#I wanted him to look vulnerable and fragile | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

4linos · 3 days ago

Text

fragile future.

hwang hyunjin x f!reader

synopsis/request: a simple plastic stick sits before you, holding more meaning than you expected. as you wait, scared but hopeful, you learn that the most important thing isn’t what the result says, it’s who’s there to hold your hand through it.

warnings: fluff, anxiety and emotional vulnerability, pregnancy-related themes.

wc: 4920

The quiet scratch of charcoal against canvas filled the air, the rhythm steady, meditative. Hyunjin sat perched on his stool in his personal art studio, surrounded by scattered sheets of sketch paper and tubes of oil paint that were either neatly arranged or left half-open in a glorious mess only he could navigate. Golden afternoon light spilled lazily through the tall window, casting a halo on his long lashes and turning his hair into threads of honey.

He was lost in the quiet pulse of creativity, brush gliding over texture like music in motion. A sketch of a woman’s hand, delicate and ethereal, slowly came to life under his fingertips. He didn't need to look at a reference; her image was already burned into his mind like a dream he visited often. It was always her. You.

The door creaked gently behind him, soft as a whisper. He didn’t look up. His focus was absolute, his heart rhythm syncing with every stroke. His voice, however, was automatic and warm as he greeted you.

“You ready to go get lunch, angel?” he asked casually, affection woven effortlessly through his tone.

You smiled at his distracted sweetness, but before you could answer, the tiny human in your arms let out a giggle soft, bubbly, innocent.

Hyunjin froze.

His hand stopped mid-air, charcoal smudging an unintended line across the paper. He blinked slowly and turned toward the sound with a furrowed brow, as though trying to make sense of the noise.

And then he saw her. And you.

A baby. A tiny, giggling baby cradled in your arms. She had plump cheeks, hair tied into the tiniest ponytail, and eyes bright with mischief. Her legs kicked excitedly as she babbled, absolutely delighted to be wherever she was.

Hyunjin’s eyes widened in surprise. “Wait,” he said, putting his tools down slowly, like he was afraid any sudden movement might shatter the strange, adorable illusion. “Where did you steal a baby from?”

You snorted. “I didn’t steal her. Yeri asked me to watch Eunji while she and her husband finally went out for their anniversary. You remember, right? She’s been talking about that date night for weeks.”

“Oh.” Hyunjin blinked, finally piecing together the memory. “Right, right. Anniversary dinner. I forgot that was today.”

“She dropped her off just after breakfast,” you explained, adjusting Eunji in your arms. “She’s been an angel so far. Slept on my chest for an hour. My heart might never recover.”

“Mine either,” he muttered, completely mesmerized.

Eunji, upon locking eyes with Hyunjin, let out another squeal and extended her tiny hands toward him, her whole body wiggling with interest. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and scooped her up with ease, holding her under her arms like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Hi there,” he said with a grin, bouncing her softly. “You remember me? I'm the really tall guy who makes a mess with paint.”

Eunji responded by smacking his cheeks with her drool-covered hands, giggling loudly as he feigned exaggerated surprise.

“Hyun, don’t let her slap you around,” you joked as you settled into the couch in the corner of the room, watching them with warm eyes.

“She can slap me all she wants,” he replied, not even remotely pretending to mind. “She’s adorable. Look at that face.”

Eunji babbled nonsense in reply, clearly engaged in an intense conversation only babies could understand. Hyunjin responded with equal nonsense, matching her pitch and making silly faces until she erupted into more giggles.

He held her securely, the kind of hold that spoke volumes, not just of comfort, but of how naturally the role came to him. It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t forced. It was instinct.

“She’s probably hungry,” you said, checking the time. “Her last meal was a couple hours ago.”

Still smiling, Hyunjin nodded. “You want me to feed her?”

“You sure?” you asked, already standing. “I’ve got her food prepped.”

He hesitated, not because he didn’t want to, he very much did, but he couldn’t stop watching you. You walked past him, brushing Eunji’s arm gently with your fingers and whispering, “Time to eat, little love.”

Hyunjin handed her back reluctantly, lingering in the way your hands curled around her small body, the way your voice dipped naturally into that soft, motherly cadence. She fit against you like puzzle pieces designed to belong. He trailed after you silently, suddenly aware of the shift in his chest like something was trying to settle there. Something unfamiliar yet deeply right.

In the kitchen, you moved like it was second nature.

The bib was already laid out. A small bowl of mashed sweet potatoes sat cooling on the counter, alongside a baby spoon and a cloth for cleanup. Eunji was placed in a baby chair, legs kicking excitedly. You tied the bib gently around her neck, brushing her hair back with a soft hum.

Hyunjin watched from the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame like he had stumbled into someone else’s dream. His dream.

There was no performance in the way you spoke to her. No effort to impress. You didn’t need to. It was simple, effortless tenderness.

“Open up for me, pretty girl,” you said, scooping a spoonful and holding it near her lips. Eunji, with a gummy grin, accepted the food like it was the greatest thing she’d ever tasted. “Good job!”

You clapped gently, and she giggled, smearing a bit across her cheek in the process. You wiped it away with ease, still smiling, unfazed.

Hyunjin’s heart clenched.

He'd always thought about having kids. Occasionally, fleetingly. It wasn’t an obsession, just something he assumed would happen in the distant future. Someday. Eventually.

But this wasn’t just a daydream anymore. It was real. You, standing barefoot in the kitchen, feeding a baby with soft eyes and gentle laughter, completely unaware of the way you were shifting something inside him.

He walked up behind you quietly, wrapping his arms around your waist and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You’re really good at this,” he murmured into your neck.

You smiled, not turning around. “She makes it easy.”

“No,” he said softly. “You make it easy.”

You finally turned to glance at him, eyes full of curiosity.

Hyunjin didn’t say anything more right away. He watched Eunji take another bite, babbling happily as you praised her. His arms stayed around you, firm but gentle, like he didn’t want the moment to slip away.

“I think seeing you like this just unlocked something,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

You looked up at him, the question clear in your expression.

“Like what?”

He met your eyes. “I want this. Someday. With you.”

There was no hesitation in his voice. No nerves. Just certainty, wrapped in warmth.

Your breath caught. A part of you had always wondered what that would look like children, a home, something bigger than just love. But hearing it from him, seeing it in his eyes as he looked between you and the baby now contentedly chewing on her fist… it felt like a glimpse into the future.

“You’d be such a good dad,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

His hold tightened, not possessively, but with the quiet desperation of someone afraid to wake up from a beautiful moment.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering there. “We’d have a baby with your smile,” he mused, “and maybe your stubbornness.”

“She’d be a handful.”

“I’d love every second of it.”

There was a brief pause. Eunji let out a loud babble, smacking her tray for more food. You laughed, spooning another bite while Hyunjin watched you like you’d just given him the blueprint for happiness.

“I imagine it sometimes,” he admitted. “You holding a newborn while our toddler runs around the house with paint on her hands.”

“Oh? Paint?” you teased.

“She’d be an artist like her dad,” he said proudly. “Or maybe she’ll be a singer. Or a dancer. Or all three.”

You leaned back into his chest. “Sounds exhausting.”

He chuckled. “It sounds like a dream.”

For a moment, there was only soft breathing, the background sounds of a baby smacking her tray, and the deep, steady thrum of a shared future.

Not just imagined now, but felt.

Later, when Eunji was napping on the couch, tucked under a blanket with her thumb in her mouth, you and Hyunjin sat on the floor nearby, backs against the sofa, fingers laced together.

“You were really good with her,” you told him quietly.

“She made it easy,” he repeated your words from earlier, then turned to face you. “But honestly, I think it’s because she reminded me how much I want that life with you.”

He wasn’t trying to impress you. He wasn’t making promises for the sake of romance. He was simply speaking his truth.

And you believed him.

Because in the way he looked at you, in the way he touched you so reverently

while cradling another woman’s child, in the way he never once made it about anything other than shared love, you knew.

One day, Eunji wouldn’t be just a borrowed joy.

One day, maybe not too far away, you’d be holding your own child in your arms.

And Hyunjin would be right there, paint on his hands, laughter in his eyes, love in every step he took toward you.

The apartment felt unusually quiet once Eunji left. Too quiet.

It was like someone had turned the volume down on the world. No more soft baby babbles echoing down the hall. No tiny giggles bouncing off the kitchen walls. No more little fists tugging at your shirt or soft, weighty warmth curled against your chest.

Just the sound of the ticking clock in the hallway and the distant hum of city noise beyond the windows.

You stood by the front door for a moment after Yeri and her husband had picked up their daughter, waving goodbye as Eunji blew a sloppy kiss in Hyunjin’s direction from her mother’s arms. The echo of her presence still lingered, as though her laughter had left fingerprints on the walls.

Hyunjin closed the door gently behind them, and for a while, you both just stood there, staring into the quiet.

“She’s so sweet,” you said softly, eyes still on the space where she had just been.

Hyunjin let out a sigh that sounded more like a soft, lovesick exhale. “Too sweet. I miss her already.”

You turned to look at him. His eyes were wistful, his expression glowing with something deeper than simple fondness.

“She’s not even our baby,” you teased lightly.

He looked at you then. “I know. But it kind of felt like she was for a little while, didn’t it?”

And it had.

For those few precious hours, it wasn’t just babysitting. It was domestic. Whole. Like a glimpse into a life you could almost touch.

That night, after a simple dinner and a long shower, you and Hyunjin lay in bed together beneath soft sheets, your limbs tangled like ivy. The bedroom lights were dimmed, casting everything in warm amber shadows. Outside, the city sighed through open windows, the hum of distant traffic acting like a lullaby.

Hyunjin lay on his side facing you, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other resting lightly over your waist. You were both bare-faced and quiet, basking in the stillness that only came from deep comfort and long-term love.

“I can’t stop thinking about her,” he said quietly, breaking the silence.

You turned your head slightly to meet his gaze. “Eunji?”

He nodded. “She was… perfect. I mean, she was messy and loud and drooled everywhere, but—” he chuckled, “—it was perfect.”

You smiled softly, the ghost of your stress momentarily forgotten in his warmth.

“She did look good on you,” you teased. “Little baby attached to your hip, getting paint on her socks.”

He laughed quietly. “I’ve been thinking about that a lot, actually.”

You went still. Not frozen, just still. Like your body was bracing itself for something you weren’t sure you were ready to receive.

“I’m not lying when I say I really want that,” Hyunjin said, voice a little softer now, more fragile. He traced gentle circles on your side through the fabric of your shirt. “Whether it’s a few months from now or a few years—I want to have a family with you.”

You stared at him, heart suddenly too big for your chest. He was speaking so quietly, like it was something sacred. Not a fantasy, not an expectation, but a dream he was tenderly placing in your hands, asking you to hold it with him.

