#I like to think that this is his go-to answer to every time someone asks

[onionswithbutter]

I have never heard people claiming transition is physically forced on anyone, maybe conservatives talk like that? I only visite radfem spaces.

Transition is forced on people in Iran, where homosexuals are told to transition to avoid death penalty.

Jazz Jennings was indoctrinated as a child. His mother said in an episode or interview, she tried everything to stop him from behaving feminine, even hitting Jazz as a small child, she feared he would become a gay guy later.

I believe a Tavistock whistleblower said something about children being brought by their parents, because they rather have a trans child than a gay/gnc child.

But I have no personal expirience with being forced to transition or know someone who was.

I don't think it's well meaning when someone asks me my gender multiple times after I told them/asks me if I am a transman after others introduced me using "she". Or people asking how I can exist like this and be comfortable as a woman, tell me I have trans/non-binary vibes when they know I don't identify as such.

How can it be well meaning to question someones gender, when you already know the answere? How can it be well meaning to question the only masculine womans gender, but not all the feminine women in the group?

All of this is pushing gender stereotypes on me, even more than most conservative leaning people I know do. Sure I got weird or rude comments a few times from asshole men, but it doesn't happen on a regular basis. In queer spaces my gender is questioned every single time. I stopped going to these places often, because I feel pressured to be everything but a woman. It affects my self-esteem and self-perception to be told being a woman and being myself doesn't fit together.

I feel more confident and accepted outside of lgbt spaces, despite being masc and openly bisexual, that's kinda sad.

"You can't be a tomboy anymore because 'they' (trans people?? The government who hates trans people??) force tomboys to transition to men" "Butches transition because they're insecure about their womanhood, trans men aren't really a thing."

Meanwhile every tomboy, butch or gnc woman I've talked to: "Nobody accepts how I present myself as a woman, so they (largely cis people) constantly try to feminise me and make assumptive statements about my gender. I'm perfectly happy being a woman and largely face no pressure to become a man from the trans community or otherwise, focus is instead on rejecting my masculinity entirely to be a 'real woman'."

Guess who I'm going to believe.

[syrecjh]

(A request: Project Partner Katsuki x reader)

You never meant to assume anything. Truly. You were the type to keep your head down, finish your notes, follow the rules (well, most of them), and definitely not fall into the trap of thinking a boy like Katsuki Bakugo could be watching you from across the classroom like you were some kind of puzzle he couldn’t solve.

But it was hard not to notice.

Like how he always managed to snag the seat next to you during lectures — even when Kaminari pouted and Kirishima tried to tug him into their usual row. Or the way he passed you the last pen when Aizawa asked for note-taking volunteers, his fingers brushing yours too slowly for it to be by accident.

And those eyes — sharp, crimson, relentless — you’d caught them on you more than once. Not just glancing. Watching. Like you were a question on the board he was quietly solving.

So when group pairings were assigned for the final project and your name was read aloud alongside his, your stomach did that traitorous flip — the one it did every time he said your name without looking at anyone else.

And now here you were. In your dorm room. At midnight. With him.

You told yourself it was because the common areas were packed — people sprawled across the couches and kitchen tables, yelling over each other and chugging instant coffee like it was oxygen. You told yourself it was strictly academic, strictly business. And yet.

Bakugo sat on your floor, elbows resting on his knees, leaning back just enough that his shirt tugged up at the hem. His notes were neat. His answers quick. But he wasn’t reading the textbook.

He was staring at you again.

You tried to ignore it. You really did. But the tension between you was a livewire — flickering at the edges of every silence, every time you passed him a book or clicked your pens in unison.

“Did you write down the—” you began, and that’s when you felt it.

His gaze.

Heavy. Hot. Real.

“What?” you blinked, meeting his eyes.

He was already looking at you like he was deciding something dangerous.

And then he muttered it — almost absent, like a thought that slipped past his guard.

“You’re pretty when you’re focused.”

Your heart thudded. “What?”

He didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned in, elbows on his knees now, closer. The quiet hum of your desk lamp caught on the scar at the corner of his mouth.

“I said you’re pretty.” His voice was low, gravel dipped in certainty. “And it’s distracting.”

You froze. “Bakugo—”

“I’ve been tryin’ to study,” he cut you off, now crawling just a bit closer, voice going lower, “but all I’m thinking about is how close I am to kissin’ you.”

You blinked. “W-what?”

And before you could breathe, he was there — hands on either side of your chair, eyes locked on yours. He didn’t touch you, not yet, just hovered like a storm on the verge of breaking.

“Can I?” he asked.

You didn’t know what possessed you, whether it was his voice or the way your heart felt like it was cracking open — but you nodded.

So he kissed you.

And it was every bit the explosion he kept caged behind his scowl. Fierce, warm, tender in the way only Katsuki Bakugo could be when the whole world wasn’t watching.

When he pulled away, his breath was still on your lips.

“Be my girlfriend,” he said, like he was stating a fact. Not asking. Just finally saying it.

You blinked again, dazed. “What the hell?”

“I’ve been waitin’,” he muttered. “You knew. You always knew.”

Your cheeks were burning. “You could’ve—I don’t know—said something?”

He grunted. “I’m sayin’ it now.”

And in that moment — half your textbooks forgotten, your cheeks warm, your heartbeat sprinting — you could only laugh, breathless.

“You’re gonna have to work for it, Katsuki.”

He smirked, leaning in again. “Then I guess I’ll start now.”

And he kissed you again — softer this time, slower, like a promise.

Outside, someone knocked on the door. Probably Iida yelling about curfew. But for once, you didn’t care.

Because Bakugo had finally said it.

And you?

You’d been waiting too.

[emmyrosee]

Ouhhh lets gooo babyy sooooo, Kiyomi recently gave an engagement/promise ring to reader, her being a clumsy queen she looses it or misplaced it..kiyomi notices she hasn’t been wearing her ring and when confronted she gives lame excuses then starts getting defensive cause she’s afraid she actually lost it! Could be angsty or fluffy or both 😄

"I'm not going to ask you again."

You chew your lip under Kiyoomi's intense stare, dark eyes unbudging in their lock with you; arms crossed over his broad chest, he looms over you, not in anger, never in anger, but confusion. Hurt.

"Where's your ring? Why have you been dodging me for days?"

“I…” your voice trails off, mind desperate to try and figure out how to explain the situation.

Your ring, the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen, a family heirloom even, vanished from the face of the earth. One moment you had it, the next, it was gone from your existence forever.

You couldn’t possibly tell Kiyoomi. How could you? It was all your fault. Why would he ever consider keeping you around, let alone replace it with a new one when he bestowed one with sentiment to you, and you lost it.

He grits his teeth, “I’m serious. Do you not like it? You can tell me, you won’t hurt my feelings-“

“Kiyoomi.”

“What does hurt my feelings is you completely icing me out-“

“Kiyoomi!”

“I’ll buy you a new ring, I just want you to be honest with me-“

"I lost it, okay! It's gone, it vanished, alright? I don't know if I put it down, or if it fell, or if someone stole it, but it's gone!" Your bottom lip quivers as his arms fall from their disapproving cross. You sigh shakily after a few beats of silence, embarrassment and frustration for hiding such an important detail from your new fiancé for so long, for losing the gorgeous ring that he'd wrongfully entrusted you with, and your voice is tight as you drop your head forward, "and... I didn't want you to think you shouldn't have given it to me..."

More silence. Your shoulders quiver as you try to fight the sobs that want to expel from your chest, blurry, watery eyes focused on your feet, and-

"That's it?"

His voice is soft, but you can almost hear the casualness in his tone, your eyes flying open in confusion, but your head still down in shock. "You've been avoiding me, giving me the cold shoulder, not answering my texts because you lost the ring?"

"What..." your voice trails off, tears stopping in their tracks. You slowly raise your head, "I'm... sorry?" The apology is formed in a question, differing greatly from the sob-filled ones you'd expected to give him.

You watch in complete bewilderment as his eyes close peacefully, a smile splaying on his cheeks and hands coming up to scrub his face in exhaustion, "I genuinely thought you were cheating on me with Hinata."

"WHAT?"

"He was avoiding me all week, as were you, for that matter, and every time I looked at your phone there was a message from him, and every time you'd answer his call, you'd leave the room- like I was fully convinced you were leaving me for him."

"Kiyoomi!" You cry, but relief fills your heart at the lack of even the smallest semblance of annoyance in his presence, like you were merely telling him you forgot to grab the mail. So much relief, that your sobs turn into watery laughter, waves of tears still flowing. "I was... so scared to tell you..."

He hums and reaches up slowly to wipe your tear tracks, "never, ever, be afraid to tell me anything, alright?" He whispers. "especially something as little as material things. Those things don’t matter.”

“But… it was important to you,” you sniffle. “And I lost it.”

“Baby,” he chuckles, tugging you against his chest. “You didn’t lose it; it’s in the engagement box.”

“Excuse me?”

He laughs as he grabs your hand, guiding you down the hall and to the bedroom. You watch with wide eyes and a queasy stomach as he opens your bedside table, where you keep tour most important belongings, and he flips open the velvet box and in fact, revealing the beautiful ring that glimmers in the light. “You left it in the bathroom and I put it back for you, assuming you’d check here first.” Your jaw is agape, stomach churning as the ringing in your ears increases volume, blocking him out. He gently puts down the box and tugs you in for a hug, “even if you did lose it, it’s alright… I would buy you 50 diamond rings if it meant you were happy to be my fiancé.”

“I am,” you sniffle, nuzzling into his chest. “It’s the greatest thing I’ve ever gotten the chance to do…”

He kisses the crown of your head and squeezes you close.

“Im glad.”

[p0ckykiss]

idiot - yang jungwon

summary -> "have any of you seen y/n" where you go missing and boyfriend jungwon is worried

warnings -> female reader x jungwon, typical cold guy and popular girl trope, school au, fluff, established relationship, they are very cute, jungwon gets a little insecure

jungwon had passed by the cafeteria five times, three times in the dance practice hall, a couple of peeks in the locker rooms and libraries, but he couldn't find you anywhere.

"have any of you seen y/n?" he asks for the umpteenth time.

"sorry jungwon, we haven't." his friends answered

dialing the number again, jungwon groans in frustration as it only reached your voicemail.

he calls ni-ki, your best friend.

"do you know where y/n is?" he asks immediately.

"wow, i'm fine as well. thank you for asking jungwon." jungwon can hear the eye roll just from ni-ki's voice.

"sorry. it's just that i haven't seen her the whole day and she says she's at school but i've already roamed around for at least three times and i'm tired and hungry and it is so fucking cold, and she's not answering my calls and texts and i swear if i see your dumb best friend i'm going to swallow her whole, she is going to have to get used to being stuck with me".

he ends the call not letting ni-ki have the final word, pocketing his phone before begrudgingly deciding to go back to his dorm.

jungwon's door opened and he ignored it in favor of focusing on the movie playing in his phone. he continued ignoring the intruder even as they lunged at him on his bed and nuzzled on his neck.

"baby" you singsong, "quit ignoring me and give me attention." 'you don't deserve it' jungwon bitterly thinks, eyes still unblinkingly watching the protagonists run away from the killer. it was a fitting film to watch in the winter weather.

"won", you called, endlessly poking all over jungwon's face.

jungwon glared when you grabbed his phone, but you only gave him a sickeningly sweet smile. his heartbeat skipped.

"ni-ki told me that you spoke a whole paragraph to him on the phone." you say, "you're not really going to eat me and gobble me up right?" you say masking a terrified face to mess with him.

as if on cue, jungwon's stomach grumbled.

"baby, you're my boyfriend please, don't". you say whining.

he couldn't help the snort spilling from his lips at your dramatics.

"you're an idiot."

you grinned successfully, "yeah well, this idiot got your favorite food. what do you say for a movie date?"

---- NEXT DAY ----

jungwon slammed his hands on the lunch table, making his friends and the people nearby flinch.

"have any of you seen y/n?" jungwon gritted, eyebrows furrowed to the middle.

"she's missing again?" heeseung asks.

"do you think i'd look for her if that's not the case?" he snaps, rolling his eyes.

"hey! don't use that tone on him!" ni-ki scolds.

he was about to retort when jay clamps a hand on his mouth,

"jungwon, shut up. none of us had seen her, but don't worry too much, maybe she's just busy."

jungwon pulled away, "well she could've at least sent a text, and not fucking ghost me every time we go to school like I'm just a nobody." his jaw tightehed, insecurities and ugly thoughts flooding his mind.

'is she just playing with me? it's too good to be true isn't it-'

jay sensed it, "no jungwon, it's not what you're thinking. she likes you a lot."

he appreciate the sentiment, but he hates that he even needs reassurance, or a reminder that that was the case.

"whatever," was the only thing he said before walking away. he faintly hears jay apologizing to the people nearby for the way he acted, but he couldn't being himself to be apologetic for it.

because that was how yang jungwon is. he didn't give a single fuck about anyone else. the typical guy at campus who was cold to the bones but everybody has a crush on; it was even a miracle that someone like you would want to date him.

it was you who chased after him; despite the cold shoulders and multiple rejections, you were relentless in wanting jungwon. you bought him his morning coffee, ate with him at lunch, waited for him during his practice sessions, and walked him back to his dorm. you never missed a day doing all of it — that's how persistent you were.

and jungwon, cold but soft jungwon, started to like you back after a couple of weeks. he wasn't used to the affection given to him so it took him time to fully open up, but you were so patient and understanding for his sensitive heart.

one of the happiest days in his life was when he asked you to be his girlfriend, when you had least expected. It happened during one of his hockey games; you had looked too pretty in the couple sweater he had bought for you and him, and he just couldn't resist. so when his teammates were huddled for a time out meeting, jungwon had propped himself in front of your seating on the front row, and said;

"hey, you look so pretty today, be my girlfriend?"

it was so bold and simple, very jungwon-like, and you couldn't help the blush rising to your face as the people around you shrieked. tongue-tied, you only managed a nod and jungwon broke into a breathtaking smile.

they won after jungwon hit the winning shot.

even if you've been together for more than a month already, jungwon's insecurities barely faded. he always catches the murmurs went his way whenever he waits for you, constantly compares himself to the people you had flirted with back then, wonders if he was deserving to be on the receiving end of your attention.

and you had always been reassuring him with all these thoughts, but sometimes, the demons in his head became a little too much, and it gets difficult trying to fight them.

which is why he locked himself up in his room again, watching the snowflakes dance in front of his window.

it was the last day of classes before the winter break when jungwon woke up colder than ever. you didn't barge in his room for the entire night, and there's not a single call or text from you on his list of notifications. upset, he locked himself in for the entire day.

he heard keys jingling outside his door when it reached the afternoon, and he didn't really have the mental energy to keep his hopes high. it's a good thing he didn't though, as jay was the one who showed up.

