this point. If it’s about me, you come to me about it. Directly. I don’t care if you talk shit about me to your girlfriends. I don’t care if you tell your mom about me and how I was an asshole. But you will not go to the press again. About anything. Am I understood?” 

This whole thing is bigger than him now. So much bigger than him. 

“I’m sor--”

“Am I understood?” To Joe, the sound of her apology is hollow and it tastes bitter, stale in his mouth even though he’s not even the person saying the words.  

“Yes, Joe.”

“Good. Don’t look her up again. Don’t contact her, or anyone in her circle. Don’t say her name ever. Understood?” Joe doesn’t say Marlowe’s name. Can’t. But God, he doesn’t want a single piece of this to affect Marlowe, not even in the slightest. “You talk to me and only me.”

“Understood,” Paige returns, swift and soft from her side of the phone.

“Thanks for answering my call.”

“Before you go, Joe, please--”

The tap to end the call cuts off the words. 

Joe tosses both phones to the cushions next to him and presses his face into his palms. One minute. That’s what he promises to himself. One minute to feel the misery, to let the frustrated shout explode from his chest. Fists pressed into his forehead. Head shaking on his neck. Hands trembling. He gets sixty fucking seconds. 

Inhale, two, three. Hold, two, three. Exhale, two, three. 

A box breath before he finds his personal cell phone again. He shouldn’t have to make a statement. He doesn’t want to have to make a statement because it shouldn’t have gone to the press in the first place. It should’ve gone to him. 

“That was rather quick,” Frank teases upon answering Joe’s call. 

“What are the options?” The question falls broken from his lips. Because now, now, Joe’s really in it and so is Marlowe too. “Fuck, I should’ve never commented,” he whispers mostly to himself. 

He’s gotten Marlowe into the fucking mud over something trivial, something that didn’t even involve her like that. Sure, he’d ended it with Paige because he wanted Marlowe. But Marlowe wasn’t the other woman. She was the woman. Paige had merely been a warm body. Yeah, he was the asshole, now that he’s being vulnerable, honest without worry about how it makes him look.

His skin crawls for a moment at the realization that he hadn’t let himself sink into the truth of what he wanted until now. Because maybe if he’d done this sooner, this mess wouldn’t be happening. He should’ve ended it with Paige sooner. Done it cleaner. He should’ve been more honest. 

Shit, shit, shit. Nothing to do now but own it, Joe reprimands himself. He could do nothing now but let whatever that’s going to happen, happen. 

“Well, if you know who went to the press about it, we can work some magic on our end and see if we can get it taken down. You can always choose to say nothing, like usual. News cycle is less than 24 hours anyway at this point. You can say something about it if you want. But it is rather small right now. A couple gossip sites.”

“Four,” Joe corrects, looking back at the emails. 

“Small potatoes really.”

“I’m not worried about me as much as I am worried about someone else. She’s important to me and God, I really don’t want anything to happen to her.”

“The woman from the photos in LA?”

“Yeah,” Joe nods as he answers though it’s not a video call. The word leaves his throat tight and much too soft. 

“We’ll get through this, Joe. She’ll be okay. Let me handle this, alright? You trust me, right?”

“Of course, I do.”

“Then just send me what you know about who went to the press. Just send it to me. We’ll come up with something. Then run it by you. Just trust me.”

Joe thought he could trust Paige, at the very least. And yet, that was blowing up in his face. Or maybe it’s better to say that they’d both set off the explosion. Joe found the match and Paige lit it. 

“Okay,” Joe agrees in the end. “Okay, yeah, I’ll send you what I know.”

It feels like it’s not enough as Joe works over the keys of his laptop, passing along Paige’s name, and information. It’s measly, a task too small to stop the hemorrhaging from a shotgun wound.

[roses-and-sakura]

Hear me out AU:

In Twisted Wonderland, Magestones are eroginous zones to their user.