“I mean it,” he added, sensing your silence. “Whenever you’re ready. I don’t want to rush you. I just… I need you to know that it’s real for me. I’ve never been more sure about anything.”

You swallowed thickly, your heart thudding hard. His words were so gentle. So patient. It almost made it harder, not because you didn’t want the same thing, but because you’d been keeping something from him.

Something that had been sitting heavy in your chest for days.

He must’ve noticed the way your breath caught, because he sat up slightly on his elbow, his brows knitting in concern.

“Hey…” he whispered. “Are you okay?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, your hands fiddling nervously with the edge of the comforter. The intimacy of the moment, the softness of his voice, the sincerity in his eyes, it was all too much, too perfect. The dam inside you cracked.

“I need to tell you something,” you said, your voice barely audible.

His hand found yours under the covers. “Okay,” he said gently. “Whatever it is, I’m here.”

You took a deep breath. “I’ve been… holding something in. Not because I didn’t want to tell you, but because I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to make it real before I had the words.”

Hyunjin’s expression softened instantly, his thumb brushing yours. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t interrupt. He just waited.

“I’m late,” you whispered.

A pause.

Then another breath.

“I’m… really late.”

His lips parted slightly, eyes scanning your face slowly as if to make sure he heard you right. “You mean…”

“I haven’t taken a test yet,” you admitted. “I was scared. I didn’t want to freak you out. Or get your hopes up. I wasn’t sure how I even felt about it.”

Silence hung between you for a heartbeat and then two.

And then his hand was gently tilting your chin toward him, his voice the softest it had been all night.

“Why would you be scared to tell me?”

Your eyes welled up, though you hadn’t meant for them to. “Because you have so many dreams, Hyun. Your art, your music, your freedom. And I didn’t want to be the person who—”

“Stop,” he said gently, leaning forward to press his forehead to yours. “You could never ruin anything. Not even close.”

Your chest ached at his words.

“I meant what I said,” he whispered. “If you are… if we are having a baby, even possibly. I want it. I want you. All of it. No matter when it happens.”

Tears slid down your cheeks silently. He kissed them away, slow and reverent, his hand resting over your belly, not in dramatic certainty, but in quiet, wondering hope.

“I think I already love them,” he said suddenly, voice cracking slightly.

“Hyunjin…”

“Even if it turns out we’re not pregnant this time,” he continued, “this moment? This truth? It’s already made something clear to me. I’m ready when you are. For anything. For everything.”

You buried your face in his neck, arms wrapping around him tightly as he held you against him. You could feel the way his heart thudded beneath your cheek fast, real, overwhelmed with love.

“I’ll take the test tomorrow,” you whispered.

“I’ll be with you,” he promised. “No matter what.”

The world was quiet when you woke up still dark out, not even birdsong yet, just the faint glow of the city lights sneaking through the curtains. You stirred slowly under the covers, warm, wrapped in the safety of the bed you shared with Hyunjin.

But when you reached out instinctively, your fingers met only the cool sheet where his body should’ve been.

Your heart jumped for a second not with fear, but the kind of nervousness that comes when something big is waiting.

You sat up, blinking sleep from your eyes.

Then you heard it: the rustle of clothes, the soft click of the bathroom door opening and shutting, and footsteps padding gently across the floor.

Hyunjin reappeared in the doorway, fully dressed in a hoodie and sweatpants, a knit beanie half-on his still-messy hair. He looked cozy, disheveled, but very awake.

“Did I wake you?” he asked quietly, walking over.

You shook your head, voice still heavy with sleep. “Where were you?”

“Just brushing my teeth.” He smiled softly. “Thought we could go get the test first thing. Before we talk ourselves out of it.”

You swallowed. There was no dramatic music, no dramatic shift. Just this quiet nudge toward a door you both had been circling for days.

He crouched down next to your side of the bed, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“I figured it’d be easier to face if we did it together,” he said, like he was offering you the softest piece of himself.

You gave a tiny nod.

You got dressed without speaking much, your body on autopilot, your thoughts spiraling. It was as if your brain had been preparing for this moment all night, winding you up just enough to push you out the door.

The air outside was cold and brisk. You were both quiet on the walk to the corner store. The city was still half-asleep shops unopened, sidewalks empty, a few coffee vendors just beginning to stir.

You felt Hyunjin’s fingers slip between yours as you crossed the street. Warm. Firm. Real.

That alone helped you breathe.

As you turned the corner and the little 24-hour pharmacy came into view, you noticed something, the small curve of a smile tugging at the edge of Hyunjin’s lips.

Soft. Private. Like it had been there the whole time.

You stopped walking for a second and gave him a look.

“Don’t smile like that,” you said, half-teasing, half-serious.

He blinked innocently. “Why not?”

“You’re going to get your hopes up.”

He tilted his head playfully. “Is it a crime for a man to smile in public now?”

You rolled your eyes and playfully smacked his chest. “I mean it. I don’t want you to be disappointed. Just in case.”

The wind curled between you for a beat, a feather-soft silence before he reached up and cupped your cheek in one gloved hand.

“I won’t be,” he said, sincere. “No matter what.”

Something in his tone rooted you in place. You nodded once, slowly, then followed him into the store.

The bathroom was quiet, too.

You stood by the sink, the white plastic test unwrapped in your hand. Hyunjin was just outside the door, standing so close you could feel his presence like a warmth pressing through the wall.

“I’ll be right here,” he said softly, voice muffled through the wood. “I won’t go anywhere. Just call if you need me, okay?”

You looked toward the door even though you couldn’t see him, and whispered, “Thank you.”

And then you breathed.

You set the test on the counter and followed the instructions with trembling hands. You barely felt the floor beneath your feet. Every movement was automatic. Like you were walking through fog, your thoughts loud and heavy with what-ifs.

When it was done, you set it down gently, almost reverently, on the counter and pressed the timer on your phone.

Five minutes.

You let out a slow breath and sat on the closed lid of the toilet, pulling your knees to your chest.

The silence inside the room stretched, thick and electric.

Outside, Hyunjin shifted. You could hear the soft creak of his weight leaning against the wall just beside the door. Not pacing. Not fidgeting. Just... waiting. Holding still the way someone does when they know it matters.

The timer on the screen glowed too brightly.

4:47.

Each second ticked by like a drop in an ocean of pressure. You tried not to think. But it was impossible.

Was your heart racing because of fear? Or hope? Were you holding your breath because you didn’t want to ruin the moment or because you were scared that this tiny little object was about to change everything?

You closed your eyes and tried to listen for something else your heartbeat, Hyunjin’s soft breathing outside, the distant hum of the fridge in the kitchen.

But it didn’t help. Every second crawled by like an hour.

3:52.

You pressed your palms to your thighs, grounding yourself.

The plastic test sat on the counter just a foot away. You didn’t dare look.

“Babe?” Hyunjin’s voice came gently through the door. “You alright?”

You nodded before realizing he couldn’t see that.

“Yeah,” you said softly, swallowing hard. “Just… waiting.”

“Okay,” he said, just as quietly. “I’m here.”

Another pause.

Then, “I was thinking…”

You didn’t respond, but he knew you were listening.

“When I was a kid, I always thought becoming a dad would feel like flipping a switch. Like one day, I’d just be ready, instantly.”

You could hear the small smile in his voice now. “But now… it’s not like that. It’s slower. Softer. I’m not waiting for some perfect moment anymore. It’s just… you. I look at you, and I think, Yeah. I could do this. With her. Forever.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. You blinked them away quickly, pressing your face into your hands.

“You’re not alone in there,” he added. “I know it feels that way right now, but… I’m right on the other side of the door. I’m holding this with you, okay?”

You nodded. Then said, “Okay,” your voice barely holding steady.

2:12.

Your stomach twisted. Your knees bounced. Your breath kept catching.

The plastic stick sat there. Still. Silent. Unassuming. Like it didn’t hold the weight of your entire world inside it.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

A beat.

“Me too,” Hyunjin said.

You let out a shaky laugh. “Really?”

“Yeah. But I’m not scared of the result,” he said. “I’m scared for you. Because I know this means something, no matter what it says. And I want you to know that if you’re afraid, or relieved, or sad, or confused, I’ll be here for all of it. Not just the joy. The mess too.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek, and this time you didn’t brush it away.

1:15.

You could almost feel the exact second Hyunjin slid down the wall and sat on the floor, his back pressed to the other side of the door. You didn’t hear it. You just knew.

Like you always did with him.

“You think the test knows how important this is?” you asked suddenly, voice hoarse.

He chuckled quietly. “I think it’s just a stick, baby.”

You laughed too. It was weak and breathless and tinged with nerves, but it was real.

“Thirty seconds,” you whispered.

He hummed softly. “Alright. We’re almost there.”

Your hands trembled in your lap. You stared at the floor.

The seconds felt like they were slipping through molasses.

You weren’t ready. But you were also tired of not knowing.

And then—

The timer buzzed.

The sound echoed too loud in the small room.

You froze.

Hyunjin was silent on the other side.

You reached out, hand trembling as your fingers brushed the edge of the counter.

Your body was frozen, suspended between what was and what could be.

And still, he didn’t rush you.

Because even now… he was waiting.

With you.

The test sat still on the bathroom counter, exactly where you left it. You hadn’t turned it around.

You hadn’t even moved.

Your hands were curled into loose fists on your lap, knuckles pale, legs pulled up beneath you on the closed toilet lid. You’d never felt this paralyzed before, not from fear of something bad, but from something big. Something life-altering.

The tiny white stick felt like it was glowing in the room, humming with unspoken truth. All it needed was one glance, one flick of the wrist, and the future would begin to shift, one way or another.

But you couldn’t do it.

Not alone.

Your breath caught as you stood up, legs a little unsteady, feet cold against the tile. You didn’t touch the test. You didn’t even look at it.

Instead, you reached for the door.

The handle clicked softly under your hand.

And when it opened, there he was sitting on the floor right outside, just like you knew he would be.

Hyunjin looked up at you immediately, his body unfolding quickly but gently, rising to his feet like he expected to hold you before you fell. His eyes scanned your face hopeful, tender, alert. Expectant.

“Is it…” he began, voice quiet but bright.

You didn’t let him finish.

“I didn’t look,” you whispered.

You saw his smile falter just slightly, but not in disappointment. It was surprise. His brow furrowed, and his lips softened.

“I couldn’t do it alone,” you added quickly, your voice breaking slightly at the end.

There was no judgment in his face. Only that beautiful, unshakable tenderness that he carried so easily with you like love was his first language.

“Okay,” he said simply, nodding once. “Let’s look together.”

He reached out, his hand open between you. You placed yours in it instinctively, and the moment your skin touched his, the tightness in your chest eased, not entirely, but enough to move.

He guided you back into the bathroom with slow, careful steps, like he didn’t want to spook you. Like this moment was something sacred and he was holding it like glass.