"get up. we're going somewhere." jay ordered. jungwon raised a brow, "can't you see i'm moping?"

"it's the very reason you need to go out." jay says, "I know you're depressed, but this is just too much."

"i may be depressed but you look the part" jungwon mumbles uninterested in the conversation itself.

"okay, you know what? fuck you. go rot in this place alone."

"where the hell are you taking me?" jungwon grumbles as jay pulled him by the wrist to the dragging him outside stopping right beside the small forest opening. "and why the hell is it so cold today? you didn't even let me take a shower."

"even the warmest showers can't break the ice in your heart dummy." jay responds, letting him go. "now, do you trust me?"

“you’re suspicious”

"just answer the question."

"you're literally my best friend."

"good. now close your eyes."

"I don't like what's happening."

"just shut up and do it!"

jungwon felt himself being pulled somewhere and he fought the strong urge to peek. if jay was messing with him, he'd have his head by midnight.

but he wasn't and when he was instructed to open his eyes, the sight that greeted him was a winter wonderland. fairy lights dangling on the trees, figures made of show surrounding the small ice rink of the frozen pond.

what he caught sight of was you standing near one of the trees, gesturing for him to come closer.

"what's all this?"

you flushed pink, sheepishly rubbing your nape.

"a surprise? i found it really unfair when it's you who asked me to be your girlfriend first when i was making all the moves. so i wanted to do this first!"

you pointed up and jungwon tilted his head, finding a mistletoe strapped to a bare tree branch.

snorting, he said, "you ghosted me for a kiss?"

"hey! it's our first kiss. i want it to be special."

jungwon would be lying if he said that he didn't like it, and you take a step closer.

"can i?"

"god, you're an idiot, of course, you can".

[stareiiez]

Main Mark + Mark variants dating a big titty goth gf female reader

I just think it's a funny trope

Golden retriever bf and black cat gf

hurray for finally answering inbox messages!! back to our scheduled entertainment of invincible goodness.

Mark Grayson

lets be honest, your dark look scared him away at first. the dark clothing, the outta the norm makeup. and over all style spooked him, that was until he saw your smile and you genuinely laugh for the first time; he was less intimidated. the man is peak physical strength, and then some, and yet he got shy because of your look. you're beautiful, none the less. he isn't one to oogle big or small breasts, but like any other man. he thinks he won because you've got a ample chest to lay on when he's tired. loves to watch the way you do your makeup, and the way it changes when you dress in more than one gothic subculture.

Sinister Mark

black cat x doberman with rabies. you two are a lethal combo that judges the public with too little shame. sinister LOVES a good rack, and he likes that he's taller than you so he can look down your shirt when you two stand to close to eachother. your outfits match, or coordinate with eachother. dark and ' edgy ' , over sized or tight fitting you both command the room's eyes on you. you both scare others away, his arm slung around your shoulders. possessive and authoritative.

Mohawk Mark

AGAIN, doberman x black cat. HE LOVES LOVES LOVES your boobs. fist pumps when he sees your bra isnt all that's got your chest perky and plump under your black shirt. mocks your ' scary ' attitude that others are off put for a black cat kinda girl. you try so hard to be nonchalant and cold, but he ruins it 90% of the time. he gets under your skin, and you end up smacking him on the head everytime. he finds your hair and style, wicked and crazy. it matches his spiky hair and wicked attitude, and he asks for you to do his 'guy' liner every now and then.

Retro/ Goggle-less Mark.

the way you don't match his energy is truly criminal. he's loud, all over and the place and energetic. you sit in one place, watching over the edge of your book; and he's on the floor whining for you to pay attention to him or else he'll kill something you love. the threats, the sadistic energy he brings to your relationship grows old quickly for you, but you know you shouldn't take it lightly when he has his off days. you're like a wet blanket to a overactive puppy that paws through its cage bars to reach you.

Shiesty Mark.

finds it hot asf. if you get him loyal, he will constantly have boners for you and only you. hard 24/7 with how suave and cool you are. he does only find it annoying you can match his attitude and go into a screaming cussing moment with him. also, your boobs will always be grabbed and squeezed; he wants you in low cut outfit so it's easy access for his hands to cop a feel of your double d's in his large hands. your dark lipstick marks are on his neck and cheeks are a trophy he wants to show off to everyone. even if it's his newest bitch, he goes for someone that looks like you or dresses like you. he's got an addiction to goth bitches, but the only ones he can find are the ones coming outta spencers and hot topic.

Omni-Mark

thinks its weird as fuck, but hey -- he keeps his mouth shut. he sees the way it makes you happy to look the way you look and to act the way you act. he might never understand it, but you love him and he has a fond attachment for you .

[yoiisa]

hi there, can u write a fic (college au/no blue lock) where reader & isagi are in a relationship, but his roommates slash friends don't know bcs reader always comes over whenever isagi says that his friends (bachira, kunigami, & chigiri) aren't at their apartment, but then get caught one day when his friends went back home early?

ive only stumbled upon ur account recently and i love ur fics/writing!!

omg love!! idk how colleges in japan work, so im just going to model this based on american colleges :D

all characters aged up (20+)! Tags: slightly suggestive and making out!!

➜ you knew isagi yoichi for around 6 months before the two of you started dating, but you'd been eyeing him for all of that time ➜ he was exactly your type- quiet, but the sweetest and most considerate person ever. ➜ he had beautiful blue eyes, was taller than you, and played soccer for the school. holy hell, talk about your personal kryptonite ➜ he was always too shy to ask you out though, so you had to take initiative on that front

You're sitting under a tree with Isagi in the school's courtyard. People are passing you by, heading to their respective classes. All you can think of in this moment though is how nice this is. The summer breeze is brushing his hair perfectly and the sun is making his eyes look like tiny sapphires. He looks like a prince. "Um, [name]?" he asks looking down at you. "Are you okay? You've been really quiet." You blink a few times, snapping out of your trance. You look down at your lap, staying silent for a little while. "Hey, Isagi?" you start. He leans forward and you feel like your heart is a car that someone just revved. "Umm, you don't have a girlfriend right?" "N-no," he stammers, taken aback. "Why?" "Do you," you cut yourself off, taking a deep breath. You meet his gaze and give him a tiny smile as you force the words out of your throat. "Do you wanna go out with me?" Your heart stops as he physically flinches back. "Nevermind!" you quickly say, holding your hands up in defense. "I'm so sorry, just forget all of that-" "N-no! That's not it, I- I do like you," he insists, "I just didn't expect you to ask me out." He lets out a deep breath and chuckles. "I was actually going to try and ask you out. My friends were giving me all this advice on how to do it. You just caught me off guard though. Beat me to the punch, huh?" He takes your hand in his and squeezes it. "But to answer your question, yes. I would like to go out with you."

➜ and that was that! the two of you were a couple. only one thing though- you'd never met those illusive friends ➜ whenever you went over to his dorm- a quad with two bunk beds and four desks, as well as a quite beautiful view of the whole campus through the window- there was no one else there but the two of you ➜ six months went by and not a single glimpse of them! you asked isagi about it once and he gave you a few excuses

"Well Bachira's really close to his mom, so he leaves campus a lot to hang out with her every now and then. She doesn't live too far from here anyways," Isagi explains as he rests his head in your lap. "And then Chigiri has a part time job at a physical therapist's office. He used to go there for himself since he messed up his leg once in an accident a while ago." You nod, running your finger through his hair. "And what about Kunigami?" "Also has a part time job as a kiddie's soccer coach," he says. "Hmm," you smirk and tickle your boyfriend's neck. He flinches and you giggle, "So you're the only one unemployed, huh?" He stiffens and gives you a look out of the corner of his eyes. "No. Bachira doesn't have a job too."

➜ when you finally meet Isagi's roommates . . . it's a mess ➜ after not seeing them enough times, you grew relatively comfortable with the idea that you never would in the dorms, and so did he ➜ he would have you over pretty often, and to be completely honest, sometimes things got a little spicy! ➜ so here you were, sitting on his desk and his standing between your legs. your lips locked in a heady kiss that was making you lightheaded. your tongues lapped hungrily at one another and your teeth clacking ➜ and then the door opened.

"Yoichi~" you gasp as he pulls back from your mouth. He starts to trail kisses along your jaw and neck, sucking small bruises into your collarbone and neck. "Mmm, you're so sweet," he groans, inhaling your scent. He feels like getting drunk off of it. His hot hands trail under your shirt, tracing around your curves. You giggle, but then both of your bodies freeze as you hear the door clicking. Isagi, in a moment of pure panic, tightens his grip on your waist and fucking shoves you off the desk and onto the floor. He was trying to hide you underneath the desk, not wanting his roommates to catch you both in this position, but all he does is just accidentally make you kneel in front of him. Right in front of him. Honestly, it helped enough because now your back is to his roommates, who are no doubt staring at you both as if they just walked in on a porno. Isagi stares at the trio. Bachira looks scandalized, Kunigami looks shocked, and Chigiri looks annoyed. "You couldn't bother locking the door when you have a hookup over?" the pink haired boy asks. "What. The. Hell. Is. This," Bachira says, looking two seconds from passing out. "Bachira, breathe," Chigiri grumbles, walking inside. "At least get her off her knees," Kunigami says, following Chigiri. He comes up behind you and taps you on your shoulder. "Miss-" You, in your panic and fear and shame, cannot think to say literally anything else other than, "I'm his girlfriend, not a hookup." Everyone stops breathing. "His GIRLFRIEND?!" Bachira roars, lunging at you. He grabs you by your shoulders, whirls you around and pulls you up to your feet. Kunigami hits him on the back of his head, "Don't handle a girl like that!" "I-It's fine," you say, waving Kunigami off with a small smile. "I'm so sorry about this. It's just, whenever I've been over, none of you are ever here, so I guess we got a little . . . careless." "You've been here before?" Bachira asks. A thud sounds from behind you and you whirl around. Bachira and Kunigami peek over your shoulder. Chigiri walks up to an Isagi whose cherry red. The embarrassment was just too much for his brain to handle anymore it seems. "Yoichi!" you shout, kneeling next to him. "I'll get him water," Chigiri says, walking to the dorm's mini fridge.

➜ the two of you never live this first impression down. not even at your wedding.

[chadobi]

Lonely Together

Bayverse Raphael x Reader

The Lair was buzzing with life tonight or at least, Raphael’s version of “buzzing,” which meant Mikey was yelling about pizza toppings, Donnie was arguing with himself over a glitch in his latest gadget, and Leo was being, well, Leo. In the middle of it all, like always, you were there. Sitting cross-legged on the couch, arms loosely draped over your knees, watching the chaos unfold with that same tired smile you always wore.

Raph noticed it more than he cared to admit.

You were around a lot. Practically every night for the past few months, even when nothing exciting was going on. You’d sneak down to the Lair through April’s shop with a casual “Hey,” act like part of the furniture, and never ask for anything in return. No expectations, no drama. Just quiet company. That should’ve made sense to him, considering how private you were, but something about your presence always made him… wonder.

Why were you here so often?

Why weren’t you with friends? Family? Someone?

Raphael wasn’t exactly the king of social intuition, but he wasn’t blind either.

So tonight, when the pizza boxes started emptying and the volume in the Lair lowered to a comfortable hum, he found himself watching you again from across the room, elbow braced on the kitchen counter, half a slice of pepperoni pizza forgotten in his hand.

You were just sitting there with your eyes slightly unfocused, your gaze somewhere in the soft flicker of the TV, a mug of lukewarm tea cupped between your palms.

And that same tired smile.

Raph didn’t know what made him move, but he did. Quiet steps, bare feet against tile. No one noticed they were too busy arguing about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.

He sank onto the couch beside you, letting out a grunt as he got comfortable.

You blinked and turned toward him slowly, as if startled from some far-off thought.

“Oh. Hey,” you murmured, smiling again.

Raph tilted his head. “You ever don’t say that when you see me?”

You snorted. “Well, I don’t usually have a lot of time to think of clever greetings when a six-foot mutant turtle just appears beside me.”

“Touché,” he muttered with a smirk.

A short silence fell between you, comfortable, if a little tentative. You looked down at your mug. Raph watched your fingers as they played with the rim.

He cleared his throat. “So uh… you ever hang out anywhere else but here?”

You looked up, surprised. “What?”

He shrugged. “Just… noticed you’re always around lately.”

“Oh.” You looked back down. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

There was something in your tone that didn’t sit right with him.

“Not that I mind,” he added quickly. “S’just… you got friends or somethin’? People your age usually do, right?”

You laughed, but it wasn’t the kind of laugh he liked hearing from you. It was short. Dry. Almost bitter.

“I used to,” you said quietly.

That wasn’t the answer he expected.

“…Used to?”

You shifted in your seat and stared at the TV for a few seconds before sighing. “Yeah. I had this group of friends. We were super close. Like… sisters.”

He didn’t interrupt, just watched your profile as you talked.