Like I think I’ve seen a fancomic about it before or I was just Delulu- BUT IT WAS ON MY MIND RN AND I NEED TO LET IT OUT

So pls listen:

Magestones are used to channel their magic, blot, and can be connected to a mage’s soul, become hyper-sensitive focal points of both magical energy and emotional feedback.

Because of their connection to the user’s life force, physical or magical contact with a Magestone can create reactions ranging from intense sensory stimulation to emotional vulnerability—almost like an magical erogenous zone.

The Magestone would glow in pulses depending on the user’s heightened emotion.

After acquiring a Magestone, it can grow alongside the user, as if it has become so used to their owner's magic that its technically linked to them and attuned to their physical and mental well-being. (That or since magestones form as a result of crystals absorbing magic from the earth and air, maybe it also absorbs the users magic just a little bit when it channels their magic and absorbs their blot.)

But if you don’t use your magestone frequently, or use different kinds of magestones frequently (like you use A only a little bit before getting B since its a different color or smth(idk what I’m doing, just know what I mean ig)), there won’t be that kind of connection.

Prolonged stimulation—through magical probing, enchantment, or any sort of touch—can cause involuntary responses such as increased heart rate, shivering, flushed skin, or even a loss of composure.

Some advanced mages are trained to keep their composure when their Magestone is tampered with. Inexperienced or emotionally unstable mages may not have that control.

…It can be seen as a little rude if you touch someone’s magestone/s unless in certain circumstances like where a certain coach had to take them for his students’ training camp.

Some people can intuitively sense another’s Magestone “pulse”, or in the MC/Yuu’s case, maybe the dripping sounds when they’re close to blot.

Reactions from Dorm Leaders + Jamil

• Riddle Rosehearts: He’ll either be composed but upset or get completely flustered if anyone touches his Magestone. He considers it rude and inappropriate, and may behead you. His magic might even flare if you don’t apologize quickly.

• Leona Kingscholar: He’ll growl if you so much as glance at his Magestone for too long. But if someone he likes touches it? He smirks and dares them to try again- idk maybe he’d also pin you down too. (Aldvekshenbd- I’m rolling on the floor at the thought)

• Azul Ashengrotto: Hides any reaction behind a composed front, maybe jolt ever so slightly—but his magestone pulses visibly if stimulated. He might retreat to his office under the pretense of “urgent paperwork,” but really, he’s trying to calm the pulse in his Magestone.

• Kalim Al-Asim: He may eather get uncomfortable and start squirming away with an excuse or BLUSHES SO HARD he practically combusts.

“W-Whoa! That tickled! I mean—wait, was that supposed to feel that good?! Aha—oh no—JAMIL HELP?!”

Kalim doesn’t fully understand what you’ve just done to him, but his Magestone starts glowing like a beacon. He gets flustered and Jamil would appear immediately to drag him away, glaring at you like you just committed high treason.

• Jamil Viper: At first, Jamil stiffens. Not from surprise—he always anticipates others’ movements—but from how much it affects him. You might think he’s unaffected until he gets upset and berates or or gets angry enough to use his UM for you to never bother him with useless things again.

• Vil Schoenheit: Vil doesn’t react visibly—he controls his body well. But his Magestone glows soft violet, betraying how rattled he really is. If someone touches it, they’d better mean it unless they want to be verbally criticized by him. I think Rook would deal with those who just want to see a reaction out of him honestly-

• Idia Shroud: Honestly don’t think it would happen since his stone is in that Skull Catalyst thing-yes I’m referencing Genshin weapons. But if you did manage to touch it, the Magestone would react too much. Like it sparks, his hair may turn pink, and he retreats into his dorm. Later, he might say something in a flustered murmur like, “T-t-that’s off-limits unless you want to… ugh, nevermind.”

• Malleus Draconia: Touching his Magestone is like invoking a some Fae custom/tradition. Like touching the Magestone is an ancient sign of intimacy, maybe like proposing a soul bond (or Marriage lololol). He does not take it lightly.

If you’re a stranger? You may have just cursed yourself.

If you’re close to him?

“If you’re ready to bear the consequences… then do it again.”