You stood beside him in front of the counter, your hand still in his. The test lay there, facedown, quiet. As if it was waiting for you.

He looked at you, asking silently for permission.

“Do you want me to check?” he asked softly.

You nodded, barely. “Please.”

Hyunjin gave your hand a squeeze, then gently let go to reach for the test.

You turned your eyes away, breath caught in your throat.

For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the sound of plastic moving against ceramic. A light click as he flipped the test over.

A pause.

Then..

He laughed.

It was quiet. Disbelieving. Joyful.

And when you turned to look at him, really look, his eyes were already shining.

He looked back at you like he’d just seen something miraculous.

“It’s positive,” he said, voice thick with wonder. “It’s positive.”

Your breath caught. You stared at him.

“What?”

He held the test toward you with gentle hands, almost reverently. His eyes searched yours for any flicker of fear, but all he saw was stunned stillness.

You looked down.

Two lines.

Clear. Strong. Certain.

A sound left you, not quite a sob, not quite a laugh. Just a sound of something inside you cracking wide open.

You looked back at Hyunjin, and his smile broke into something bigger, brighter and completely unfiltered.

“You’re pregnant,” he said again, like he needed to say it twice to make it real. “We’re having a baby.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, eyes wide. “Oh wow.”

He immediately stepped forward, wrapping his arms around you, warm and tight. You melted into him like you’d been holding your body together with thread until now.

And suddenly you were crying not from fear, not from confusion, but from a quiet, powerful release. It wasn’t overwhelming in a bad way. It was vast like your heart had expanded beyond your chest and had no idea how to hold this much joy at once.

Hyunjin rested his forehead against yours. His hands came up to frame your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears had started to fall.

“Hey,” he whispered with a laugh. “You’re okay.”

“I’m happy,” you said quickly. “I am—I’m just—”

“I know,” he said. “I know, baby. Me too.”

And he kissed you soft, slow, grounding. A kiss that wasn’t about passion, but about presence. A kiss that said we’re here now, in this new, irreversible moment. And it’s okay. It’s real. It’s ours.

When he pulled back, he pressed his hands to your belly without thinking like his body already knew where to go.

His voice dropped to a whisper, so full of love it could barely carry the words: “Hi there.”

You let out a soft, teary laugh. “You’re already talking to them?”

“Of course,” he said. “They need to know their dad’s completely obsessed.”

You laughed again, this time freer, your head dropping against his shoulder.

“We’re going to be okay, right?” you whispered.

He pulled you closer, his voice firm with quiet promise: “We already are.”

And in that moment, surrounded by foggy mirrors, cold tile, and the hum of an ordinary bathroom light, you felt it.

Not just the shift in your future.

But the arrival of something whole.

A new chapter, held tenderly in the hands of a man who had always loved you gently, and now, fiercely would love both of you.

From this breath forward.

masterlist.

(a/n: for anon, who has been waiting since last year (i’m so so sorry for being so late.) 😖)

[official taglist: @alisonyus @lenfilms @captainchrisstan @anastasiiiiaaaaa @emilyywhyy @ready2readnwrite @nyxaluna lmk if you’d like to be added/removed 😙 ..]

314 notes · View notes

sharieb · 1 day ago

Note

Can I request headcanons where Lads men reacting to shy Non MC Reader giving him a love letter before dashing off like the wind please? - 🌕 anon

Signed, Shyly Yours

Pairing: LADs x shy! Non-MC reader

Genre: Fluff Writer's note: This one was really cute to write🥰🤭

You sneak the letter onto his clipboard just before his break, practically bouncing on your toes.

“I-uh-thank you-no wait- just- read it later! Bye!” you say, almost tripping as you dash away.

He’s left blinking. Holding the letter like it might detonate.

Did she just…?

He excuses himself to his office. Alone, silent, still.

He reads every word. Slowly. Twice.

You wrote about how safe he makes you feel. How you didn’t think someone as calm and brilliant as him would ever look your way.

Zayne stares at the letter, cheeks flushed, fingers trembling slightly as he reads every word slowly.

His throat tightens.

She sees me like that? But… I see her like that too. Every time she helps. Every time she smiles.

He presses the letter against his chest, eyes closed, as if trying to hold your feelings close.

Then he folds it neatly and puts it in the inner pocket of his coat.

When he sees you later, he tries to keep his cool but his voice wavers.“Thank you… for the words.”

He clears his throat, cheeks tinged pink, and softly adds, “They… made my day better. You always do.”

Later, he leaves a mug with your name, a little snow bunny figure made from his evol and a tiny note: “If you want to talk more… I’m here.”

You catch him watching you shyly from across the room, hands fiddling nervously with his coat.

You give it to him after his workshop ends, cheeks red as fire. “This is so dumb- no, just… just read it, please!”

And then you're sprinting off before he can say anything, nearly tripping on your way out, escaping his stunned gaze..

He stares after you, then down at the letter, his mouth slightly open, with his hand still outstretched holding the sealed envelope which he's now clutching as if it’s the most precious thing in the world... “...What just happened?”

Opens it right there, dead centre in the studio.

As he reads your words, your breathless, vulnerable admissions about how much colour he’s brought to your world, how dazzling he seems, he goes still. She... she wrote this for me? Me?

For once, he’s speechless. No witty remark. No dramatic flourish.

Just soft, stunned silence and a quiet, amazed smile that slowly lights up his entire face. “You beautiful, brave little thing,” he murmurs.

He’ll paint something that night. Inspired by your letter. By the way, your voice cracked when you fled.

A flower you love, every brushstroke infused with the warmth of your confession.

He also added little constellations in the background to reflect your presence in his world.

He keeps glancing at the letter between brushstrokes, rereading it with the sort of expression people wear when holding onto something too fragile to let go.

He’ll wait a day. Maybe two. Then corner you with the painting and say, grinning. “If I write one back, do I have to run too? Or are you the only one allowed to make dramatic exits now?”

When you blush fiercely, he laughs softly, the sound more tender than teasing, and gently squeezes your hand. “Next time,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, “stay a little longer. I want to hear you say it with that lovely voice of yours.”

During a lively friend group outing, you manage to slip Caleb the letter when no one is paying close attention.

His fingers brush yours for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“Just-um. Read it later, please,” you mumble, cheeks flushed, before darting away into the crowd.

Caleb blinks, momentarily frozen amidst the laughter and chatter, then stares at the letter like it’s glowing. She… wrote this? For me?

He tucks it into his jacket pocket, fingers lingering there, unable to stop smiling like an idiot.

He excused himself from the group just to open it in private, naturally.

Inside, your writing is slightly crooked, shaky, filled with nervous confessions about how long you’ve admired him, and how you never felt brave enough to say it.

His thumb lingers over his name written in your handwriting.

He reads the letter twice.

And then again. She likes me. She’s been watching me this whole time. And she ran

Later, as the group pauses near a café, he casually appears beside you with your favourite drink, softly saying, “I got your message.”

When you look up, he just shrugs, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “You run fast… but I’m faster.”

The way he keeps stealing glances at you throughout the outing makes your heart do little flips.

One evening, you find your gear prepped perfectly, your notes reviewed, and a silent note scrawled across the top sheet: "Thanks for seeing me. I've been looking too."

It’s the kind of quiet promise that makes your heart race.

Over the next few days, Caleb finds little moments to be near you, offering a hand when you least expect it, lingering a little longer in your presence, his steady flame growing warmer in your orbit.

You leave the letter on his desk at the Hunters Association heart hammering, “For you. Just… when you have time.”

And then you practically all but teleport out of the U.N.I.C.O.N office area.

He blinks, surprised, then carefully opens it, cheeks tinting pink as he reads your trembling words. “She… wrote this for me?”

He thinks to himself, a shy smile spreading, his fingertips brushing the page like it might vanish if he isn’t gentle.

He reads it again, and again, expression softening with each pass. There's a rare sparkle in his eyes, like a new constellation has just appeared.

That night, he reprograms the starscape above his bed to match the night you met.

As soft light pools across the ceiling, he whispers your name to the stars like a promise, feeling a quiet joy bloom in his chest.

The next morning, a thermos of tea appears on your desk, warm and labelled in his neat handwriting: “For steady hands and shy hearts.”

When you visit him later at his apartment, you find your favourite blanket folded on his couch and a cup of tea waiting, with a sticky note reading: “I read it. I liked it. I like you.”

Xavier watches you from the kitchen, ears red to the tips, trying not to fidget with the sleeve of his jumper. “Would you stay a little longer today?” he asks, voice gentle, almost unsure.

When you sit beside him, he offers you a cushion and tucks the blanket around your legs, his fingers brushing yours.

“You don’t have to run anymore,” he murmurs, almost inaudibly. “Unless… you want me to chase you.”

And when you glance over, you find him smiling shyly into his tea, like he can’t quite believe you’re really there, but he hopes you’ll never leave.

You slide the letter into his hand while he’s distracted, and he nearly drops it in surprise. “Don’t open it until I’m gone.”

You whispered, voice trembling slightly, before disappearing like a ghost into the shadows of the base.

Sylus raises a brow, then cracks the seal with a teasing smirk that fades into wide-eyed shock.

He rereads your words three times, cheeks pink, caught off-guard by your honesty, a rare softness blooming behind his teasing eyes. “A secret admirer, huh?”

He murmurs, voice low and amused, but his ears betray him, tinged pink as he looks away briefly with a sparkle in his eye.

Later, when he finds you lounging around, he leans casually against a wall just to catch your attention, teasing, “Next time, give me a warning. I nearly died waiting.”

As you try to run when he moves closer, Sylus quickly uses his evol to catch you effortlessly, keeping you in place. "Ah, ah, ah. And where do you think you're going, Angel?"

He soon sat down on the couch you were lounging on just a moment ago, and then used his evol again to make you sit on his lap this time. “Tsk. What, you thought you could outrun me, doll? After dropping something that bold?”

He smirks, clearly enjoying how flustered you are in his arms.

When you blush and stumble over your words once again, he just grins wider and adds, “Don’t worry, I liked it. All of it. Especially how you ran.”

Then, quieter, as his gaze lingers on your lips. “If you wanted my attention… You already had it.”

That night, he finds himself rereading the letter under the dim light, fingers tracing your handwriting, smirking to himself as his heart flutters a little lighter and a little more tangled than before, in a way he never admits out loud.

The next day, a single black feather-shaped pin shows up clipped discreetly to your bag, a subtle mark that you’ve caught the attention of someone dangerous… and someone who’s always watching.

Over the following days, Sylus's usual cocky attitude softens around you; he finds himself more protective, more attentive, more... fond. Almost domestic, in his own mischievous way, as if your confession unlocked something unexpected in him.

You catch him waiting outside the rooms you’re in, intercepting anyone who seems to be bothering you, and occasionally offering you his coat with a smug. “You looked cold. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse.”