“We did everything together. Sleepovers, birthdays, vacations. They were my whole world.” You let out a short exhale. “Then stuff started to change. I didn’t even notice it at first. One of them would ‘forget’ to invite me to something. Another would borrow my clothes and never return them. Little digs, you know? At first, I thought I was being sensitive.”

Raph frowned. “You weren’t.”

You smiled faintly, not looking at him. “Eventually, they just… dropped me. Like I was nothing. After years of being ‘sisters.’ I asked why. They said I was too ‘emotional,’ too ‘needy,’ that I made everything about me. But I wasn’t, Raph. I swear I wasn’t.”

Your voice cracked slightly, and he stiffened beside you.

You took a shaky breath and forced a smile. “So, yeah. I’m around here a lot because this is the one place I don’t feel like I’m walking on eggshells. With you guys… it’s different.”

Raphael didn’t answer right away.

He felt a strange twist in his gut. Not anger — not exactly. But something deeper. Something bitter and ancient and all-too-familiar.

“…They sound like assholes,” he said eventually.

You let out a surprised laugh, genuine this time.

“Yeah,” you admitted, “they kind of were.”

Another pause. This one stretched a little longer. The sound of Mikey singing badly in the background filled the space between you.

Then, Raph shifted. His voice dropped.

“I get it, y’know.”

You turned to him.

“Get what?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “Feelin’ like that. Like… you’re too much. Or not enough. Or both, somehow.”

There was something raw in his voice now. Something that made your breath hitch a little.

“I mean,” he continued, staring down at his own hands, “look at me. I’m literally built different. Too big, too angry, too much muscle, not enough brain.” He chuckled dryly. “People always act like I’m supposed to be the ‘tough one,’ but… I dunno. Sometimes I feel like I’m the most breakable one. Just… in different ways.”

You watched him in silence, heart tugging hard in your chest.

He shifted again, slower this time.

“When I get mad, people leave. When I don’t talk, people assume I’m fine. When I do talk, they think I’m scary.” His jaw tensed. “Ain’t really much middle ground.”

You set your mug down gently and turned fully toward him. The light from the TV caught on the edge of his shell, outlining him in silver.

“Raph,” you said softly, “you’re not too much.”

He blinked. Slowly looked up at you.

“And you’re not scary. You’re protective. You feel deeply. And that’s not a flaw. It’s… rare.”

He didn’t say anything, but something in his shoulders loosened.

You smiled gently. “I think that’s why I like being around you. With you, I don’t have to pretend.”

Raph swallowed thickly. “Yeah. Me too.”

The air between you suddenly felt warmer. Closer.

You looked at each other for a long time. Something passed unspoken. Not quite romantic, not quite platonic. Just something real.

Raph let out a soft grunt. “Y’know… bein’ alone sucks.”

“Yeah,” you agreed. “It really does.”

“…But bein’ lonely with someone else?” He looked at you with something vulnerable in his eyes. “That don’t suck so much.”

You felt your throat tighten, but you smiled anyway.

“No,” you whispered. “No, it really doesn’t.”

There was a moment of stillness, like the world around you had gone quiet, like you and Raph were the only two people in it. You both sat there, neither moving, neither speaking and yet, something between you shifted permanently in that space.

The silence wasn’t lonely anymore.

Raph glanced at you again, almost shyly.

“You uh… wanna stay a bit longer?”

You nudged your shoulder into his gently.

“I was already planning on it.”

⸻

You were curled up beside him on the couch. Mikey had long since passed out on the floor, and Donnie had retreated to his lab. Even Leo had disappeared to his room with a book and a sigh of peace.

But you and Raph remained.

The TV flickered silently now, muted, casting soft shadows across the Lair.

You were half-asleep, your head resting lightly against Raph’s shoulder, his arm stretched along the back of the couch like a quiet guard.

For once, he didn’t feel like too much.

And for once, you didn’t feel like not enough.

And together, just like that the loneliness began to fade.

Not because it was fixed.

But because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore.

————-

Hey there! I hope you’re all doing well! The topic of this one-shot is quite heavy, but I wanted to talk about it.

I was a bit inspired by events from my own life, because I’ve needed to pour my emotions into writing for a while now.

If you’re feeling lonely, remember that no matter what, you’re not alone in this.

Someone who truly deserves you will come into your life eventually 🩷

Enjoy reading!

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddiesongfics.

Lonesome is a State of Mind

June Prompt: Summer Songs | Song: Drunk on a Plane by Dierks Bentley (Bonus: Lonesome is a State of Mind by Djo lyrics for the Djo June challenge) | Word Count: 2500 | Rating: T | CW: Bare Feet in Public, Recreational Alcohol Use | Tags: Modern AU, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Little Angst, Lotta Silly Fluff, Meet Cute, Steve Had to Kiss Some Frogs to Get His Happy Ending, Robin Unfortunately Had to Bear Witness

Also on ao3.

It's stifling in the apartment, the summer air heavy and thick, even as the sun is just rising. It's making every movement seem ten times harder. Even through the closed windows, Steve can hear everything going on down below, the sounds of the city, the street, busy with activity. 

His future is not what he thought, and here he is again, having thought something wrong. He should be used to that by now, but he's not. He's afraid he'll never be. He's too optimistic that things will work out. You'd think he'd learn his lesson by now. He's not a kid anymore. No, he's twenty-nine and misaligned.

Going from two to one has been harder than he thought it would be these past six months. From a house full of sounds of life, to this. Stifling silence. 

She was the one. Wasn't she? He's not even sure now. 

Five years this time. Five. 

Two before that. What's he doing wrong? He wanted to commit, but it turns out two years wasn't enough time for someone to know if they wanted to do the same. Fine. With the next relationship he was more cautious, more patient. Went slow. Didn't rush.

Made sure they were really in love. 

But five years wasn't long enough either, turns out. And now he has two engagement rings hanging around his neck like albatrosses and two non-refundable tickets for a honeymoon that was supposed to start today, just with no wife.

She's at his house, with his dog, but he lives somewhere else, somewhere separate.

What the fuck is so wrong with him that things just fall apart as soon as he tries to offer someone his love?

Nancy didn't want it in high school, either. Now he's convinced he's more than bullshit. There's a pattern, and he's the common denominator.

He jumps when the buzzer for the downstairs door sounds. Robin. He presses the button to unlock the front door for her, and works on schooling his face so she doesn't see how close to a nervous breakdown he really is today.

He was supposed to get married yesterday. He didn't. 

"I never liked her anyway," Robin says, "She's an asshole. You're not gonna try to get back with her, right? I can say that?"

"You can say that," Steve answers. He knows it's not true. He wouldn't have made it five years with anybody that Robin didn't like. And he especially wouldn't have planned to marry them. Robin's just taking his side, unconditionally. Best friend privileges. He appreciates it.

"Glad to hear it. Flight leaves in two hours," she states, picking up his sunglasses, tossing them at him, "Wayfarers on, Harrington. Grab your bags. We're going to the beach. That all-inclusive resort is calling my name."

Steve groans. He doesn't want to go to the beach. 

"Steve! Now!" Robin demands, and he knows better than to argue. And it'd be stupid to waste these tickets, this whole vacation. He went through the trouble switching the ticket to Robin's name, after all.

He puts on his neon green swim trunks, and a bright pink tank top. Slides on a pair of flip flops. It's gaudy. Loud and in your face. Maybe if he embarrasses her now, she won't make him go.

Robin says nothing.

He stands there staring at her.

"Bags?" she asks.

He shrugs. Maybe he'll travel light for once. See what that's like.

She just pushes past him, into his bedroom, and stuffs random clothes of his into his suitcase. While she's busy doing that, he makes himself a travel mug of orange juice. And vodka. That's the important part. 

Piling into the waiting cab downstairs, he sucks on the whirly straw, and off they go. 

One honeymoon, two platonic soulmates.

Finally at cruising altitude, Robin is staring at him.

"What?"

"What are you wearing?" Robin asks, finger snagging the chain around his neck, pulling. 

"My bad luck charms, duh," he says, twisting off the top of another little bottle of Jack. Pouring it into his thimble of Coke. "It wards off—"

"—women, men, humankind in general?"

"Sure," he says, thumbing at the two diamond rings hanging from the gold chain. 

"You're being a dramatic dingus."

"Cheers, have a drink with me," he says, tapping his plastic cup against hers.

"It's ten in the morning," she says, still judging him for conning the flight attendant out of more liquor. He's already rocking a nice buzz, and he'd like to keep building on it, thank you very much.

"You can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning," he retorts, stretching out in his seat, putting his bare foot up on the armrest of the aisle seat guy in the row in front of him.

"Steve," Robin hisses, pressing on his knee, trying to get him to put his foot down. Then she leans towards the row in front of theirs, "I'm so sorry, he's not usually this feral."

She can't budge him, despite her best efforts. He refuses to move. That is, until the guy whose seat he's encroaching on runs his fingers up the sole of Steve's foot. That's enough to make Steve jerk his leg back reflectively, ticklish, unable to stop himself. He hears the pleased laughter floating back to their row, and Steve leans forward, poking his head around the seat.

"Foot fetish, huh?" 

"You're the one that offered it up to me," the guy says.

Steve laughs, the liquor making him brazen, "I mean, I'm not into that. But if you are, I'd be happy to open negotiations."

"Well, isn't that a thought," the guy laughs, and Steve can't tell if he's flirting with him, or just making fun. Maybe a little of both. It honestly doesn't really matter. Steve doesn't mind either option.

It's already made his morning better. 

Steve leans his shoulder into the back of the guy's seat, jostling him. "My fiancée dumped me. This was my honeymoon."

The guy turns and nods towards Robin, "Her? Was it because you're trying to get strange men to touch your feet?"

"Ew," Robin says, "No. I'm Robin. The embarrassed best friend. That's Steve. Again, I'm sorry. He isn't putting his best foot forward. He decided to start early this morning."

Steve laughs, and so does the guy. It's a great laugh. Steve wants to hear more of it, wants more of his attention.

"I'm Eddie," the guy says, "and your foot forward seemed fine to me. But if you've got a better one, let me have it."

Steve, not about to back down from a challenge, wedges his left foot between the seats. 

The guy next to Eddie whips his head around, "If your nasty foot so much as grazes me, I swear to god I'll shove drumsticks up both your asses."

"That's a very specific promise," Steve says, pointing his foot towards Eddie the best he can. "At least buy me a drink first."

The guy huffs, annoyed.

"Steve Harrington, leave these men alone. You're gonna get us kicked off this flight. Banned from this airline. Banned from all future air travel forever, maybe. We'll be on the no-fly list. We might get left in Cancun."

The grumpy guy in the middle turns around, looking at Robin, "This is at least fifty percent Eddie's fault at this point. He feeds on chaos, makes things worse, and encouraging what's happening right now is a dream come true for him. Trust me."

"It's true," Eddie pipes up, "I'm a freak. Being interesting will always beat conformity. Put your feet on people if you want. Be real. Be weird. Be real weird."

Steve grins, looking at Robin, "See?"

"No," she says, shaking her head. 

Steve retracts his foot, and Eddie turns in his seat, looking right in Steve's eyes, "Stay weird, Steve Harrington."

Then, he hands Steve two additional mini bottles of liquor, and Steve grins, relaxing back into his seat.

Steve tries to mind his own business. It works for a while.

"What are you headed to Cancun for?" Steve asks, peeking at Eddie from between the seats.

"Bachelor party," Eddie says, looking back at him.

Steve sticks out his bottom lip, "Yours?"

Eddie laughs, shaking his head, nodding towards his seatmate, "No. Mr. Drumsticks Uptheass, here."

Steve grabs the back of the guy's seat and shakes him, "Don't do it, man. She'll break your heart. Put a ring on it and suddenly she can't stomach the thought of spending her whole life with you. Trust me. It's happened to me. Twice." 

"Shut up, you don't know me or my life. I can see why nobody would want to marry you," middle-seat snaps. 

"Gareth," Eddie warns.

Steve shoves the back of Gareth's seat, launching himself back into own. Arms crossed, pouting. 

He's a fucking catch. 

What kind of name is Gareth, anyway? 

"He didn't mean that," Robin says, leaning forward, trying to smooth this over, "I'm sure your wife-to-be is lovely and would never call off your wedding." 

Gareth just glares over his shoulder, then leans forward, looking across the aisle, eyes laser focused on the man sitting there, minding his own business. "Goods. Goodie. Hey. Switch seats with me."

The guy across the aisle ignores him. 

"Goodie!" 

What kind of name is Goodie?

"I don't know you, any of you," the alleged Goodie says, pulling his hoodie strings, cinching it down over his face. Ending the conversation. 

"Jesus Christ," Gareth Uptheass says, forcing himself out of his seat, climbing over Eddie's knees, and out into the aisle.

Then, he looms over Steve. Well, he tries. He's not very tall. "Get up. We're trading seats. If you want to flirt with Eddie so fucking bad, you can do it without involving me. I'm sitting next to her now." 

Steve looks at Robin, "Oh, she's a lesbian." 

"Great, and she's wearing shoes. The exact kind of woman I'm interested in right now. Get. Up." 

"I need to put on my shoes," Steve says. 

"Really? Why start now?" 

Steve gets up, and squeezes into the middle seat next to Eddie. There's another guy in the window seat.

"I'm Steve," Steve says, since they haven't been introduced. 

"So I've heard," he answers, "I'm Jeff. Keep your hands and feet to yourself and we'll be good."

"Jeff's a normal name," Steve declares. He's glad someone else has a normal name around here.

"Thanks," Jeff says.

They talk and talk until Eddie gets up to go to the bathroom. Steve waits a respectable minute and a half to follow. 

Tapping on the locked door, he gets no answer.

Knocking again, "Eddie."

The door across the hall opens, "Over here."

Whoops. Wrong bathroom. Steve slides into the cramped lavatory with Eddie, trying to balance himself on the flimsy sink, hoping like fuck it will hold him. 