LADS dividers made by: @uzmacchiato

#love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #rafayel love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #zayne x non mc! reader #rafayel x non! mc reader #caleb x non mc! reader #xavier x non mc! reader #sylus x non! mc reader #lad x non mc #lads x non mc #non mc reader

169 notes · View notes

revelboo · 2 days ago

Note

Hi Boo! Could you grace us with something really cute and domestic with Kup, the reader, and their sparkling? How would Springer react to having a little brother or sister?

Cute! That old mech deserves to be a sire- I think there’s two other recent asks about Kup, too

Domestic

Kup x Reader

• ‘No, Kup, wait,’ Springer protests, and Kup almost laughs. This is what the kid’s scared of? Not Decepticons or battle? A tiny, helpless sparkling. And Springs puts his hands out in self defense when Kup places his sparkling in his adopted son’s arms, showing him how to cradle the sparkling against himself and to support his head. “You aren’t going to drop your brother, so quit making a fuss, kid,” he growls as Springer stares at the sleeping youngling. And the younger mech’s head comes up in surprise, staring at him. Had the kid actually thought he’d stop being his son now that he has a youngling he’d sparked?

• Watching the two of them with your son, you know Springer’s not related to Kup, but that he’d raised him. And he’s a good kid, even if he’s grown and centuries older than you are. “You’re going to help with him,” you call out and they both look back at you sitting on the berth. “Kup’s getting up there in years and we need the help,” you add to make your mate work his cygar between his denta, even though he knows you’re teasing him.

• “You didn’t think I was too old last night,” he growls, smirking at the memory. “Pretty sure you were the one who needed a break.” And your face reddens as Springer vents tiredly. ‘I’d rather not hear about you two doing that,’ Springer mutters, as Kup laughs. “How exactly do you think we got a sparkling, kid?” Before Springer can retort, his son whines, optics opening and he expects the sparkling to wail about being held by someone new. But the little one just stares up at Springer, warbling uncertainly. ‘Hi,’ Springer whispers, smiling to leave Kup warm. Because this is his family. Springer’s still his son even if he didn’t sire him, always will be.

• Relaxing when you realize the baby isn’t going to scream his head off, you watch Kup reach to offer him a servo. Father and son both fussing over your son. All three normal sized, so you’re left out on the berth. Your baby bigger than you are right now. Until his head turns and he chirps, legs kicking. Seeing you. Recognizing you and you smile. And nearly have a heart attack when he mass shifts and Springer snarls, cupping the even tinier sparkling in his palms, his optics wide. “He does that,” you manage weakly, heart racing and feeling almost sick as you can’t breathe watching them.

• Spark thrumming frantically, Kup clears his vents loudly, too old for this sort of thing despite his insistence he’s not as Springer lowers his hands so you can climb into his palm and pick up his son, kneeling in Springer’s hands as the sparkling chirps, mouthing at you hungrily. “You’re staying for a meal interval,” Kup says, trying to hide that he’s shaken up as Springer just stares at you in his hands cradling his little brother. Making him painfully aware of how fragile his happiness is. This second chance something he never expected, something he’d given up on having at his age. That you and his sparkling are both so vulnerable. Helpless. ‘Sure,’ Springer murmurs, staring at the sparkling with a hunger Kup understands. Wanting his own family, his own chance at happy and Springer’s servos flex.

#transformers x reader #kup x reader #tf kup

183 notes · View notes

stargazedwinchester · 2 days ago

Text

ִ ࣪𖤐◞ ꙳ ๋࣭ ⭑ ` everything you are, sam winchester ༘♡

summary: sam wakes you in the middle of the night, desperate for comfort due to a ptsd episode word count: 742 pairing: sam winchester x reader notes/warnings: ptsd episode (briefly mentioned), emotional vulnerability, not an established relationship!! just a very close, emotionally connected friendship. this is based just after sam escapes hell, so everything is fresh for him. lots of fluff otherwise! the ending that sammy really deserved

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

You awake to the sound of your name. Not loud, just a whisper. Hoarse and broken at the edges.

“Y/N?”

You blink into the darkness, greeted by a large frame at the door. The hallway light casts long shadows across his face.

Sam.

“Sammy?” You rub sleep from your eye, reaching over to your lamp and flicking the switch. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

You sit up, and he hesitates at the door, unsure if he’s allowed to ask for help. Sam rubs a hand over his face as he exhales shakily. He pads over to your bed, sinking into it. He sits there, hunched over, like the whole world weighs on his shoulders.

And maybe it does.

You crawl over to him, sitting on your legs as you gingerly place your hand on his back. “Nightmare?” You hush, and he nods.

“He won’t leave me alone,” he begins, “Lucifer. He’s eating at me. Every second of every day. I—I can’t…” His words trail, like he’s lost in thought. You shift closer to him, reaching out gently.

“Come here.”

He doesn’t need to be asked twice.

Sam turns toward you, eyes glassy. He leans into you like he’s been fighting gravity and finally lets it win. “I’ve got you,” you murmur. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His forehead drops to your shoulder. You don’t comment on the fact that he’s shaking, or that his breathing is ragged. Or that this is probably the hundredth night he’s awoken you with a nightmare.

You don’t mind, though, because you’ve known Sam your whole life. Since you were kids. And right now, all you can see is little Sam suffering.

And it absolutely breaks your heart.

You let your hand slip up into his hair, caressing it gently. Your fingers raking through whilst the other is stroking his back. “You’re still you,” you say quietly. “Still good. Still strong…” you hush. “Nothing about this makes you any less.”

The grip he has on you pulls tighter, like he’s afraid you’re not real. Like he has to have control over reality.

Sam takes a deep breath, before saying: “I didn’t know where else to go,” he breathes out, his voice so small it doesn’t sound like him. “I just… needed to know you were real.”

“I am.” You reassure him, resting your cheek against his temple. “And you can always count on me, Sammy. Always.”

Eventually, his breathing slows. You can feel his heart still pounding beneath his ribs, but he’s not shaking as much now. He’s anchored.

You hold him for as long as he needs. Minutes go by with nothing but the sound of the soft hum of the bunker and his gradually slowing breath.

“I hate that I can’t control this. I feel so guilty having to rely on you… or Dean. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t ever apologise for something you can’t help. You aren’t supposed to do this alone. You know you have us, and we have you. That’s family, right?”

He nods, his now bloodshot eyes almost glassy again.

“You have been through enough stuff to know your limit. I’m glad you know to come to either of us when something is wrong. It’s good to let it out. Let it be known that you want to feel better. You’re so strong, Sammy. You’re free of him now. He can’t get to you. He won’t. I won’t let him… neither will Dean.”

He’s silent for a moment, his eyes not meeting yours, yet you look at him.

You see him. You see his struggles. How he’s carrying this weight and how it’s seriously affecting him.

A wave of sadness hits you as you take in his fragility. His awful trauma that’s affected him in ways he doesn’t show. Tears well in your eyes.

Sam looks at you gently, and without a second thought, he pulls you into a hug, his huge arms wrapping around you.

“Thank you,” he whispers into your shoulder. You pull away and kiss his forehead, holding either side of his face. “You don’t have to thank me. You’d do the same for me.”

He nods.

You scooch over in your bed, allowing him to sit properly. But instead, he lies down, facing toward you. You’re still sitting up, and you rake a hand through his hair once more.

“My sweet boy,” you hush as he closes his eyes, “you’re never going to be alone. Not with me here.”

#spn #supernatural #supernatural imagines #spn imagines #supernatural imagine #spn imagine #sam winchester #sam winchester imagines #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x y/n #sam winchester fluff #sam winchester oneshot #sam winchester fic #supernatural x you #supernatural x reader #supernatural oneshot #supernatural fluff

68 notes · View notes

rpwprpwprpwprw · 2 days ago

Text

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

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

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

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

——- QUOTES!!!!!!

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

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

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

“Tell me what I got to prove

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

word count: 14.3 k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and just like that, it was over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

no one asked anything else.

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

not to cry.

just to breathe.

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

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

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

but the way steph had said his name…

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

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

she checked her phone—reflex. no messages.

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

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

she did miss having him around.

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

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

i miss having you around.

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

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

the warmth never hit her chest. it just sank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i miss having you around.

still there. still blinking.

she didn’t delete it.

but she didn’t send it either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

6 unread messages. none from him.

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

and there it was.

the text she swore she didn’t send.

i miss having you around.

right beneath it:

read 4:17 am.

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

but no.

he’d read it.

and that was it.

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

just silence.

the kind that wrapped around her like cold water.

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

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

it was just a text.

just a ghost.

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

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

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

she didn’t check her phone again.

not right away.

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

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

like text him again.

maybe something casual. ironic. a recovery joke.

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

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

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

still…

she thought about it.

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

what if he wants her to chase him?

what if he’s just being cautious?

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

what if.

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

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

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

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

how pathetic. how raw.

and he hadn’t said a thing.

the knock came just after seven.

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

(y/n) didn’t move from the couch.

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

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

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

a beat.

then: “...oh.”

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

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

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

“kinda.”

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

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

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

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

(y/n) didn’t answer at first.

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

then, finally: “i texted him.”

amara didn’t blink. “namjoon?”

(y/n) nodded.

“when?”

“last night.”

“what’d you say?”

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

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

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

“...and?”

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

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

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

(y/n) blinked. “i don’t know.”

“yes, you do.”

“i didn’t expect anything, i just—”

amara gave her a look.

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

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

a beat.

“again.”

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

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

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

“sure feels like it.”

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

(y/n)’s throat tightened.

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

that was when the tears finally came.

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

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

and maybe they had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(y/n) wiped under her eyes. “always.”

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

“holding onto what?”

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

“you remember Still Moss?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“that beanie was iconic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“okay,” she said. “i’ll go.”

amara raised her brow. “with me?”

“obviously with you.”

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

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

-----

she stared at her closet like it had offended her.

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

because this was his band.

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

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

and now she was going without him.

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

what was she doing?

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

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

i miss having you around.

read. still no reply.

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

who was she kidding?

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

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

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

still.

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

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

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

she stood up.

grabbed the mesh top.

and started getting ready.

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

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

no sign of amara yet.

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

and then her phone buzzed.

a text.

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

(y/n) stared at the message.

read it again.

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

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

she looked up at the venue entrance.

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

she hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

to namjoon.

to the past.

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

no fucking way.

she took a breath.

pushed her phone back into her bag.

and stepped into the venue.

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

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

a flicker of excitement.

this was her night.

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

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

it helped.

for a second, it helped.

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

Still Moss would go on soon.

she could feel it.

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

want.

not for him. not for the past.

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

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

but she stayed.

she didn’t flinch.

the lights overhead flickered once. twice.

and then they dimmed.

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

she smiled.

just a little.

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

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

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

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

the room answered with a scream.

(y/n) screamed with them.

and for those first few songs, she let go.

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

she was alive.

and that’s exactly when it happened.

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

she turned her head.

and there he was.

namjoon.

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

her pulse stuttered.

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

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

but she could feel it.

his stare.

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

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

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

she didn’t dare look back.

but she knew.

he was still watching.

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

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

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

and god, she almost believed it.

almost.

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

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

and she danced.

not for him.

but in spite of him.

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

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

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

her breath hitched.

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

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

and then—

a hand.

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

she froze.

looked up.

and there he was.

namjoon.

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

his hand was warm.

his grip steady.

and his face—

god, his face.

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

she didn’t know what to say.

she couldn’t say anything.

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

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

she didn’t answer.

she couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

by anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but they weren’t okay now.

they hadn’t been in a long time.

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

namjoon’s mouth parted slightly.

she didn’t wait for him to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

he froze.

the silence between them was immediate, electric.

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

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

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

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

her mouth opened. then closed.

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

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

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

they stared at each other.

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

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

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

and fuck, she hated how familiar he still felt.

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

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

hers did the same.

and it was like time held its breath.

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

but they didn’t kiss.

neither of them moved.

and the restraint hurt worse than any breakup ever could.

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

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

she blinked, throat thick. “what?”

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

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

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

because she should say no.

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

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

god, it wanted to say yes.

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

they didn’t have to speak to feel it.

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

and she hated how natural it felt.

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

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

they stepped inside.

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

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

the fight.

the guilt.

the aching, unbearable want.

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

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

“i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the silence between them? it wasn’t empty.

it was full. heavy. breaking at the seams.

they weren’t done.

not even close.

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

she blinked. slow. disbelieving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

her breath hitched.

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

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

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

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

and just like that—the thread snapped.

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

there was no going back now.

not after this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he didn’t answer. didn’t have to.

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

they were already past the point of no return.

and neither of them gave a damn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

something in him snapped at that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then he got to her underwear.

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

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

and then—rip.

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

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

and then he was between her legs.

not teasing. not easing in.

devouring.

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

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

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

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

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

he didn’t stop.

if anything, he smiled against her cunt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

he licked his lips once.

his chin was glistening. soaked in her.

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

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

and then she dragged him down.

no hesitation. no time to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t you fucking dare.”

he slammed into her in one deep, brutal thrust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then he really let go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then she shattered.

again.

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

he couldn’t hold it anymore.

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

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

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

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

but then—he kissed her again.

soft this time.

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

and then—he slid back in.

slow.

gentle.

soothing the ache he’d left behind.

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

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

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

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

and he kissed her again.

not fast. not hard.

just full of everything they’d said without words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and for a moment, they did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

neither of them spoke for a long while.

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

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

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

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

but there wasn’t any.

not in her eyes. not in her touch.

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

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

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

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

and god—she could feel herself starting to unravel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“me either,” he said.

and yet… the silence said everything else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

just something closer.

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

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

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

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

like this had been enough.

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

he turned slowly, met her eyes.

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

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

his throat worked. like the word caught there.

and then, finally—he nodded.

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

because maybe she still did.

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

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

just truth. in its rawest, sleepiest form.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

she reached up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. “you didn’t ruin anything, joon. we just… broke. but we never stopped meaning something.”

he kissed her then.

slow. deep. different.

like he heard her.

when they pulled apart, their foreheads stayed pressed together, their breath tangled, hearts pounding in quiet sync.

“can we stay like this?” he murmured, not quite a question, not quite a plea.

“for as long as we want,” she whispered back.

and they stayed.

no promises.

just warmth, and weight, and the hope that maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the end.

he stayed quiet for a moment longer, just watching her, the way her eyes blinked slowly up at him in the dark. the way her breath steadied when he touched her like that—gently, reverently, like touching something breakable but beloved. his thumb traced her cheekbone, her jaw, the curve of her lip, and when she kissed the pad of it—just a light brush, soft and sure—something inside him settled.

“okay,” he said at last, the word nearly swallowed by the stillness.

her brows furrowed, and he saw the flicker of uncertainty before he caught her chin between his fingers and smiled, just a little.

“we can try,” he said, clearer this time. “if you want to… really try. no more running. no more pretending we’re fine when we’re not.”

her lips parted—surprised, maybe—but she nodded almost immediately. like she’d been waiting to hear that exact thing from the moment he walked into that bathroom corridor and looked at her like she still mattered.

“i do,” she said. no hesitation. “i want to.”

he exhaled then, not shakily, but with the kind of relief that made his whole chest sink into hers.

“me too,” he murmured. “so much.”

they kissed again. slower now, but full. full of things they hadn’t said. full of the ache and the years and the breathless kind of hope that blooms when you stop lying to yourself.

his arms wrapped tighter around her. hers curled beneath his. their legs tangled like they’d never been untangled in the first place.

and this time, when the silence settled around them, it wasn’t heavy.

it was safe.

the kind of quiet you only get when the worst part is over, and something better is starting.

they’d hurt. they’d healed. they’d found their way back through the noise and the hurt and the time.

and now—together, in the dark, skin warm, bodies still humming with memory—they were choosing it.

again.

and this time, they meant it.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

taglist Ꮺ @aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @h6rtf9lt @wynterlove

#Spotify #rpwprpwprpwprwreview

223 notes · View notes

kaayyyys · 2 days ago

Text

How the walking dead men react to you being very clingy 😼

(negan smith , daryl dixon, rick grimes, dwight)

(negan smith)

It starts subtly. A lingering touch here, a slightly longer hug there. Negan, usually the one initiating physical contact with his signature possessiveness, barely notices at first. He's too busy barking orders, strategizing, and maintaining the delicate balance of power within the Sanctuary.

Then comes the insistent hand-holding. Not just when navigating the walker-infested perimeter, but during meetings, while eating, even when he's trying to read maps. Negan raises an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

The real kicker? Wanting to be carried. He'd been going out on runs all week and was exhausted. You saw the way he wobbled slightly as he walked around setting new rules so you decided to speak up. "Negan, you're tired. Let me carry you."

Negan chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest. "Darlin', as much as I appreciate the offer, I think I can manage walking on my own two feet." You pouted, crossing your arms. "But I want to carry you! Please?" He stopped, turning to face you, a mixture of surprise and fondness on his face.

"Alright, alright. But only for a little bit." And just like that, you were piggybacking the infamous Negan Smith through the Sanctuary, much to the amusement and confusion of the Saviors.

Suddenly, you're always around. If Negan's in his office, you're perched on the edge of his desk, humming softly. If he's in the courtyard overseeing training, you're right there, offering water and unsolicited advice.

You've perfected the art of the pleading gaze. Wide eyes, a slightly trembling lip – it's a weapon of mass persuasion, and Negan, despite his best efforts, is defenseless against it.

Compliments, declarations of love, random observations – you're a non-stop fountain of affection, showering him with words he never knew he craved. "Negan, you have the prettiest eyes," you say once while he's mid-sentence, throwing him completely off track.

Small tokens of your affection start appearing – a carefully chosen flower, a cleaned and polished Lucille (his beloved baseball bat), a drawing of you both holding hands amidst a field of walkers (slightly morbid, but undeniably sweet)

Negan is nothing if not observant. He notices the change immediately, but initially chalks it up to stress or a momentary lapse in your usually independent nature.

He teases you relentlessly. "Well, well, well, look who's suddenly clingy. What's gotten into you, darlin'?" he'll ask, a smirk playing on his lips.

He tries to maintain his tough-guy persona, but a genuine smile keeps threatening to break through. He's not used to this level of unabashed affection, and frankly, he doesn't hate it.

He confides in Lucille. "She's gone soft on me, Lucille. What am I gonna do with a clingy [Reader's Name]?". Of course, Lucille has no response.

One evening, after a particularly brutal supply run, Negan returns to his quarters exhausted and emotionally drained. You're waiting for him, a warm bath drawn and a comforting meal prepared.

As he sinks into the tub, you kneel beside him, gently washing his hair and murmuring soothing words. The vulnerability in his eyes is palpable.

He finally asks, his voice rough, "Why the sudden…clinginess?"

You explain, your voice soft, "I just… I realized how fragile life is, Negan. We've lost so many. I just want to be close to you, to show you how much I love you, while we still can."

The admission hits him hard. The apocalypse has hardened him, forced him to build walls around his heart. But your love is a persistent force, chipping away at those defenses.

Negan doesn't magically transform into a cuddle bunny overnight. But he starts to reciprocate. He hugs you tighter, holds your hand longer, and whispers words of affection in return.

He finds himself seeking out your presence, missing you when you're not around. The Sanctuary, once a symbol of his power, now feels empty without you by his side.

He learns to appreciate the small gestures, the quiet moments of connection amidst the chaos. Your clinginess becomes a source of comfort, a reminder of the love that still exists in this broken world.

During a stressful meeting with the saviors, he felt a wave of anxiety washing over him. You, sensing his distress, subtly reached for his hand under the table, intertwining your fingers with his. The simple gesture grounded him, reminding him that he wasn't alone. In that moment, he realized that your clinginess wasn't just about needing attention, it was about offering unwavering support.

Negan starts carrying you around the Sanctuary more often, especially when you're tired or injured. The Saviors are initially shocked, but they quickly learn not to question their leader's actions.

He lets you decorate his office with your drawings and trinkets. It's a far cry from the stark, imposing space it once was, but he secretly loves the personal touch.

He starts calling you "clingy-pants" as a term of endearment. Only he's allowed to use it, of course.

Nightly cuddles become a non-negotiable. Negan, the imposing leader of the Sanctuary, snuggled up with you under the covers, whispering sweet nothings until you both drift off to sleep.

He even starts joining in on your spontaneous declarations of love, albeit in his own Negan-esque way. "Alright, alright, I love you too, you crazy woman. Now shut up and let me sleep.

Your clinginess, initially a surprising quirk, becomes an integral part of your relationship. It's a symbol of your unwavering love, your vulnerability, and your need for connection in a world that has become increasingly isolating.

Negan, in turn, learns to embrace his own softer side, to let down his guard and allow himself to be loved unconditionally.

Together, you navigate the apocalypse, your bond strengthened by the very thing that initially surprised and confused him, thus proving that even in the darkest of times, love, in all its clingy, fluffy glory, can thrive.

One day, while you're both overlooking the Sanctuary, you lean your head on his shoulder, sighing contentedly. "Thank you, Negan," you murmur.

He wraps his arm around you, pulling you closer. "For what, darlin'?"

"For letting me be clingy."

He chuckles, kissing the top of your head. "Don't think I had much of a choice, clingy-pants. But you're welcome."

And as the sun sets over the walker-infested landscape, you both know that your love, as unconventional and clingy as it may be, is a beacon of hope in a world desperately in need of it.