Steve wraps his legs around Eddie's waist, pressing himself up against Eddie.

"Do you really have a foot fetish?" Steve asks.

Eddie laughs, "Not in the slightest."

"Good, that's good," Steve answers, playing with the hairs at the nape of Eddie's neck. "You gonna give me a little in-flight entertainment?" 

Eddie cups his cheek. It's tender, and nobody's touched Steve like this in a while. He leans into it.

"How about we just make it off this plane without being put in handcuffs?" Eddie suggests.

Steve huffs, but will allow it. 

"What if I want you to put me in handcuffs?" 

Eddie laughs, "Then, sweetheart, like you said earlier: I'd be happy to open negotiations."

Back in their seats, Steve falls asleep on Eddie's shoulder.

Then, they land and go their separate ways. 

The next morning, Steve regrets everything from the day before. His head is pounding, like elves are trying to chisel his skull in two. He's mortified. He got drunk, took off his shoes, and followed a stranger to the plane bathroom.

Robin's never gonna let him live this down, not even with the goodwill of it being his sad non-honeymoon. She won't feel sorry for him forever.

The mimosa isn't working as hair of the dog that bit him, nor is the greasy breakfast, and he closes his eyes behind his sunglasses. 

He hears Robin pull out her chair, and groans. 

"I'm dying. Put me out of my misery." 

He hears a deep chuckle, familiar now, and feels his cheeks flush. Eddie. Of all the resorts, Eddie from the plane is here? It's absurd. 

Steve's eyes snap open. It's too bright.

"You're staying here?" Steve asks. He's so fucking embarrassed. What are the odds of that?

Eddie shakes his head, smiling wide.

"Nope. But Gareth asked Robin where you guys were staying. He knows me well enough to know I'd want that information. He's a good best friend, even if he was a little testy yesterday."

"Uh, I think he had a reason. I was being, well, unreasonable. Sorry about the feet. And the bathroom. And everything else."

"No reason to apologize. I'm here, aren't I?" Eddie asks with a smile. 

He is. Steve smiles. Eddie found him. Eddie went out of his way to come see him again.

Nobody goes out of their way for him, except Robin, and she definitely doesn't count.

"So, you wanna spend the day with me, Steve Harrington?"

Steve does, and he pushes his sunglasses up onto his head, and leans forward. Lips barely brushing Eddie's, "Oh yeah. I'm ready to open negotiations."

Later

It's loud, and Steve's getting shoved around in the pit. He doesn't mind. He could stand backstage, but he wants to be right here, front and center. Eddie can see him all night this way.

Corroded Coffin is doing their thing, and Steve's along for the ride. They aren't super famous, not a bit mainstream, but they fill ballrooms and small venues, the crowds stoked to see them. 

Steve's thrilled to see them, thrilled to see Eddie, always. Third time was the charm. Steve finally met his match. Finally got a yes before the question had even left his throat. Eddie married him as fast as he could. Steve knows it's because Eddie didn't want Steve to stress that another engagement might fizzle out.

Steve was all in, and so was Eddie.

Eddie flips his hair off his shoulders, running his fingers under the neck of his t-shirt, fishing out a chain. Two diamond engagement rings clink together as they flop onto his chest. Steve leans against the barricade, grinning.

Steve considered them bad juju. Albatrosses. But Eddie started wearing them around his own neck. A talisman, he says. Good luck. 

A point being made, Steve's sure.

Oh, you didn't want him? Well, good. He's fucking mine.

He's unhinged. 

Steve loves him. 

Loves that he took that flight, loves that he got drunk and rude and weird. Loves that Eddie rolled with it. Loves that of all the people in the world that could have been sitting in front of him, that it was Eddie Munson. 

The one who would wholeheartedly love him back.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddiesongfics to follow along with the love! 🎵

[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.

[adoresia]

— ALEXITHYMIA ⋆ Nagi Seishiro

(n.) inability to describe emotions verbally

Just a boy who looks at you like you’re the only language he ever needed to learn.

based off of this request from @pastryiee !! I hope i didn’t disappoint 💔

˙🏷️ ̟ Nagi’s masterlist | BLLK masterlist | Main masterlist

Nagi isn’t a shy person, he’s just dismissive; unbothered you know? But he likes being your voice even if he can’t be bothered to be his own. He thinks there’s something so intimate about the idea of him being the only one to understand what you need without even having to tell him. he likes explaining you.

You don’t speak much. You linger in conversations, hovering beside them without stepping in; getting talked over more than heard. But he notices. He notices everything, surprisingly. The way you tug your sleeves over your hands when you’re anxious, and how your eyes dart to the door when you’re ready to leave but don’t know how to say it without being rude. The way your lips part like you’re going to say something — but you don’t. You’re quiet, but he hears you anyway.

So when someone asks if you’re okay, and you just nod with that same half smile he’s been able to read almost every time, Nagi answers for you. “She’s tired” he says simply, shifting so his knee bumps yours beneath the table. “Let’s go.” You stutter for a second, caught between his words and the startled faces watching you take your sudden leave. You blink once, twice, and then you glance back at the group with your mouth slightly opened as if you were trying to mumble a quiet “sorry...” or maybe even just a polite “bye” But Nagi doesn’t give you the chance to process. His hand is already wrapped around yours, and before you can shape a single word, he’s tugging as if it weren’t up for discussion.

Your breath catches as you stumble to your feet, dragged out of the room on steps not entirely your own. Your fingers only tighten instinctively around his and he doesn’t even look back or seem to have any second thoughts — he just keeps walking. And honestly, you’re thankful. Thankfull he didn’t make you say anything, thankfull he saw the way your words wilted before they bloomed, thankfull he moved before your heart had the chance to cave in on itself. Even if it meant you couldn’t do it yourself.

Later that day when you find yourself back in the safety of your room, you lay beside him, still a little dazed from how effortlessly he read you. still half laying on the bed, he stretches one long arm out and tugs you gently by the sleeve until your body folds next to his. His chin rests above your head, lips pressed passionately to your scalps when he speaks. “You don’t have to talk” he murmurs, his voice low and warm like a secret meant only for your skin. “I like knowing before anyone else does.” His fingers trace lazy shapes into your hip. Like you’re something fragile he gets to keep.

“You always look like you’re waiting for permission” he adds. “You don’t need it with me.” And you swear the weight of those words settles into your chest heavier than any kiss ever could. Because he doesn’t ask for much.

You don’t reply — not with words at least. You only turn into him more fully, pressing your forehead into his neck and letting your body exhale everything youd been holding in. He shifts so easily around you, arm curling like a shield at your back, like it’s instinct. Like the whole world narrows to your soft breaths against his throat.

Nagi listens to you like you’re everything. Because to him, you are everything; you deserve to be heard, even if it isn’t through your own words, but his instead.

GEN TAGLIST :: @livteracts @s6rine @mayyhaps @lizbix

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a/n :: wait i have nothing to say nevermind heh like and subscribe and make sure to hit that bell (gen taglist form) 😇 if u want

[diamonddaze01]

UNTIL YOU KNOW ME

PAIRING: lee seokmin x f!reader | WC: 5.7K GENRE: reincarnation au | soulmate(?) au | angst with a happy ending | time is non-linear and also not real don't read into it too much imo.... WARNINGS: major character death, discussions of blood and weapons, heartbreak x 10000, Seokmin Just Needs A Hug.... A/N: for the 100 collab! thank you to @gyubakeries, @eclipsaria, @nerdycheol, and @shinysobi for hosting such a wonderful collab! | first fic in over a month! sorry I've been gone so long work SUCKS! but writing this was actually so refreshing. I really do enjoy putting Seokmin in Situations (i'm sorry darling boy)

SUMMARY: Seokmin has loved you 99 times. But in this life, just like every other, you don't remember. You never do. But Seomin? He remembers everything. Every goodbye. Every loss. Every time he almost kept you.

On the 47th time Seokmin fell in love with you, he realized it would be the 47th time he lost you, too.

For the first 46 times, he had been foolishly optimistic. For the first 46 times, he still thought himself a king, like he was the first time, his first life. But here, in the 47th (or what could have been his thousandth at this point), Seokmin watched you drop his hand—king of nothing, loser of everything.

He had thought the 47th time would be different. But then again, he had thought that about the 46th. 

In the 46th, he first saw you at the market, laughing—loud, unabashed, bright enough that every head turned toward you. You were tucked between crates of peaches and dried herbs, a smear of pomegranate staining your bottom lip, the sunlight catching in your lashes. A leather satchel hung from your shoulder, worn at the edges, and you walked like someone with places to be and time to waste. You didn’t even glance at him.

That life, Seokmin had sold ink. Hand-ground, bottled in glass, sealed with wax. You visited his stall every week, even though you barely needed supplies. You’d spend long minutes just standing there, brushing your fingers over the shelves like they were familiar somehow. You never lingered on him—but you always lingered.

You asked questions you already knew the answers to. You always added a little extra money to the pile of coins. Once, you’d looked at him for a second too long and said, “It’s strange. You feel like a face I dreamed about.”

Then you’d smiled, tossed a coin onto the table, and left.

You weren’t his, not in that life. You married a cartographer—a good man, Seokmin remembered. He hadn’t hated him. Smelled like cedarwood and carried maps that curled at the edges like flower petals. He’d watch you walk back to the cartographer’s booth, the hem of your skirts catching the breeze, your satchel bouncing against your hip, and think—at least she’s happy.

You died giving birth to your second child. Seokmin found out from a friend of a friend. He didn’t go to the funeral.

And still, your absence gnawed at him in ways he never admitted aloud. He hated himself for thinking it stung a little less that time. Like grief was something you could grow used to.

He closed the stall early the next day. Burned every ledger with your name in it.

This time, in the 47th, you had been the one to say his name first. In this life, you were a singer. Jazz, mostly—low, smoky notes that curled through the air like perfume. He heard your voice before he saw you, carrying out the back of a bar he hadn’t meant to stop at. It had been years—lifetimes—since he last found you, and hearing you again hit him like a blow to the chest.

He’d stepped outside to clear his head. The alley behind the bar was quiet except for the scrape of a match. When he turned, you were already leaning against the brick wall, a cigarette balanced between your fingers.

“You got a light?” you asked.

He fumbled with his lighter. “Yeah. Here.”

Your fingers brushed his as you took it. Your touch felt exactly the same. You lit your cigarette, exhaled a ribbon of smoke, and looked at him for a beat too long.

“What’s your name?” you asked.

“Seokmin.”

You smiled. “Seokmin,” you repeated, like it tasted good on your tongue. “I feel like I’ve said that before.”

Later that week, you sang for him alone. After the last show, after everyone else had gone. You stood barefoot in the dressing room, still in your stage makeup, and sang something soft and unhurried. He watched you from the chair, hands clasped between his knees, trying not to hold his breath.

In that life, you let him stay.

You fell asleep with your hand curled into the front of his shirt. You let him make you breakfast. You danced with him barefoot on cold tile floors, laughed at his terrible jokes, pulled him into bed when you were too tired to talk. You never once said the word soulmate, but some mornings you looked at him like you were starting to remember.

He almost believed the curse was lifting.

Three weeks later, he read in the paper that the bar had been raided. Police found illegal opium stashed under the floorboards. One casualty. Female. Unnamed. Mid-twenties.

He read the sentence again. And again. The words didn’t change.

He didn’t even finish the article. Just threw the paper into the fire and stood in front of it until the smoke made his eyes sting. He didn’t speak for days. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t breathe without hearing your voice in his ears.

The worst part was that it was different, this time. You’d let him love you. You’d leaned into it. And for a moment—just long enough to hurt—he’d thought you might stay.

When the fire burned low in the hearth, and your scarf still hung on the back of the chair, Seokmin realized he was already mourning the 48th.

The first time he had known you, truly known you, he had worn a crown made of thorns and gold.

The thorns were metaphor, at first: guilt threaded through power, a boy-king raised too fast, carved sharp by grief and coronation. But over time, the weight grew real. Heavy. Gilded. Cutting. On colder nights, he would remove it and find faint red grooves across his temples, like the memory of someone’s fingers pressing too tight.

You had never touched the crown. You never bowed, either, not when the court looked on, not when his voice carried over the fields and froze armies in their march. Your head only ever inclined out of habit, not reverence.

You were not a queen. You had never wanted to be. You had been his warhound. His iron nerve. His blade and the hand that steadied it. You walked three steps behind him in court: silent, precise, eyes ever-moving. But in battle, you rode so close your knees brushed. He had memorized the rhythm of your breathing beside him: steady as the northern wind, sure as thunderclouds in spring. He trusted you more than he trusted his gods.

You bled for him, once.

An assassin’s blade had found its mark, but not the one it sought. He remembered the scream—his own—and how it had barely broken free before you collapsed. Steel had kissed your ribs. You had grabbed the attacker by the hair and run them through before falling.

That night, he paced the length of the war tent, blood soaked through his hands, staining the floor in places the servants would scrub for hours. The physicians had whispered, muttered things about odds and infection and prayers.

But you had lived.

And he had never again worn his crown without hearing your ribs break beneath his fingers.

He never said thank you. You never asked him to.

After, something shifted.

He began reaching for your wrist before any decree. You no longer waited to be summoned. He told his advisors he did not dream. You knew he did. (You were the only one who stayed when he woke screaming.)

And then, the witch came. 

Not cloaked, not veiled, not smoke and shadow. No, she came clothed in grief. In mourning black, with a spine stiff from loss and a voice that broke on the names of her sons. She stood in chains before the court, and the king stood tall as justice was read to her face.

But he flinched when her eyes found you.

Because the witch saw it. The way his gaze darted to you first. Always first. The way he moved closer to you without realizing, even now, even here. The way his hand curled—not around his crown—but around the hilt of his sword, every time her voice rose.