(rick grimes)

It started subtly, almost imperceptibly. A lingering touch, an extra squeeze of the hand, a gaze held just a moment longer. You, usually independent and self-sufficient in the harsh world you both navigated, found yourself drawn to Rick like a moth to a flickering flame. The need to be near him, to feel his presence, had intensified, washing over you in waves of unexpected affection.

It wasn't that you weren't always affectionate. You and Rick had built a strong, loving relationship amidst the chaos, cherishing the quiet moments and finding solace in each other's arms. But this was different. This was an all-consuming desire to be physically close, to hear his voice, to bask in his attention.

You weren't sure what prompted this sudden surge of clinginess. Maybe it was the constant stress of survival, the ever-present threat of walkers and hostile groups, or the lingering trauma of the past. Perhaps it was simply the comfort and security you found in Rick's unwavering strength and love, a haven you desperately craved in a world gone mad.

Whatever the reason, you couldn't deny the overwhelming urge to be near him, to feel his strong arms around you, to know that he was there, always.

The first sign of your increased need for affection was the constant "accidental" brushes. A graze of your hand against his as you walked side-by-side, a brush of your shoulder against his as you navigated a crowded room, a playful nudge as you sat together by the campfire.

You found excuses to be in his vicinity, offering to help with tasks you knew he could easily handle himself, just to spend a few extra minutes by his side. "Need help cleaning your gun, Rick?" you'd ask, even though you knew he was meticulous about its upkeep. "Mind if I watch you sharpen your knife?" you'd offer, your eyes fixed on his strong, capable hands.

During meetings or group discussions, you'd find yourself gravitating towards him, subtly leaning against his arm or resting your hand on his thigh. You didn't say anything, but the silent contact spoke volumes. You needed his reassurance, his grounding presence in the midst of the chaos.

Evenings became a haven of cuddles and quiet intimacy. You'd curl up on the couch beside him, burying your face in his neck, inhaling his familiar scent of leather, sweat, and something uniquely Rick. You'd pepper his jaw with soft kisses, tracing the lines of his rugged face with your fingertips.

Rick, a man of few words and stoic demeanor, initially responded to your clinginess with a mixture of surprise and endearing awkwardness. He wasn't used to such overt displays of affection, especially from you, who often projected an image of independence and resilience.

At first, he'd stiffen slightly when you leaned against him or reached for his hand, a subtle reaction that betrayed his surprise. But the stiffness would quickly melt away as he looked into your eyes, seeing the vulnerability and affection reflected there.

He'd offer a small, shy smile, a rare expression that always made your heart flutter. He'd squeeze your hand in return, his calloused fingers warm and reassuring. He'd adjust his posture to accommodate your presence, making sure you were comfortable and secure by his side.

He might not always verbalize his affection, but his actions spoke volumes. He'd pull you closer, wrap his arm around you, or rest his chin on your head, a silent promise of protection and love.

After a few days of your increased clinginess, Rick finally broached the subject, his brow furrowed with concern. "You okay, (Your Name)?" he asked one evening as you sat together on the porch, watching the sunset.

"Yeah, why?" you replied, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice wavered slightly.

"You've just been... extra close lately," he said, his eyes searching yours. "Not that I mind," he quickly added, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "But I just want to make sure everything's alright."

You hesitated, unsure how to explain the sudden surge of neediness that had washed over you. "I don't know," you admitted, finally. "I guess I just... need you close right now."

Rick nodded understandingly, his gaze softening. "Anything you want to talk about?" he offered, his voice gentle.

You decided to be honest with him, to explain the overwhelming emotions that had been swirling inside you. You confessed your fears, your insecurities, and your desperate need for his comfort and reassurance.

You told him about the nightmares that still haunted you, the memories of loss and violence that lingered in the back of your mind. You explained how his presence grounded you, how his love gave you strength, how his unwavering belief in you made you feel safe in a world that was anything but.

Rick listened patiently, his eyes never leaving yours. He didn't interrupt or offer platitudes. He simply listened, absorbing your words with a deep understanding that only someone who had experienced similar trauma could possess.

When you finished speaking, Rick pulled you into a tight embrace, his strong arms enveloping you in warmth and security. He held you close, his chin resting on your head, his presence a comforting anchor in the storm of your emotions.

"I understand," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "I know what it's like to feel lost and scared. But you're not alone, (Your Name). You've got me. Always."

He cupped your face in his hands, his eyes filled with unwavering love and devotion. "You don't have to explain yourself," he said. "You don't have to apologize for needing me. I'm here for you, always. However you need me."

He kissed you deeply, a kiss that conveyed all the love, comfort, and reassurance you desperately craved. It was a kiss that promised protection, support, and unwavering commitment, a kiss that sealed the bond between you two.

From that moment on, Rick embraced your clinginess with open arms. He understood that it was a sign of vulnerability, a way for you to express your fears and insecurities in a world that offered little comfort.

He made a conscious effort to be even more present in your life, to offer extra affection and reassurance whenever you needed it. He'd seek you out for a quick hug, a stolen kiss, or a quiet moment of connection.

He'd hold your hand a little tighter, pull you a little closer, and whisper words of encouragement in your ear. He'd remind you of your strength, your resilience, and your unwavering spirit.

He created a safe space for you to be vulnerable, to express your emotions without judgment, and to find comfort in his unwavering love.

Your newfound clinginess, initially a source of confusion and uncertainty, ultimately deepened your connection with Rick. It allowed you to be more vulnerable, to express your needs more openly, and to receive his love and support in a way you hadn't before.

It strengthened your bond, forging a deeper understanding and appreciation for each other's strengths and weaknesses. It reminded you that even in the midst of chaos and devastation, love, affection, and human connection could thrive.

You learned that it was okay to need him, to lean on him, and to find comfort in his presence. And Rick learned that your clinginess wasn't a sign of weakness, but a testament to the depth of your love and trust in him.

Together, you navigated the harsh realities of your world, finding solace in each other's arms, and proving that even in the darkest of times, love could be a beacon of hope, a source of strength, and a reason to keep fighting. Your love story became a testament to the power of human connection, a reminder that even in the apocalypse, love could conquer all.

(daryl dixon)

The apocalypse had changed everyone. It stripped away the superficial, forcing people to confront their true selves. For Daryl, it had chipped away at the hard exterior, revealing a man of fierce loyalty and surprising tenderness, especially when it came to you. Your relationship had been forged in the fires of survival, built on shared hardship, mutual respect, and a love that ran deeper than any walker-infested ditch.

Usually, you were independent, capable, a survivor in your own right. You held your own on supply runs, stood guard without complaint, and offered a steady hand to anyone who needed it. Daryl admired that about you. He loved your strength, your resilience, the way you could patch up a wound and crack a joke in the same breath.

That's why this sudden change was so…unexpected

Daryl was already up, stoking the fire in the hearth. As always, his movements were economical, efficient, honed by years of living rough. You watched him from the bed, a soft smile playing on your lips. The urge hit you like a tidal wave.

Instead of getting dressed, you launched yourself at him from behind, wrapping your arms around his torso and burying your face in the worn leather of his vest.

Daryl stiffened momentarily, his hand instinctively reaching for the knife at his hip. Then, he relaxed, recognizing your scent, your touch.

"Mornin'," he grumbled, his voice rough around the edges. He didn't pull away, though. He just leaned back slightly, accommodating your weight.

You nuzzled closer, inhaling the familiar scent of smoke, leather, and something uniquely Daryl. "Morning," you mumbled, your voice muffled by his vest. You tightened your grip. You didn't want to let go. Ever.

He remained silent for a long moment, probably trying to figure out what was going on. Finally, he said, "Somethin' wrong?"

"Nope," you replied, popping the 'p'. "Just...like being close to you."

You could practically feel the confusion radiating off him. He wasn't used to this level of open affection, at least not from you. He was more accustomed to your casual touches, the fleeting smiles, the unspoken understandings. This was new territory.

Daryl chuckled softly. "Alright," he said, finally relaxing into you. He knew better than to question it too much. If you wanted to cuddle, he wasn't going to argue.

Wherever Daryl went, you followed. He went to check the perimeter? You were right behind him, humming softly and swinging your arms. He went to clean his crossbow? You sat next to him, offering him rags and occasionally getting in the way.

Normally, Daryl appreciated your independence and giving each other space. Now? You were like a shadow, a very affectionate, slightly distracting shadow.

At first, he tried to subtly discourage you. A raised eyebrow here, a gentle nudge there. But you were persistent, your need for closeness seemingly unquenchable.

Finally, while he was trying to sharpen an arrow, you leaned against his shoulder, making it nearly impossible for him to concentrate.

"You're gonna poke your eye out," he muttered, trying to adjust his position without dislodging you.

"Mmm," you hummed, snuggling closer. "Worth it."

Daryl sighed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He gave up and let you be. He figured he could sharpen arrows later. Right now, he had a clingy girlfriend to contend with.

During lunch, which consisted of the usual meager rations, you reached across the table and took Daryl's hand. You laced your fingers together, your palm pressed against his calloused one.

Daryl glanced down at your hands, then back up at you, a question in his eyes. You just smiled.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he squeezed your hand gently, his thumb rubbing small circles on your skin. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes.

Carol, sitting across from you, raised an eyebrow and smirked. You just grinned back, unrepentant. Daryl, oblivious to the silent exchange, just kept eating, his hand still intertwined with yours.

As night fell, and everyone settled down for sleep, you snuggled up to Daryl in your shared bedroll. You pressed your body against his, wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his neck.

Daryl was tense at first, unused to this level of physical intimacy. He was a man of action, not affection. But as you relaxed against him, your breathing evening out, he began to soften.

He wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer. He rested his chin on your head, inhaling the scent of your hair. Underneath the layers of dirt and grime, it still smelled faintly of wildflowers.

"You okay?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

"Perfect," you murmured, snuggling even closer. "Just...hold me."

Daryl didn't say anything. He just held you. He held you tight, his body a shield against the darkness, against the horrors of the world outside. He held you until you fell asleep, and he held you even after that.

Daryl's Internal Monologue (Probably):

What in the hell is goin' on with her?

She ain't usually this...touchy.

Is she sick? Hurt? Did somethin' happen?

Nah, she seems fine. Just...clingy.

Well, I ain't gonna complain. Not really.

Feels kinda nice, actually.

Just hope she ain't expectin' me to start braidn' her hair or somethin'.

Maybe I should ask her what's up. But then again, maybe I shouldn't.

If she wants to cuddle, I'll cuddle.

She's my girl. Gotta take care of her.

Even if she is bein' a little weird.

The truth was, you were just feeling vulnerable. The apocalypse had a way of doing that to a person. You needed the reassurance of Daryl's presence, the comfort of his touch. You needed to know that he was there, that he wasn't going anywhere.

After a day of constant clinging, you finally felt a sense of peace. You had gotten what you needed. You had soaked up Daryl's strength, his love, his unwavering support.