“You strung my children in your gallows,” she said, voice dry as sand. “For every son I buried, you will live a life. And in each one, you will find her again.”

The court murmured. The king stilled.

“And in each one,” she whispered, “she will not know you.”

He tried to kill her then. Blade unsheathed, a scream tearing from his throat. But the magic had already rippled through the chamber, warping the air. By the time his steel reached her, she had turned to dust.

He fell to his knees in it. In her. In the curse that still trembled on the marble floor.

He had dreamed of you, every night before the curse. After, he dreamed only of losing you.

He never told you what the witch said. Maybe he should have. Maybe you would’ve believed him. But how could he? How could he say, I think I’m going to lose you for a hundred lifetimes, and still hold you like it wasn’t already happening?

He tried to make the most of it. He held your hand longer. He stole minutes, lingered in rooms just to watch you fasten your cloak or pull your hair back with a cord. He memorized the scar on your collarbone, the way your mouth curved when you were amused but trying not to show it.

And when the end came—when a blade meant for him found your heart instead—he didn’t scream.

He only whispered, “Please. Not yet.” And somewhere, in the distance, the witch laughed.

The next time he woke, he was in a crib. Small hands. Weaker lungs. No crown.

But still, even as a child, he dreamed of you.

And he remembered everything.

In the 19th life, you had been a lighthouse keeper’s daughter.

A quiet girl, born of fog and brine, made of solitude and wind-whipped cliffs. You spoke with your hands more than your mouth. You hummed sea shanties under your breath and slept in a narrow bed beneath a round window that framed the moon like a portrait.

The nights were long. You were used to ghosts.

That life, Seokmin came to you in a storm; not a man so much as a memory trying to remember itself. His ship had shattered itself against the rocks sometime before dawn. You found him tangled in a net of driftwood and broken oaths, sea-foam in his lashes, a gash on his forehead like something the ocean had kissed and bitten in the same breath.

You dragged him inland, breathless and barefoot, the hem of your nightgown soaking in salt. He coughed up seawater and a name you didn’t recognize.

When he woke, it was to the sound of your fire and the creak of old wood settling in your cottage walls. He bled on your sheets. He slept in your father’s clothes.

You fed him soup without asking questions. He answered them anyway.

“My brother,” he said, fingers twitching against the wool blanket. “The sea took him.”

You didn’t tell him the sea takes everyone, eventually.

He watched you when you weren’t looking. You always were—looking, that is. Out toward the rocks. Up at the sky. Across the slow breath of the sea. But never at him.

Still, you brought him what warmth you could: your silence, your bread, your presence. And he, in return, gave you stories of constellations; of stolen ports and stars that guided without mercy; of the ship he had sailed, black-flagged and silver-rigged, bearing the symbol of your father’s enemy.

He didn’t know you had kept the flag.

Your father did.

He found it three days later, soaked and tangled in the wreckage like a secret unraveling.

He came home with the wind behind him and blood already in his eyes. The storm had passed, but it howled still in the bones of your home.

You stood between them — the man you had nursed back into life, and the man who had given you yours.

“Please,” you said, your voice cracking like driftwood underfoot. “He didn’t come here to fight.”

But your father had known too many men like him. Men with soft eyes and hidden blades. Men who flew foreign flags and left entire villages burning in their wake.

Seokmin tried to stand. He was still weak. Still foolish. Still yours.

“I would never hurt her,” he said, voice hoarse, hands raised as if in prayer.

But prayers are no match for grief. And your father’s blade was already moving.

The hunting knife sank in just below the ribs. 

Small. Cruel. Inevitable.

Seokmin tasted iron. Then salt.

Then the press of your hand over the wound, trembling, desperate, too late.

You cradled his face like something fragile and fading. Like driftglass worn smooth by time.

“Why does it feel like we’ve done this before?” you whispered, tears carving salt lines down your cheeks. “Why does this feel like an ending I already know?”

He opened his mouth.

He wanted to tell you: Because it is. Because I’ve loved you this way before. Because I always lose you.But his lungs were filling, and your hands were shaking, and the candlelight was flickering like it knew what came next.

So instead, he closed his eyes and let the sea take him again.

Death came easy, the 19th time. Almost like falling asleep to your voice.

He never woke from that dream. Not until the 20th.

In the third life, you had been a thief, laughing as you ran, skirts hiked, hair wild like a storm had fallen in love with you.

Seokmin had been a soldier then: duty-bound, spine straight, boots loud. He’d seen you first at the edge of the market square, slipping an apple into the folds of your shawl with a wink at the grocer. You’d moved like a secret, like the city itself was built to part for you. You were sunlight in the cracks of stone, mischief bottled in human form.

He hadn’t meant to follow you.

But that’s the thing about you. You happened to him. Like falling. Like gravity.

He chased you through alleyways for reasons even he didn’t understand—at first because it was his job, then because it was you.

You let him catch you once.

Once.

You turned around in the dark, lantern light catching the gold flecks in your eyes. “You’re not very good at this,” you told him, grinning as you pressed him to the wall. “A real guard would’ve cuffed me by now.”

“I forgot the cuffs,” he’d said, heart stuttering.

You laughed into his collarbone.

You were made of quick fingers and quicker stories. You never told him your real name.

You whistled as you walked. Stole buttons from his coat just to stitch them into your own. Called him “soldier boy” until he stopped asking you not to.

He kissed you like he didn’t know it would end. Like maybe it wouldn’t. And you let him. You let him want you.

The last time he saw you, your laugh echoed too far ahead.

You had stolen something you shouldn’t have—something political, or dangerous, or cursed. He couldn’t remember now. Only that you had turned and run, and he had followed.

You were already bleeding when he caught up.

A blade between your shoulder blades. A pool of red blooming at your spine like the worst kind of flower.

You collapsed in his arms, breath catching like it didn’t know whether to stay or go.

Even then, you looked up at him and smiled. Like he was the one who had stolen something. Like he was the lucky one.

“You almost had me,” you whispered, voice broken but bright.

He pressed his forehead to yours and lied. “I’ll find you next time.”

You died before he got the last word out.

In that life, he carved your name into the hilt of his blade. Even though you never gave it to him. Even though you never said it once. Even though he wasn’t sure it had been real.

Still, he wrote it in the steel.

Seokmin thinks the lives where he doesn’t see you die are the worst of all.

When death comes suddenly—when he holds your body in his arms, when your final breath stutters against his skin—there is at least a shape to the grief. An ending, cruel and sharp, but certain.

But the lives where you just fade? Where you disappear in the blur of traffic, or laughter, or time? Where you leave without knowing him, without ever realizing what you meant, who you were—those are the ones that ruin him slowly.

There’s no body to mourn. No grave to kneel before. Only the ache of unfinished things. Unkissed mouths. Unspoken names. An entire love story dissolving like fog in morning sun.

He tells himself it’s mercy, that maybe not seeing the end means there wasn’t one. But deep down, he knows better.

The 88th time, he’d been your professor.

He knew it the second you walked into his lecture hall: late, breathless, a pen tucked behind your ear, hair still damp from the rain. You slid into a seat near the back, opened your notebook with fingers that trembled from the cold. You didn’t look at him once that entire hour. Not when he stammered over a line of Yeats that reminded him of the 9th life, or when he dropped his chalk mid-sentence because you had tilted your head in the exact way you used to when you were a queen’s ghost in his bed.

He pretended not to notice you. Tried to be good. Tried to be just a man teaching literature to a room full of strangers. But you weren’t a stranger. Not to him. You were the poem.

You stayed after class one day, weeks in, to ask about a line in The Waste Land. You tapped your pen on the margin like you always did when you were thinking. He watched the ink smudge on your thumb, the same way it had when you'd written him battle reports by candlelight in your first life. You said, “It’s funny, this part—about memory being a kind of burden.” And you laughed.

He forgot how to breathe for a moment. Because for him, memory was everything. And it was crushing him.

He resigned two weeks later. Left behind a half-finished syllabus and a note to the department chair. You never saw him again. But he saw you, from a distance, months later, laughing in the courtyard with someone else, your copy of Eliot annotated to death. You had underlined the line "These fragments I have shored against my ruins."

So had he.

The 72nd time, he was your neighbor. Third floor, two windows across.

You liked to play music late at night—old jazz, mostly. Sometimes rock. Sometimes nothing at all, just the clink of a spoon against ceramic as you stirred your tea. He watched the glow of your lamp through the blinds, a moth to something warm and unreachable.

You passed each other in the hallway every morning. You wore headphones, always. He would nod. You’d smile, distracted, polite. Once, you left your laundry basket in the communal room and he guarded it like a temple, sitting cross-legged in front of it with his back against the dryer until you returned. You thanked him with a granola bar and said, “You’re sweet.”

He wanted to tell you that once you had sewn up the wound in his side with your bare hands. That once you had taught him how to peel mangoes with a knife curved like a crescent moon. That once you had died cradled in his lap, whispering a name he hadn’t used in that life—but it was his all the same.

But all he said was, “Anytime.”

You moved out six months later. He never saw where you went.

But for years after, he still left his window open at night, waiting for the sound of your record player.

The 91st time was different.

You met in a secondhand bookstore. It was raining, the kind of rain that turned the city soft and slow. You were in the classics aisle, thumbing the cracked spine of a copy of Wuthering Heights like you couldn’t decide whether to take it home. You looked up when he reached for the same shelf.

He should’ve walked away.

Instead, he picked up the book and offered it to you, holding it out with a sheepish grin. “You look like you’d like this.”

You tilted your head at him. “That obvious?”

He didn’t know what came over him then—maybe it was the scent of the rain in your hair, or the shape of your mouth on a word like obvious—but he said, “You just remind me of someone who once loved tragic things.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And how’d that end for her?”

He could’ve said: with a sword through her chest in a burning chapel or: with your hand in mine on a battlefield, dying with your mouth full of my name or: you don’t want to know, not really.

But instead, he smiled and shrugged. “She loved anyway.”

You paid for the book. Wrote your number on the receipt. Said, “Just in case you have any other doomed recommendations.”

For three weeks, you met in quiet corners of the city. Cafés, museums, bookstores with creaky floors. You kissed him in a park under a jacaranda tree, your hands in his hair, and he thought—please, this time. Just this once.

But the dreams came.

You woke up one night, tangled in his sheets, your breath short, a name you didn’t recognize on your lips. You stared at him like he was a ghost. And maybe he was.

The next morning, your number stopped working.

He never returned to that bookstore.

Time no longer moved straight for him. It twisted, coiled like smoke in a sealed jar, writhing just out of his grasp. It folded in on itself, looped through seams he couldn’t stitch shut. Days became out-of-order photographs, blurred at the edges. Sometimes he woke with dirt beneath his fingernails and someone else’s name on his lips. Other times he woke mid-sentence, his voice hoarse, body trembling, your name already half-formed in his throat before he could stop it.

He’d come to in the middle of moments he hadn’t yet earned.

One time, he opened his eyes and your hand was in his. Candlelight flickered across your features, dancing shadows onto the wall, and you were laughing. Your smile was soft and wine-stained, and he thought, pleasepleasepleaseplease don’t let this be the middle or the end. Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease let this be the beginning.

But then the world exhaled, and so did you. And just like that, you let go. The wax had melted too far. The moment was already behind him.

He was always late. Or far too early.

Once, he walked past a street performance in a rainy city, the smell of chestnuts thick in the air, and a violinist was playing your song. You were in the crowd, arms linked with someone else. You didn’t look his way. That was the 59th life. You’d been happy. He’d gone home alone and carved your name into the baseboard with a penknife.

There were lives where he found you on accident: caught in laughter in a passing car, your head tipped back, wind in your hair. He'd pull over. He’d get out. He’d run after you. By then, it was always too late. Always.

And then there were lives where he lived entire decades without knowing you were there. Lives where your name never passed his lips, but his dreams were full of you anyway. Your eyes in faces of strangers. Your laugh hiding behind glass storefronts and voices on the radio.

Once, he met you on the first day.

He had blinked into existence and there you were, leaning over a record store counter, your chin in your palm, chewing a pencil that had no eraser left.

You didn’t even look up as he entered. “New here?” you asked, thumbing through a crate of old CDs.

He couldn’t speak. Could only nod.

You turned then, slid him a mix tape in a clear case with handwritten words across the label: for the sad boys.

You raised an eyebrow. “You look like one of them.”

And then—God, then—you smiled.

Not the kind of smile made for anyone else. The kind he remembered from lifetimes ago, before curses, before loss. The kind you gave him when you’d collapse into a tent after battle, dirt on your cheek and blood on your blade, and he would press his forehead to yours and whisper, you made it. That smile.

He didn’t breathe until he was out the door.

In his 98th life, he kept that tape in the top drawer of his nightstand. Even when the store burned down. Even when you left before winter. He never played it. He couldn’t. He didn’t want to know what songs you’d chosen. He didn’t want the sound of your past to be louder than your memory.

And still, some nights, when the silence stretched thin and the moonlight spilled like milk across the floor, he’d take it out of its case. Run his fingers over the letters, worn down by time and hope. He'd hold it to his chest and listen, not to the music, but to what was missing.

You always felt just out of reach. Like a word he once knew. A breath he hadn’t finished taking. A promise made on a night neither of you could remember.

And the worst part was this: You didn’t know he was waiting. You never did.

By the 99th, he no longer prayed for you to remember.

He didn’t beg the stars, didn’t barter with fate, didn’t scream into the ocean the way he had in the 57th life. Didn’t offer up his name like a chant or a wound. No, by then, Seokmin asked for nothing more than time. A brief stay. A held breath. A quiet life, even if it flickered out too soon.

In the 99th, he found you behind a glass door painted with chipped celestial decals, a crescent moon flaking off the ‘o’ in “OPEN,” a trail of stars skimming the corner of the window like they were escaping. The bell chimed as he stepped in, sharp and unkind.