The next day, you were back to your old self, independent and capable. But something had changed. You were more affectionate, more open with your feelings. You held Daryl's hand a little longer, smiled at him a little brighter, and told him you loved him a little more often.

Daryl, in his own quiet way, reciprocated. He held your gaze a little longer, touched your arm a little more frequently, and even offered a rare, genuine smile.

He may not have understood your sudden need for affection, but he accepted it. He embraced it. Because that's what you did when you loved someone. You took them as they were, clingy or not, and you held them close.

And sometimes, in the quiet moments, when the world outside was silent, Daryl would pull you close and hold you tight, just because. He didn't need a reason. He just needed you.

And that, in the end, was all that mattered. In a world filled with death and destruction, you had found love, and love, in all its clingy, affectionate glory, was worth fighting for.

Dwight had seen a lot of strange things since the world went to hell, but this new development was definitely up there. He walked into their shared room, the one they managed to carve out for themselves in the Sanctuary, and found you sprawled across their bed, a soft blanket pulled halfway up your body. Usually, you were off helping with maintenance or scavenging runs, always busy, always independent. Today, however, you were radiating a level of…neediness that was new, and frankly, adorable. You looked up at him, a soft pout gracing your lips. "Dwight," you whined, the sound making his heart do a little flip. "Come cuddle."

He raised a scarred eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Cuddle? You? Since when are you a cuddle bug?" He teased gently, already moving closer, drawn in by the sheer magnetism of your suddenly affectionate aura. He knew you loved him, of course, but you weren’t one for grand displays of affection. This was…different. As he sat on the edge of the bed, you immediately latched onto him, wrapping your arms around his waist and burying your face in his side. "Just…need you," you mumbled into his leather jacket. Dwight chuckled, a warm, genuine sound that he usually reserved just for you. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

He ran a hand through your hair, enjoying the feeling of its softness against his calloused fingers. "Alright, alright," he murmured. "I'm here. Tell me what's going on." You just snuggled deeper, shaking your head. "Nothing. Just…want you close." He knew better than to push. Instead, he leaned back against the headboard, pulling you with him so you were nestled comfortably against his chest. He’d spent so long pushing people away, building walls, that this vulnerability, this open display of affection from you, felt like a privilege. He kissed the top of your head, breathing in the familiar scent of you – a mix of soap, sunshine, and something uniquely you. "Okay," he said softly, content to just hold you. "We can do that. We can stay like this as long as you want." And he meant it. He'd face walkers, Negan, even Eugene's endless ramblings, just to keep this feeling, this quiet contentment, alive. He'd be your rock, your shield, and, apparently, your personal cuddle buddy, all rolled into one. He was yours, always, and right now, being exactly what you needed was all that mattered. He felt you relax against him, your breathing evening out, and he knew you were drifting off to sleep. He smiled, a small, tender expression that transformed his hardened features. This was love, he realized, in its purest, most comforting form. And he wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

#the walking dead #twd #love #popular posts #rick grimes #the walking dead daryl #daryl dixon #twd daryl #negan smith #the walking dead negan

34 notes · View notes

shoxxcc · 2 days ago

Text

perfect eyes

one’s words—careless and sharp, can carve permanent scars to someone so fragile and beautiful. one’s words can create darkness one does not wish to bask in. one’s words can push one to reside and grow familiar in a space where there is only a distortion of suffering. but one’s words can also give someone the light they needed; the light that will blind many, but will clear one’s gnawing feeling hidden beneath a façade of healing.

pairing: non-idol!park jisung x gn!reader

g: slight angst (if you squint), fluff

wc: 0.9k

warnings: insecurity, bullying/teasing, knife, allusions to threats

“ahh.. they're still puffy...” jisung sadly huffed an air, referring to his eyes which you find adorable but he finds bothersome growing up. something small, yet is a big deal to others and to him as well.

after hours of reading from his new books last night, he couldn’t help but sneak some ramen in the kitchen at 4:00 am. two packs to be exact and some mandu—probably a few, like three.

but waking up with puffy eyes, jisung regrets acting like a mad man who hasn’t been fed for days.

sitting on a stool in the kitchen island, he watches you rummaging through drawers and picking up utensils you used to make the first meal of the day while getting annoyed at how loud the pressure cooker has gotten; blaming the appliance for being so loud for you to not hear him.

“baby, do you know how i can get rid of these?” he calls for you, wanting some attention.

“what?” you questioned, still minding your business. but jisung didn’t like you not paying attention to him. and for the time you waited for his answer, he remained unexpectedly silent instead. until he’s got you turning around to look at him who had a frown in his face, before asking again, “i’m sorry, baby. what do you want to get rid of?”

“does my eyes look puffy?” he questions, almost vulnerably.

you examined his bare face; one that literally looked like he had just awoken, but nothing else was new nor did his eyes look puffy. “they look alright. is that what’s bothering you?”

jisung nodded timidly, “you may or may not get mad, but i felt greedy last night...” he admitted how he sneaked out of the bed and with how much food he had consumed.

“i’m not mad at all. you can eat whatever you like, whenever. just in moderation though.” you turned around to continue what you were initially doing.

“i just,” he hesitated, but decided to say what has been bothering him since he woke up, “….i can’t stop thinking about that one kid back then, saying my eyes look like soggy udon.”

and just as quickly you chopped the scallions and bell peppers, a remarkable 180° swift of your body and the loud piercing of the knife on the chopping board startled jisung. “excuse me? whose kid said that?”

the moment jisung saw the look of annoyance and anger in your eyes and the knife you held close in your hand, he shakes his head in fear. “i-it’s nothing big, baby. it just randomly popped in my mind again…” he looked down with his teeth sinking in his bottom lip, anxiously tapping the marbled surface.

you felt your heart being squeezed at the sight, as well as the grip on the knife that stabbed the wooden board. you think he’s probably regretting opening that topic up in the first place—always so careful and mindful with what he says. and you somehow felt bad knowing he’s not even the one at fault here.

eventually, you put the deadly weapon down, walking towards where he is. your hands instinctively reached to cup his face, like they belonged there.

“it’s something big if it affects you badly.” he only pursed a sad smile as you caressed his plump pillows. “you don't look bad with your bags. they make you cute and make your eyes more pretty.” you assured him and you swore you saw a glint of hope flashing in his eyes. “and you have the prettiest small eyes i’ve ever seen.”

his heart warmed at the compliments.

for years, jisung had carried the insecurity of having small, puffy eyes, with only a big dream of fitting and conforming to the standards mainly thrown by the society. what all began with a little joke gradually became constant teasing by some kids in his childhood.

but he had never really gotten to end the nightmare by escaping these restraints that held him growing up without repeatedly falling into the abyss of doubts and uncertainty.

for years, he lived close with all the familiar point outs of his eyes; far from the foreign compliments that refuged him safe.

and now those same deep pools that drowned your own two years ago looked at you with pure fondness. this time, with brimming tears. wanting another assurance, sweet talks, some praises, another compliment—wanting more coming from you. not that he doesn’t have any ounce of trust in your words, but jisung’s actually starting to think that he’s capable of breaking free from the years of restraints, now that he's genuinely believing he’s lovable enough because you are there to tell him so.

“really..?” he quietly whispered, “you think my eyes are pretty?” and you nodded slowly.

“very.”

and that's on period.

“but they make me look-”

he was taken aback when your body leaned forward, closing his eyes in the process and anticipated a kiss on the lips or on his cheek but was kissed on one of his closed eyes instead.

when he fully opened his eyes, you were already grinning, “you're very, very perfect, love,”

oh, how much he wants to erase that grin of yours with a kiss and replace it with a flustered expression.

he could not imagine a life without the only person with a glorified soul who’s capable of making him feel special and worthy.

jisung settled his big hands above your small ones on his cheeks, while leaning forward and returning a smooth kiss on your lips. when he pulled away, he still couldn’t erase that grin on your face. but at least you were happy, and so was he.

“thank you…” his thumbs rubbed the back of your hands in comfort; wanting to melt under your touch. “what would i actually do without you?” he forced a pout, and you both giggled—yours becoming louder. and as quick as flash, he stole another peck on your lips, shutting you up. “but uh… as much as i'd love to be this close to you…” jisung slowly removed himself away from your hold and shoved your arms to your sides—back to where they belonged. his lips stretched in fear as he looked everywhere in the kitchen but your eyes, “…your hands are spicy, baby.”

credits:

— dividers: @uzmacchiato @strangergraphics @saradika-graphics

— photos: pinterest

the author: i made this probably like two years ago as a drabble, with just like five lines. i’m kinda impressed i was able to work it out and make it longer. and this was initially inspired by that one live of jisung and renjun. to whoever said that one comment about his face, he’s vv perfect !

and by the way, we have some crazy coincidence here! this work was posted on 06.25.2025, and the day after, jisung had a bubble message saying his eyes looked puffy/swollen on their way to smtown london. but i tell you, i cannot make up something as crazy as this actually is. i’m starting to think we’re soulmates.

some works of: shoxxcc

29 notes · View notes

littleshelbygirl · 2 days ago

Text

“ I have a feeling you got everything you wanted. And you're not wasting time stuck here like me. “

behind closed doors - t.s. | oneshot

fandom: Peaky Blinders

pairing: thomas shelby x fem!reader

content warning: gangs/gangsters, smut 18+ (male masturbation, watching for several seconds), innocent reader

summary: After attending an arranged married with Thomas Shelby you need to get used to living with the distant man. That requires catching him in moments of relief.

author's note: should I make a part two for this?

masterlist.

You can barely recall the ceremony. It wasn’t a blur; rather, you had steeled yourself against any emotion. The flowers were white, the champagne tasted off, and Thomas Shelby stood at the altar like he was finalizing a business deal rather than marrying someone he barely knew.

And yet, that’s it.

You were aware of the murmurs, the arrangement made away from prying eyes. Your father had debts to the Peaky Blinders, and Thomas didn’t demand payment in cash. He demanded people—specifically, you. You held back tears and didn’t protest; that would have drained you. Instead, you remained composed and elegant, like a lamb clad in satin, while he slid a ring onto your finger, eyes averted.

Later, after the last guest had left and the silence settled in like a weight, you found yourself alone with him in the suite. As he unbuttoned his collar, he spoke, his voice low and measured. “You can stop pretending,” he said. “I’m not a romantic hero.”

You leaned against the edge of the bed, silent as his expression softened. He saw your youth—not naive but vulnerable.

“I’m not heartless,” he continued, tentatively brushing your cheek as if gauging your reaction. You stood resolutely still while his thumb lingered at your jawline.

His eyes searched yours, looking for fear, resentment, perhaps even a trace of fragility. You met his gaze, unwavering, though your pulse raced. “I understand this wasn’t your choice,” he said, quieter now. “And I recognize your age. I know the mess your father has created for you.”