You looked up. You wore a threadbare tank top and boredom like armor, curled on a stool, a single earbud tucked under your hoodie’s drawstring. The whir of a needle hummed from the back room. He thought, just for a moment, that he’d walked into a dream stitched together from old memories. But no, it was you, older, sharper, your smile missing. You hadn’t seen him yet.

He didn’t know what compelled him to speak. Maybe it was the ache in his chest. Maybe it was the way his heart clenched like it always did when it sensed you in the room.

“I don’t have an appointment,” he’d said, voice unsteady.

You glanced at the empty chairs, then at him — his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, his breath shallow.

“No one does anymore,” you replied, voice dry. “Sit.”

He lowered himself into the cracked leather chair like a man about to confess.

You set your gloves on with the kind of efficiency that told him you were good at this — careful hands, precise eyes, the kind of focus that once won wars in other lives. You didn’t ask many questions. Just raised a brow as you prepped the machine.

“What are we doing?”

“A sun,” he said. “Small. Over the heart.”

You didn’t laugh. Just nodded.

“Bold placement,” you murmured, your touch ghosting across his chest as you wiped the spot clean. Your fingers were cold. He felt his ribs shudder under them.

When the needle buzzed to life, he barely flinched. Pain was easy now. Familiar. It grounded him, steadied his breathing. He focused instead on your face: the soft crease between your brows, the way your mouth tugged slightly to one side in concentration. The same mouth that had once commanded armies. That had once kissed him behind a curtain of falling snow. That had once whispered his name as you drowned in the 34th life.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to.

The silence between you was velvet-lined, thick with memory he could not share.

But then, when it was over—when the ink had settled beneath his skin, permanent and small like a secret—you lingered.

You stared at the sun, your thumb brushing gently around it, not quite touching.

You tilted your head.

“Feels familiar,” you said.

The words weren’t soft. They were hushed. Like they didn’t belong to the present at all. Like they’d spilled out from another life by accident.

Seokmin’s throat tightened.

He wanted to say, It’s because you’ve drawn it before. On my wrist, in the 18th life, when we were both seventeen and on the run. Or the 42nd, when you painted it in the sky for me with fireflies. Or the 65th, when you carved it into the bark of an apple tree and told me you’d always come back.

But he didn’t say any of that.

He just nodded. Quiet. Reverent. Grateful.

And you didn’t press.

He left with a bandage over his heart and the ghost of your fingers still clinging to his skin.

He didn’t ask for your number.

He didn’t need it.

You were always a life away.

And this one was almost over.

When his 100th life comes, Seokmin almost forgets.

Time, by then, is waterlogged: bloated, heavy, slipping through his fingers before he can name it. He wakes sometimes and feels seventeen. Other days, he’s all of them at once: soldier, scholar, ghost, god. There are lifetimes he can no longer separate from dreams. Some where he knows he died before you. Others where you didn’t die at all, just vanished, like smoke trailing from the edge of a candle, leaving him in the dark.

But in this life—in his 100th—Seokmin finds himself with a crown on his head and your hand in his.

It startles him. The symmetry. The cruelty of it. Or maybe it’s mercy. He hasn’t decided yet.

The palace is quieter than he remembers. Not the gold-dripping empire of his first life, where bells tolled and sycophants bowed. This one is quieter. Older. Cracks in the stone. Ivy on the columns. A throne made of wood instead of war.

He looks down, and there you are: fingers woven between his, knuckles familiar.

You’re not in armor this time. No blood on your boots. You wear blue. The soft kind. The same blue as the ink that once stained your hands, satchel heavy with pomegranate. The same ink you dabbed on his trembling skin as he told you he wanted a sun on his chest. Permanent. Just above the heart. The fabric sways when you move, like you’ve never known a battlefield. 

But your gaze?

Your gaze is sharp as ever. It slices through the years. Finds him like it always does.

And this time—this time—it lingers.

There’s something different in your eyes. Not just fondness. Not just fate.

Recognition.

He swallows.

You smile. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’ve seen you,” he says, and it’s the closest he’ll ever come to falling to his knees.

You smile at him as the court rises, as banners are unfurled above their heads.

He lifts his eyes to the crest on the silk.

A sun.

Gold and jagged and familiar, encrusted in diamonds atop your crown.

You wear it differently than he ever imagined. Not like royalty. Not like a symbol. You wear it like it’s always been yours. As if, somewhere in you, your hands remember what it was to trace its shape onto his skin. Onto tree bark. Onto war maps. Onto history.

He turns to you, and for a moment, you're no longer queen—you’re the daughter of the man who had once stood on a gallows, made martyr by the very flag Seokmin now rules under. You had screamed that day—not words, just grief. And even as they pulled you away, he had met your eyes. In that life, his 23rd, you never forgave him.

But in this one, your palm finds his. And stays.

You lean in, as the crowd dissolves around you, a blur of robes and oaths and rustling pageantry.

“I had a dream last night,” you say, soft and faraway. “We were in a forest. I had a sword. You were bleeding. I held your face and told you not to die.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Did I?”

“No,” you whisper, brushing your thumb across the inside of his wrist, where he swears the skin still remembers the kisses you pressed there 43 lives ago. “You came back.”

The throne behind you is carved wood. No gold. No fanfare. Ivy spills from its corners like it’s always been part of the earth. And maybe it has. Maybe this kingdom is a little quieter, a little humbler, shaped by all the lives he never got to finish. All the ones he watched you slip through like sand.

But here—in this 100th, his last—he thinks maybe it was all worth it.

Because when he looks at you now, all the pieces come together. You laugh with the same mouth that once kissed him behind a bookshop, that once shouted orders on horseback. You smile like a thief who never got caught. You hold his hand like a promise.

And when you kiss him,  it tastes like ink and salt and rain.

He feels it then: every life pooling into this one.

Every sun he ever wore.

Every name you ever said, even when you didn’t know why it made your chest ache.

Every version of love that wasn’t enough—until now.

Until you.

Until you knew him.

And this time, he doesn’t need to pray.

This time, he just stays.

[jupiterpiss]

i keep seeing ex remmick which u eat up everytime but i’m wondering what the process of breaking up with him would be like

Thank youuuu 😝😝 I feel that a lot of this is kinda just me retelling some stuff.. maybe? Not really but it’s different ways he’ll be ruining your life that were mentioned before. This doesn’t have a ton of smut.. actually close to none lolz. This reads to be very.. aggressive on his end. It is supposed to be like that.. he’s a piece of shit sorry.

Honestly.. I think it would be a very complicated process.. because in my mind I think Remmick doesn’t necessarily ever think you two are ‘broken up’. Like yes.. you kicked him out and told him to fuck off and said this is over BUT LIKE you were just upset. People say means things all the time when they’re upset.

I truly don’t think he ever sees you as not satisfied.. cause he knowssss he’s satisfying you so like why are you acting mean and RUDE?? Not cool wtf. It’s kinda how he wouldn’t leave alone ANYONE IN THE JUKE JOINT even tho they told him to fuck off SEVERAL TIMES. He literally won’t take no for an answer, it’s not in his vocabulary so why should it be in yours.

So with that added pain of him not really seeing you as separated just ya know going through a mild disagreement.. which if he wants to call it that he shouldn’t be using the word mild. It’s farrr from it, like you two literally threaten each other, that’s not mild.

Threats of killing one another, threats of going to the police or family or vampire hunters. Everyone and anyone at this point. It’s bad. Wtv. Ahem.

Point is— it’s hard to leave someone who doesn’t see you as separated.

That’s also where the toxicity comes from, because at some point you become beyond annoyed with him. He won’t stop showing up, won’t stop threatening to eat your family, coming up with lies that he’ll change, that NO he isn’t mean.

You eventually meet your breaking point when you do try to move on, threaten to start sleeping with other people and he, I KIDD YOU NOT, yells about how you can’t be with anyone else cause uhhhh he’ll curse them to die from a terrible infection!

“Vampirism?”

“No.. worse. If you sleep around, every dick you touch will fall off.”

And he’s not kidding LMAOOO. Do I think he’ll have the ability to do that.. idk. I don’t actually know if vampires can actually possess people or anything.. but he does cause I said so. Not possess I guess but more so he makes them go crazy. Like actually crazy.

Remmick PLAGUES the minds of those you touch. Also.. he counts this as cheating on him. He’s not too fond of it, matter of fact it pisses him off really really bad but wtv. You’re just going through a weird phase.

Ya know those people who say ‘they know where home is’ when speaking about their cheating spouse? Yeah that’s fucking him. Except he also curses and scares off anyone you actually do. I don’t wanna go tooo in depth cause quite a few people asked for a second ex!Remmick post and one person asked for this exact scenario.. so more on that later. It’s gonna be part of the part 2 of that post.

Anyway.

Once your done with sleeping with other people cause CLEARLY that isn’t helping anyone (this proves his point right btw even tho it wasn’t on purpose on ur end.. he still sees you stopping as a means of you ‘leaving this phase’)

You decide that maybe packing up and moving would do good. Leaving your house, leaving your family, the town. Everything. Last day of packing tho he shows up and fucking flips his shit.

This is where I reallly wanna reel in the fact that toxic Remmick is extremely scary. Like really scary, you should probs not be trying to look for this man, type of scary. Cause he wrecks all your shit, tells you how are you going to leave when you have nothing??

“Fuck you! I’m done, we’re done— done! I’ve been done, I’m moving-“

He tuts, shaking his head slow, “and what exactly will you be leavin with? Got no furniture now, got no clothes, jewelry.. baby, you’re not prepared to go.”

And it’s like.. hello?? Yes I was but you literally lit all my shit on fire while happily jumping up and down. Hooting and hollering, happier than a fucking clam. He’s unwell. He saw all your stuff resting outside, heard you still shifting around stuff inside, packing the rest of what you got. You live far out.. so having shit stolen isn’t exactly on your mind but you thought ‘hey, just one more box and I’m done’ only to go outside to see a massive bonfire.

And who’s standing beside it with a box FILLED with matches? Remmick :))

He lights all your shit on fire, and if you have a car he slashes the tires. Lights it on fire too.. this is starting to sound actually really bad. Omg okay but HE DOES THIS OKAY. I’m not backing out, he destroys ur shit!!

Okay.. moving is a big no. And ya know what else is a big no.. ur friends. You see.. Remmick does some hunting and searching, he decides ya know what?! I’m gonna take this bitch’s friends. Yeahhh fuck you im making you a complete loner. So that’s what he does LMAOOOO he makes ur ass a bigger loser then him by quite literally taking out all of ur friends.

And he uses that hivemind like noooo one else. Forces them to try and convince you back together, that really he will change. That this is just a word phase ur going through, cold feet. Ya know.. but that’s okay! He’ll warm them up!! He completely takes away their personality, who they are. What they want, what made them.. them. Everything you loved, those imperfections, the characteristics.. mind you, these people are your home. A found family of some sort all built on the need to find connection outside of family. Outside of blood.

And that’s gone.

It freaks you out, rightfully so. Everyone is so.. bleak. A empty cast of what they use to be, pawns for his own destruction. Makes you wanna vomit and sob on the floor.

And you do. Really you do. You start to actually feel trapped, unable to really do anything.

Your friends keep saying, “just let us in! Let him in! I can see all his memories.. all his emotions. Everything. Honey, he really does love you.” And it would be a friend of urs that HATES men. Hello? Not the same person.

AND HE STILL WONT LEAVE GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE. Stillll thinks ur together and—

“ya know, this whole cat and mouse thing is really startin to get on my nerves, hun. Just- I don’t even know why you’re upset.”

He really doesn’t. Remmick doesn’t get why you won’t let him in, or why you keep claiming you broke up. You didn’t? He thinks he’s in the right, thinks all of this is for your own good cause.. you two are meant to be, mean to thrive together. Why would you give that up cause of one messy argument.

It wasn’t a messy argument and really he’s always been manipulative.

If he were to convince you to have make up sex he would try to baby trap you. I’m certain of it.. that or because I don’t think vampires can have babies, he would bite you. Just like in the fic. More on this later.. actually I’m thinking long and hard about this, you will be seeing it.

[radiohao]

why are men so annoying? + nct wish

sypnosis: arguing w nct wish (hyung line)

pairings: nct wish hyung line x gn!reader

genre: kinda angst, comfort, fluff, some crack, non!idol nct wish, uni!au

warnings: fighting (not physical), lowercase intended, not proofread, first time writing angst, pinching riku, reader is petty but for good reason

wc: 2.9k (my longest fic yet!!)

—

oh sion

your boyfriend is someone that is very lighthearted and fun-loving. he makes your rainy days sunny again and is the life of the party. you never thought there'd be a day where you'd find his lack of seriousness a bother to you. but like anything in life, too much of a good thing can easily become a bad thing. as time went by in your relationship, you, like anyone else, starting thinking more about the future — getting married, having kids, and buying a house together are things you wanted with sion. but the two of you tended to live more in the moment instead of constantly wondering what the future holds. it was only when you were nearing the end of your university schooling that you started to question sion regarding future endeavors, especially like getting married or buying a house together. you wanted to settle down, spend your forever with him.

but it seemed that whenever you brought it up, your boyfriend would change the topic or make it seem less serious than you thought it to be. the first few times you brushed it off, but the more he pushed it aside, the more it irritated you, to the point where you starting doubting sion's love for you, thinking he didn't want you for the long-run.

it all blew up one day when you went out with your parents for their anniversary dinner. it was just a family thing, so sion didn't tag along. "honey, when are you and sion getting married?" your mother had asked. you didn't respond, couldn't respond. all you managed to blurt out was, "i'm not sure yet, mom. we're still kinda young, you know?" she nodded understandingly and chuckled. "i suppose you're right. but you're going to graduate from university soon, and you can't live in the dorms forever. no pressure, sweetie. just something to think about."

her words had you thinking about marriage with sion up until the following day when you decided to relax at his dorm. both you and sion sat on the couch, cuddling as you watch your favorite tv show.

"sion?"

"hm? yes, baby?" he turned to look at you.

"when are we gonna get married?" you ask him. "we've been dating for a while now." sion's breath hitches at your question, and he scoffs before planting a kiss to your forehead. "let's not think about that right now baby, it's not what's important at the moment." your brows furrow in frustration, and you take a breath before speaking back.

"it is important. babe, you can't just brush it off every single time i ask you about getting married or moving in together — we're not getting any younger."

"i'm not brushing it off, it's just not what we should be prioritizing-"

"so when will you?"

"soon, baby. just not right now." you're slowly getting even more irritated.

"when is soon? it doesn't really seem like you want to get married to me..." you mumble towards the end.

"i never said that- why are you accusing me?"

"i'm not accusing you?? you're just not giving me a direct answer! sion, i'm going to get my degree soon. i need to know what plans you have for us-"

"i don't have any, i just- don't think about that stuff when it comes to you." he blurts out. you look at him silently, eyes wide. you sigh, not finding the energy to say anything back. "i'm gonna go home," you utter. "it's late." you sit up from the couch and grab your bag, walking towards the door. "baby, no— i didn't mean it like that," he says, grabbing your wrist. you muster a small smile, saying, "it's okay, let's just talk about this tomorrow." you take sion's hand off yours and walk out the door, leaving him standing there.

tomorrow never came. you stopped bringing it up after that one night, deciding not to stir up another argument again. sion noticed, of course. he thought you would mention marriage at a certain time, but two weeks went by and no words were spoken regarding your future. you began to drown in assignments and exams, and sion went back to mokpo to visit his parents. you two barely spoke, words like 'how are you?' and 'did you eat yet?' being thrown around. silence filled the space in your dorm, your texts, and your relationship.

you assumed he forgot, that he was actually glad that it was never mentioned again. but you were proved wrong when you arrived home one evening after a long study session at the library. you open your dorm to find it neatly organized, blankets folded and condiments put away into the pantry. you look around in confusion, until you see oh sion sitting on your couch, flowers in hand.

"what are you doing here?" you ask him, cautiously taking a step forward. he stands up and hands you the flowers, your fingers brushing against his. you realize then how much you missed this; how much you missed him. his touch, his affection. maybe you should've talked about this sooner. but sion beats you to it.

"we should've talked about this sooner. i'm sorry i didn't bring it up, i thought you didn't want to talk about it- okay, that's not the point. i wanted to give you a proper apology. i'm sorry i never took those conversations seriously and for always brushing it off. i lied when i said i don't think about that kind of stuff. in fact, i think about it too much. to be honest, i'm just-" he exhales shakily, "i'm scared. i'm scared that you'll realize you won't want forever with me, scared that the universe's idea of forever doesn't have us in it. but i realized that you want it as much as i do. so yes, i do want to get married, maybe in about a year, get our own place, have a family of our own, and grow old together. i want it all with you, so please, let me make it up to you."

you say nothing but grab his shoulders and pull him in for a warm embrace. both you and sion bask in each other's touch for a while, the world stopping for you two, the stars glistening in joy.

maeda riku

riku is a very patient and understanding person, you know all too well. but sometimes you wish he wasn't as patient as he is, especially now that his childhood friend nako moved to the same university you and riku attend. like any sweet person would do, riku welcomed her with open arms and let her adjust at her own pace. he introduced nako to you, of course, as well as sion, yushi, jaehee, ryo, and sakuya. over time, she became a part of your little group with the other guys.

you really had no problem with her being close with your boyfriend. no matter how much your friends said he was pushing boundaries, you trusted riku with everything in you. he always made time for you despite having to help nako get used to living in a new place. it started to get a little suspicious, like her getting way too close to riku, but alas, you decided to brush it off, thinking she was just shy to talk to others.

she was in fact, not shy to talk to others. you saw her conversing with some other girls in the halls, overhearing her saying something about how he's so hot and that she just needed to get rid of his girlfriend. you obviously knew she was referring to you and riku. you at least tried to warn riku, saying she's the devil's spawn, but he laughed it off, thinking you just had a little misunderstanding. but no matter how irritated you were, you sucked it up and just pushed those feelings down. but it all blew up one day for you when riku brought her to one of your dates.

the two of you had planned to watch the new wicked movie together. you were looking forward to it especially because you had a long week and needed some boyfriend time with your one and only. little did you know another person would be tagging along, because when you're waiting in front of the theater, you see riku walking towards you with nako by his side. "hi baby! sorry, little rain check — nako had to tag along because her place is full of termites. she had to call pest control to have them exterminated." he says happily, nako just stupidly nodding along.

as much as you tried to keep your composure, you couldn't help but scoff. you lean into riku's ear and whisper harshly, "you did not have to bring her. you could've had ryo or something hang out with her." he looks at you a little surprised, like he didn't expect you to not like the idea of another girl tagging along on your date. he whispers back, "i know, i tried, but she said she was more comfortable with me." your face bitters and you turn to nako, who is still standing there like she can't comprehend where she is. you cross your arms and sigh, "nako, i love you so much girl, but respectfully — this was supposed to be our date. meaning, just me and riku. nothing against you, but maybe we can call ryo or sakuya so they can accompany you. is that fine?"

she purses her lips in concentration and looks back at you, "u-um, i don't want someone e-else to join. i'm only okay with riku-chan." it takes everything in you not to smack the crap out of her face. you're not one to fight, but you're also not one to let people disrespect your boundaries. "nako, this is a date. just for riku and i," you repeat slowly. she grumbles softly and speaks up again, "i can j-just stay on the side! don't worry." you cannot believe the audacity this girl has, so you take your car keys and turn back to riku, whispering into his ear once more.

"if she won't leave, i will."

riku doesn't even have time to react before you're taking your car keys out and walking to the parking lot. he tries to go after you, but nako grabs his arm and asks him to stay. you later send a voice message to riku later that day, full of words like "you have no boundaries!' to "why don't you just date nako then for christ's sake?" riku heads to your dorm immediately, pounding on the door aggressively. you open the door and find him standing there, sweat dripping down the tips of his hair. "what do you want, maeda?" you say coldly. your boyfriend winces at your tone, and he asks, "can i please come in?" you give him a disgusted look, scoffing, "fine."

he sits on your dining table, panting. you assume he ran here. a small part of you feels bad for him because he seems so tired, but the bigger part tells you to just leave him be. as he catches his breath, you take it upon yourself to start the conversation.

"look, honey. i know nako is a nice girl and all but-"

"i'm sorry. you were right — she's literally the devil's spawn. she tried to get me to stay, saying we could go on a date instead. god, i don't know how i didn't see it sooner. i just left her there, told her not to talk to me again. and i blocked her on everything. i'm so sorry, baby."

you walk over and pinch riku's cheek, and he winces at the pain. "i told you!!" you scold. he laughs despite the sting and nods. you snicker, enjoying the fact that he just lets you do this to him. you cup his face and kiss riku, lips capturing each other's effortlessly.

even after you two reconciled, riku did his best to make it up to you anyway, buying you gifts and taking you out to more dates than you've ever been to before. whenever nako passes by, he gives her a look nastier than spoiled milk to the point where you have to tell him to stop so she doesn't try to beat his ass.

and whenever you think about her from time to time, he never fails to reassure you and let you know he's the only one for you as you are for him. maybe having an incredibly patient boyfriend is good after all.

tokuno yushi

your relationship with yushi is peaceful because he isn't one to start arguments and you're not one to provoke him. but you noticed that he doesn't really give details regarding his day or events that are coming up. you feel that sometimes he talks to you like you're an acquaintance and not a lover. you try to bring it up to him as you're both making dinner in your dorm.

"yushi, baby."

"yes, my love?"

"i noticed that you don't really like- tell me everything."

"huh? but i do, baby."

"i know, but like, you just say 'i had class today' or 'i went to the store.' you don't say all the details- hell, i don't even know your schedule."

he purses his lips a little before continuing. "i don't think you need to know all of the details."

you turn around to roll your eyes before sighing, "yeah, i guess."

maybe yushi thought that'd be the end of that conversation, but he was incredibly wrong. you hate arguing with yushi because it never gets you anywhere, so you do the second best thing and give him a taste of his own medicine. every single time he asks you, "how was your day, baby?" all you say is "good," "okay," "alright." is it petty? definitely. but it's better than screaming and yelling at your boyfriend, isn't it?

you were slowly getting impatient. it's been about a week, and it seemed like yushi was a little too nonchalant to notice how petty you were trying to be. but little did you know, he did notice. how could he not? you used to tell him every single thing, from what time you woke up to what brand socks you decided to put on for the day. but now your responses are one or two words. he wondered what he did wrong, until he thought back to your little argument and realized that you were just doing it to get back at him. he had a plan in his mind and decided to go for it.

one day, you and yushi are hanging out at a nearby cafe after class. silence isn't uncommon for you two, but this particular silence is too unbearable, so you suck it up and ask your boyfriend how his day was.

"well, it was good." of course, you think.

"i had science first, and all we did was write some notes while our professor talked about our upcoming test. then i had my language class, which was much better because we did a little group activity as a way to memorize the terms we learned. lunch was okay, sion and riku had to stay back at their class so they weren't there. i had to basically babysit ryo and saku. my last class was math, which was so boring, i almost fell asleep. no, i did actually. riku had to wake me up. how about you, baby?"

you're staring at yushi like he grew a second head because he just spoke more words than he does when talking to his friends. you point at him, absolutely puzzled. "what, who- who are you? what did you do with my boyfriend?" you say accusingly. yushi can't contain it anymore and laughs at your reaction. he takes your hand from across the table and rubs his thumb on your knuckles.

"it's me, y/n. you thought i didn't notice how you started replying like me?" he says. all you can do is stare at him, not expecting him to bring it up. "i'm sorry for what i said last week. maybe you don't need to hear all the details, but you want to, and that's what i love about you. the genuine interest you have for others. i realized that those small things matter to you, and that it's what keeps our relationship interesting. i'll work on it, for you. only if you promise to just tell me next time. i know you don't wanna fight, but it's better than leaving things unsaid."

you smile softly and chuckle. "god, i hate how well you know me," you say sarcastically. "i'm sorry too, i should've just told you instead of making things difficult." he shakes his head, "it's okay, we'll both learn."

your relationship with yushi is peaceful because he isn't one to start arguments and you're not one to provoke him. but it's also peaceful because he understands you like no other and doesn't invalidate your feelings, rather, he makes you feel seen, heard. you learn that he talks about his day vaguely because he pays attention to other things, like the way you hold his hand in the cold of the night, the way your nose scrunches when your allergies are getting worse again, and the way you look at him like he hung the stars in the sky.

—

author's note: hiii! requested by @pppopppyyy :)) i hope it's okay :'> have a good day/night everyone i love uuuuu!!

[formulafanfics13]

Mine. Now Act Like It - OB87 🔥

masterlist

Request

She saw the girl before she saw him. Blonde. Glossy. Leaning against the bar in a dress short enough to be a question. Laughing a little too loudly. Holding her glass like a fucking prop.

And her hand, that was the problem. Her hand was on his chest. Just fingertips, light and flirty, resting there like she had every fucking right.

Ollie didn’t pull away. He didn’t lean in either. Just stood there, smiling, sipping his drink, doing that thing where he let people orbit him like he wasn’t already spoken for — like he didn’t already have someone who swallowed his come on Tuesday and texted him on Thursday like it was nothing.

Her. She was that someone. At least she thought she was.

But now? Now she wasn’t so sure.

She stood by the wall with her drink clutched tight, watching. Heart pounding. Jaw locked. She felt stupid. Clingy. Terrified. Because no one had ever told her she could be jealous in this arrangement, but no one had told her she couldn’t be either.

Friends with benefits, right? No rules. No drama. Just sex. Except the sex had stopped feeling casual weeks ago. And the idea of another girl touching him made her sick.

She turned to walk away. Didn’t get far. 

“Hey.” His voice, low, amused, a little too smooth, caught her in the ribs.

She turned. Tried to smile. “Didn’t realise you were here,” she said.

Ollie nodded once. Looked her up and down. Not like a friend. Not like someone casual. Like someone who’d had his cock in her mouth three nights ago and was thinking about it right now.

“Yeah?” he said. “Because you’ve been staring at me for ten minutes.”

She blinked.

“Don’t worry,” he added, stepping closer. “I noticed.”

She scowled. “Did you also notice her hand on your chest?”

He raised an eyebrow. “So you were watching.”

She rolled her eyes, turning again.

“Don’t walk away.” His voice wasn’t sharp. But it was final.

She froze.

He leaned in. Breathed against her ear. “Let’s go.”

The ride back to his place was quiet. She sat stiff in the passenger seat, thighs pressed together, arms crossed. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch her. Didn’t explain. Just drove like his knuckles were glued to the steering wheel and his thoughts were all violent.

The moment the door shut behind them, she turned. “You don’t get to act annoyed,” she snapped. “You were the one letting some random bitch feel you up at the bar.”

He looked at her slowly. “You jealous?”

She didn’t answer.

He stepped forward. “You are.”

“Fuck you, Ollie-”

“You’re jealous,” he said again, smiling now. “You hate that she touched me.”

She went to shove him. He caught her wrists. “Say it.”

“No.”

“Say it.”

“Fine,” she snapped. “I didn’t like it. Happy?”

He exhaled through his nose. Slow. Controlled. “Take your dress off.”

She blinked.

“Ollie-”

“I’m not asking.”

She hesitated. He let go of her wrists. Crossed his arms. Waited. And she gave in.

The straps slipped down first. Then the zipper. Then the dress hit the floor like a flag dropped in surrender. She stood there in her heels and her bra and panties and nothing else.

He stepped forward. “Turn around.”

She obeyed. He unhooked her bra. Let it fall. Pulled her panties down slow. And then pressed one palm flat to her bare back. “Bend over.” 

She braced herself on the kitchen counter, breath shivering. His hand moved between her thighs. Already soaked. He smiled.

“Jealous little thing,” he muttered, dragging two fingers through her slit. “You like being mine, don’t you?”

She whimpered. “We’re not-”

He pushed two fingers inside. She gasped.

“Not what?” he asked, stroking deep. “Not exclusive? Not serious? Not fucking mine?”

Her head dropped. His free hand gripped her hip. He fucked her slow with his fingers until her legs shook. “You wanna act like this doesn’t mean anything,” he whispered, “but you fall apart every time I touch you.”

He pulled out. Unzipped his jeans. And slammed into her in one brutal, breathtaking thrust. She screamed. He stilled. “You didn’t like her touching me,” he said. “So let me remind you who I belong to.”

He fucked her deep. Slow. Possessive. His hips grinding into her ass like he was trying to leave a mark on her soul. She sobbed. He slapped her ass once. “Take it.”

“Ollie-fuck-please-”

“You want me?” he growled. “Then act like it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m-oh my God-I’m yours-”

“Louder.”

“I’m yours! I’m fucking yours!”

He groaned, pulling her upright so her back hit his chest. One hand on her throat. The other dragging down to rub her clit. “You see anyone else looking at me again,” he growled, “you come stand next to me. Put your hand in my back pocket. Make sure they fucking know.”

She moaned.

“You get jealous, you tell me. You don’t walk away.”

“Ollie-”

“Because I’m not looking at anyone else. Not fucking anyone else. You want me? You have me.”

She clenched around him.

“I’m yours-”

“Say it again.”

“I’m yours, Ollie-yours-”

He bit down on her neck. And came inside her like he meant it.

Later, when they were both wrecked and half-dressed on his bed, she finally turned to him. “So what does this mean?”

He looked at her. Brushed her hair back. And said, dead serious, “It means next time you see another girl touch me, you come take my hand. Because you’re not just fucking me anymore.”

She blinked.

“You’re with me.”

And she didn’t argue. Because she’d always known that. Even when she didn’t say it. Even when she walked away. She was his. And now, everyone else would know too.

[norriszn]

with The Nortrell Primer coming up soon (it's coming up soon i prommy), i wanted to start sharing a few things i've pieced together, a few things that didn't quite add up at the time, especially during that twitch stream from about 3 years ago, when lando was live answering some questions from subs/viewers with max, cause i didn't know all the stuff i know now ofc.

and when i say "a few things" i really mean a lot of things but they all lead back to the same thing: the day max saw his best friend for the first time. which, for the record, wasn't the first time they spoke and it wasn't the first time they officially met.

it was just the first time max saw lando like really saw him and, for some reason, remembered.

LANDO'S TWITCH STREAM | lando and max talking about karting days

april 14th 2022

as many as you know, they both began karting early, on separate countries but with the same goal. they didn't end up on the same team (ricky flynn motorsport) until 2012, and it wasn't until 2013 that they finally competed against each other in the same class (kf-junior) during the WSK euro series.

in this clip, they talk about how they got started in karting, which eventually leads to max sharing the story of the first time he saw lando on track.

full transcript:

max: "what made you get into karting?" erm, i went to the singapore f1 race in 2008. loved it, loved the sound. and then i tried karting after school once and just fell in love with it... lando: awww max... and kept going back every day. and then i just started racing. i'm not going to go into that story really. it's take ages. i just liked it when i tried it. and then i kept doing it. lando: i did mine... we went to a car race after school on friday, mate. max: yeah? lando: and then my dad went round asking different people if they have any spare suits and boots. and i think we've still got the suits and boots that i got. it was like a blue suit and i mean, at the time, right, i must, it's 2007. so i must have had like a kids 13 size shoe, mate. kids 12, maybe not even that. max: kids 12. lando: kids 12 or something, and these are like size 3, size 4 shoes, which are way too big for me. imagine me in a bambino, right? (the bambino karting class is for kids aged 6–8, using smaller, lighter karts made just for them) how small i was within a size 4 shoe! max: i first saw you -we didn't know each other at this point- but i remember watching, i don't know why i was at pfi (as in pf international circuit). you were just driving around in this little comer (as in comer cadet), like tiny, mate. and i just remember watching for a few laps. lando: yeah, you're watching me, yeah? max: yeah, someone said "that kid... he's just won or something" so i was like oh. lando: oh, really? max: yeah, it was... you had the...that... your first helmet with that black and orange one on. lando: i'm not going to lie i never won a race in cadets. max: i don't know, they said you've... i don't know... you were first(?) [inaudible for me] lando: i think they just said i was goated. max: yeah, probably chatting to the team boss, picking you up. lando: i was probably like 5 years old. max: you were erm... lando: i must have been what? max: you had the black and orange lid on. lando: yeah, so i must have been 8, 9. max: yeah. lando: but i mean, i was freaking tiny at 9 years old. max: you're whizzing round, mate. you're so small. their friend: max, you've been following borris around since he was 9. max: yeah. lando: he's just an absolute fanboy, really. max: i'm day one fan, mate. their friend: watch his fanboy. he's a hidden fan girl. he's a double agent in disguise. max: (to his friend) you're the fan girl, mate. you've recently discovered discord and gets in every day. lando: he's freaking every day waiting on discord for us to join, mate.

okay, now let's set aside how they got into karting for a second and just focus on what max said. because it's kind of wild. he knew lando before even really knowing him. max didn't know who he was, but he remembered him. remembered the way he drove. remembered the way someone told him that lando won and remembered how tiny he was.

max remembered him long before they became anything to each other.

and of course, lando, being very lando, laughed it off and said "you were watching me, yeah?" in that confident way he does when he's just trying to wind max up... but because he's also so lando, you could practically hear his brain gears turning mid stream, and, as always, once his brain starts going, his mouth doesn't exactly wait for permission to follow.

that's when he said two things that stuck with me:

first, that he never won a race in cadets, as in comer cadets class.

and second, that he was probably around nine years old at the time.

and that's what made me revisit all of this. i remember watching that stream and thinking: there's no way max is making that up. no way someone just randomly told him a random kid (lando was random kid abck then) had won when he hadn't. like… who lies to a kid's face like that? (who would lie to this face? not me)

so i went back. i started digging because earlier this year (big 2025), when the 2019 rookies (george, lando, alex) started "closing up" in the formula (n)one standings again, i remembered they used to race in the same karting series: the super one series (s1 to f1). and that little spark sent me down the rabbit hole, and eventually, i ended up writing a big post about it in april but i finally posted like a week ago (this one right here).

and here's what i realised: lando norris is an unreliable narrator.

i don't blame him tho... memories from that age blur, results get mixed up, wins feel smaller in hindsight. but still. lando... let me hold your hands (The Big Paws) when i say this... you were the comer cadet 'o' plate winner in 2010.

there is literal footage. there is photo evidence.

lando norris wins comer cadet 'o' plate 2010

via tvkc on fb reposting 4motor yt vid

earlier this year, adam norris posted what looked like a karting memory (note)book on ig and the front cover was a photo of little lando norris, small enough to look like he barely fit in the frame, holding a massive trophy. that pic as far as i can tell, was taken the day he won the comer cadet ‘o’ plate, at none other than pf international circuit, the very same place max said he saw lando for the first time.

age 10, "karting is what i love doing an my ambition is to win the formula 1 world championship" via adam_norris_pure_electric on ig (this pic is not part of adam ig feed anymore btw :/)

so far, everything lines up pretty well... that race lando won was in june 6th 2010, which means both he and max would've been 10 years old, not 9 like lando said in the stream.

so… was it that exact date, that exact circuit, where max first saw lando? ermmm, well, max said lando was wearing a black and orange helmet. and while lando was wearing a helmet that looked similar, it wasn't exactly black and orange on that day.

he did have a black and orange lid back in 2009 when he was racing in comer cadets (yes, he raced in comer cadets back in 2008, 2009 and 2010).

and how do i know lando did wear that black and orange helmet? because there’s a book — published over fifteen years ago by none other than jane eyes and steve illott, callum illott’s parents.

now, if you're reading this (and i'm not just screaming into the void), you might be asking: why would callum’s parents publish a book? well, simple — callum was also racing in the comer cadet class in 2009.

jane and steve put together that book — and a few others — filled with photos from every round of the championship, each with little captions underneath.

and this particular book was focused on lando and his older brother, oliver. and in those photos (which i'll include below), you can clearly see lando in 2009, wearing — you guessed it — a black and orange helmet.

comer cadet season 2009 by jane eyes and steveilott via blurb books uk

if you're wondering how i even found this book: i stumbled across it years ago just by googling “lando norris karting 2009 cadets” but it came back to me this year when adam posted a pic of a page of it back in february.

@.lando @.olivernorris1 Good photo jane_eyes_ilott via adam_norris_pure_electric on threads

(adam's name is a recurrent name in this post. lando might joke that max was his og fan but truthfully? one of his biggest fans has always been his dad. kudos to adam.)

in that post, adam tagged callum's mum, which makes it pretty likely that he was flipping through that exact same book.

let's keep going.

lando that year he didn't win a single race, didn't take the 'o' plate, and finished 14th in the championship standings.

and here's the key part: in 2009, max was still living in malaysia. we know this because on november 22nd, 2009, max raced in the red white sangari invitational kart prix, where he finished 5th. so he couldn’t have seen lando racing in the uk that year.

so... is max an unreliable narrator too? maybe. or maybe he just remembered the helmet a little differently. it's far more likely he saw the chrome and orange helmet lando wore in 2010 and remembered it as black and orange. they were similar enough, especially in motion. it happens.

taking all that into account: the dates, the location, the helmet, the timelines... i feel pretty confident saying NOW that in june 6th in 2010, at pf international circuit, max saw a tiny little boy who would eventually become his best friend :') smol frens !!!!

that was the moment. that was the origin story.

and lando doesn't even remember it lmao.

incredible.

oh, and if you want to make all of this even more insane, check the 2010 MSA drivers entry list. you'll find norris siblings names, and yes callum illott (he raced that year too!)but keep scrolling and you'll spot a slighthy familiar name: edward jones.

super one msa series 2010 entries (26.2.10) via super one british kart series news

now, if you're asking yourself who's edward jones???? just click here (that's ed's ig carrousel from last year, you can see lando, max and tom as well <3 because those are his friends and ed is a racing driver now btw)

it's actually insane to think about that maybe max didn't just see lando for the first time that day. he might've seen ed too, one of his closest friends.

alexa, play invisible string by t swift!

that's all. bye.

WAIT. one more thing:

please don’t take this to twitter. i've done my best to stick to what's public: things max has said himself, karting pages pdfs and published books. nothing way too personal.

the last thing i want is for anyone to make max/lando/ed uncomfortable or start harassing them with questions.

if i see this out of context on that hellsite i will cry and i will delete everything and then i will relocate to the moon. bye <3

[noazhere]

This is not a one time thing, it has happened multiple times and not only since he's been an adult, but since he's been a teenager too.

Media has good opinion about him. Everyone knows he's kind; when they search him for any interview or opinion about anything that is trending or that it involves his family, he doesn't act self-important or better than them as most people would think for the ward son of Bruce Wayne, Gotham's prince. He's charismatic, charming, polite and always gets some laughs indistinctly of who's he with.

But they had long since discovered that he doesn't like some specific kind of questions. At first it was noticeable that the teenager wasn't expecting them, or was even a bit uncomfortable by them, but he would end up playing along while laughing them off. As time went on and years passed though, his reactions started to change to unbothered and straightforward answers. "Is that news? I'm handsome, we know it, anything else?" And so more similar.

This make that any time a reporter or an interviewer that tells him about what other people think about him, or what they said about him, he makes it obvious that he couldn't care less. Thus, news but overall social media, tend to criticize him every time he responds like that, they call him "arrogant", "presumptuous", "conceited" and more. Which, honestly? The first time it made him roll his eyes because just last week he was being called friendly and warm; how Gotham missed him and how he should come 'home' more often. Bunch of hypocrites, but what could he expect from Gotham, he guesses.

I like to think that as more time passes, he's less friendly and loses his patience towards those kind of questions. Doing things as just ignoring them and walk them off as if they had never even talked to him, because that's better than taking out his frustration on someone. Because he's done a lot of things for these cities, and in general, even ignoring that he's Nightwing, he's done a shit tone in his life. He hears interviewers talking to his brothers and they get such an interesting questions, would it be about WE, asks and shows of interest about their lives (not only love-lives), opinions on whatever is going on in the world at the moment and just normal talks that involve their rational thinking instead of gossips, what other people said about you, your body or your face.

And he knows it's stupid to get upset about it, even more considering how these days those questions aren't as common as they used to be, but he is sometimes still upset. And he knows he's not "guilty" or something, but sometimes, just sometimes, he finds himself thinking that maybe if he didn't went along with it when he was a kid, maybe people would have left it there. Maybe people wouldn't comment so often about his smile, his muscles, his dimples or his ass. Maybe. Maybe that's why he gets worked up when he hears interviewers talking to his brothers about their physique. Maybe that's why he takes control over their talk and centrates it on himself, even if he would prefer burying himself alive rather than continuing with the conversation he's having with a big faux smile. Maybe.

do u think dick knows he's like pretty but he stopped caring because mostly civilians and some heroes that don't know nightwing just focus on the fact he's attractive specially in his teens like that one audio "you're beautiful. thank you and what else? what else? it is beauty all that matters to you?"

I can see Dick getting desensitized to being called pretty or attractive.

Maybe he's being interviewed and someone asks him about how so many people have called him attractive or put him on a list of some sort of the hottest celebrities, etc. and Dick just stares at them and asks, "Is that news? Typical Tuesday for me. Anything else?" But he doesn't let them even ask another question before he turns and walks away to the next reporter.