His hand dropped, fingers grazing your arm in a manner too gentle for a man with a violent past. In that moment, you sensed not tenderness but restraint—like he was containing something within. He turned away, pouring himself a drink from the decanter. You noticed the tension in his shoulders as he lifted the glass to his lips, then set it down untouched.

“I won’t lay a finger on you unless you wish it,” he said, still avoiding your gaze. “You won’t have to plead or fake anything for my sake.”

Stepping forward, the sound of your feet on the floor echoed in the silence. “Why marry me, then?”

He turned to face you, meeting your eyes without a hint of arrogance or charm. Just the stark honesty that defined Thomas Shelby.

“Because your father made a grave error,” he replied. “Because the world is merciless, and being mine is safer than being alone.”

You believed him, and that realization filled you with dread. You believed him. He took your hand, enveloping it within his rough grip, then brought it to his lips—not to kiss, just to rest. A simple, unembellished gesture.

“I can wait,” he whispered.

His touch against your skin was so careful, so at odds with the violence you knew he was capable of, that it nearly broke you. But you couldn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of this dangerous man who already held so much power over you.

He lowered your hand. His gaze flickered over your features—your lips, your eyes, the subtle tremble you couldn’t quite disguise. You felt exposed under his gaze, laid bare in a way that was equal parts alarming and thrilling.

Thomas continued to study you, his thumb tracing slow, distracting circles on the back of your hand, making it hard to think clearly. Finally, he said softly, “You’re trembling.”

You hadn't even realized it until now. The subtle tremors that ran through your body, a silent reflection of the storm raging inside you. You tried to control it, holding yourself still, but he already noticed.

He released your hand, his touch leaving a ghost of warmth on your skin. You almost missed it, the absence of his grip, the sense of security it provided. Thomas reached out again, his fingers gently grasping your chin, tilting your face to the light. His gaze was intense, like looking directly into the sun. "Look at me." His deep voice was so commanding that you obeyed without thinking, meeting his eyes. He held you there, his touch gentle but firm. “Do I need to wait?”

A part of you yearned to say yes. To say that you needed time, that you couldn't be the wife he was expecting. But another part, the part controlled by him and his touch, wanted the opposite. You nod your head, not trusting your voice.

Thomas' gaze darkened, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His thumb moved from your chin, slowly traced along your jaw, following the line of your pulse. "Alright,” he said. “I’ll give you time.”

He stepped back, creating distance, and your body instinctively yearned to close it, to feel the proximity of his body again. But you held yourself back, standing there, trying to regain some control over yourself.

Thomas picked up his drink, swirling it thoughtfully. He watched you, his expression neutral, but you could see the wheels turning in his mind. He was taking you in, memorizing every part of you. You felt like prey watched by a predator, but instead of fear, a strange heat coiled in your stomach.

"Sit." His command was simple, yet it held an edge of authority that was impossible to ignore. He gestured to a chair near the fireplace, and you found yourself moving towards it without hesitation.

You sat down, your body still trembling slightly as if it had a mind of its own. Thomas took a seat opposite you, his shoulders relaxed but his gaze sharp. He sipped his drink, studying you quietly.

The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fireplace. You felt his gaze on you, heavy and unrelenting. He made no effort to fill the silence with small talk, instead letting the tension build between you.

Thomas put down his glass. His attention was fully focused on you now, his eyes roaming your face, searching for any sign of fear or submission. "You're nervous," he stated, not a question but an observation. “Why is that? I just said I wouldn’t touch you.”

You fought the urge to look away, keeping your gaze locked with him. You were nervous. Of course, you were. You were alone with a man known for his ruthless nature. But more than that, it was the way he looked at you, like he could see straight through you. It made you feel vulnerable, exposed.

Yet, in that vulnerability, there was a strange kind of connection. A mutual understanding that you were both trapped in this situation—you, a caged bird, and him, the hawk waiting to devour you. “People talk…”

He smirked, a small scoff falling from his lips. "Do they now?" His expression was a mix of amusement and curiosity. He leaned forward, his voice dropping an octave. "And what do they say, eh? 'That Shelby married a pretty young little thing.' Or maybe, 'That Shelby's bride looks like she might break in half under his touch'?"

Your cheeks flushed at his words, a mix of embarrassment and frustration. He was right. The whispers had reached your ears. They whispered of your youth, your innocence, and your lack of experience. They talked about how delicate you were, and how a man as rough and relentless as Thomas Shelby would snap you in half if he got too carried away. “Shouldn’t it concern you… that people talk?”

He chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair as if he was thoroughly enjoying this game. His gaze was still on you, studying every little reaction. "Why should it concern me what people say?" he replied, a hint of challenge in his tone. "They talk because they fear. They talk because they know who I am and what I'm capable of. But you…"

He paused, tilting his head to one side, his eyes roaming over you once more. "It concerns you, doesn't it? It worries you, little bird."

Your heart skipped a beat as he called you that—little bird. It was a term of endearment, but also one of possession. You were his now, and he could do with you as he pleased.

You tried to keep your expression neutral, but the flush on your cheeks betrayed you. Yes, it concerned you. It worried you—how people saw you, how he saw you. How he talked about you like you were some fragile object, ready to snap under his touch.

He chuckled at your silence, his gaze sharp and shrewd. He could read you like a book. Every flinch, every expression, every tiny gesture. Thomas reached for his glass again, swirling the amber liquid inside before taking a slow sip. He set it back down, his eyes never leaving you.

"They talk about your inexperience," he said bluntly, his words hanging heavily in the air. "About how delicate you are. How you've never been touched by a man before. Is that true?"

Your cheeks grew hotter at his question. It was true. You had never been with a man, not even been kissed by one. And now you were married to a man known for his ruthless nature and carnal appetites.

You didn't trust your voice enough to speak, so you simply nodded your head in confirmation, watching him closely for his reaction.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth at your confirmation. His gaze darkened, a hint of satisfaction in his eyes. "I see. A pure little thing, untainted by the world," he murmured, his tone almost mocking. "Untouched by a man's touch, untouched by my touch."

He pushed himself away from the chair and stood up, coming closer to you. His eyes roamed over you, appreciating your innocence, your vulnerability. “A monster such as me… married a saint.”

You swallowed back the lump in your throat as he stood in front of you, his presence overwhelming. You felt small and exposed beneath his gaze, like a butterfly trapped under a microscope.

He was standing incredibly close now, looking down at you. He reached out, and for a moment, you braced yourself, expecting him to touch you, to claim you. But instead, he simply lifted a strand of your hair, rubbing it between his fingers, as if assessing its softness. "Go to bed," he murmured.

The sudden command surprised you. Go to bed? Is that all? No touch, no claim, just... nothing? You tried to conceal your disappointment and confusion, staring back at him with wide eyes. "Alone?" you heard yourself asking before you could stop yourself. Immediately, you regretted it. That hint of desperation in your voice was pathetic.

A slow sigh played on Thomas' lips as he heard the hint of desperation in your tone. He tilted his head, studying you, clearly amused by this unexpected moment of weakness.

"Yes," he responded, his voice gruff yet controlled. "You'll go to bed, alone." He let go of the strand of your hair, his hand dropping back to his side. The loss of his touch felt like a sharp stab, but you forced yourself to remain impassive, to hide the disappointment that threatened to surface. “I have business to attend.”

You nodded silently, trying to hide the conflicting emotions churning within you. Disappointment, relief, confusion, and a strange sense of desire all battling for dominance.

You pushed yourself to stand up, breaking eye contact with him as you did so. The thought of spending the night alone on the cold sheets, knowing that he'd be out dealing with god knows what kind of 'business' was almost... unsettling.

"Good night then," you managed to mutter, your voice betraying none of your inner turmoil.

He watched you carefully, his gaze never leaving your form as you stood up. A smirk played on his lips, as if he could see through your indifferent facade.

"Good night, little bird," he replied, his tone deceptively soft. "Try to find some sleep. I'll be back soon."

With that, he turned and walked out of the room, leaving you standing there, watching the door close behind him. The click of the latch echoed through the now silent room, the weight of his absence palpable.

Next couple of weeks were the same— you’d wake up alone and go to sleep alone. You’d have breakfast alone and dine alone. You’d simply be left alone with servants inside the big Arrow house. At least it felt like it.

When Tommy was home it still felt like he wasn’t. He was distant and kept his promise of waiting and not touching you. Whenever he was home he’d be in his office to which you only set foot on when he was away.

Today was different— you decided to confront him about going shopping alone in his office. Your hand grabbed the door knob and you slowly opened it just to check if he’s in… and were you welcomed by the sight— Tommy Shelby stroking his dick in his office.

The sight of him, his hand wrapped around himself, was so shockingly unexpected that you froze in place, unable to move or speak. Your cheeks flared with heat, and you felt like an intruder, watching something you shouldn't be.

But your mind was racing. Why was he doing this? Why now, when he'd been keeping his distance for weeks? And why right at his desk, in the office of all places?

You watched him for mere more seconds before stepping back and walking away without a word. Your retreat was swift, fueled by a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts. As you retreated down the hallway, your mind was a storm of conflicting feelings. The image of him in his office had shocked you, yet it had also stirred some unexpected sensations in you.

As you walked away, you couldn't shake off the image of Thomas, the usually in-control man, losing himself in his own private moment. It was a side of him you'd never seen before and it had left you confused and strangely affected.

That night dinner was served for both you and your husband. The two of you sat close to each other, dining in silence. You didn’t dare speak a word. A thick, uncomfortable silence filled the air between you. The clinking of cutleries against the plates sounded unusually loud in the otherwise quiet room.

Thomas, meanwhile, seemed completely unbothered. His gaze would occasionally flick in your direction, taking in your tense shoulders and averted gaze, but he said nothing. He continued eating as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

You tried to focus on the meal, to act like everything was normal, but you couldn't shake off the memory of that moment in his office, the image of him like a dagger in your mind. The silence was unbearable, yet, you didn't know how to break it.

Finally, Thomas spoke. His gaze had turned from the food to you. "I’m taking you shopping tomorrow," he said, his voice low and steady. “To buy more of whatever ladies your age buy these days.”

Your eyes darted up to meet his gaze, a mix of surprise and relief washing over you. He was finally breaking the silence.

He continued, his tone still flat and matter-of-fact. "You'll need more dresses, I suppose. Some new shoes. Maybe some hats and all that nonsense ladies like." He took a nonchalant bite of his food, watching you for a reaction.

You sat there, trying to process his statement. Part of you was happy he was talking to you, especially about something so normal as shopping. But the other part, the one that had been dwelling on the image of him in his office all day, was still caught up in confusion and desire.

You managed a small nod, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Okay," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

"You should prepare a list," he continued, as if discussing some business matter. "Of what you need, that is. Whatever… lady things you need.”

He sipped his whiskey, his gaze still fixed on you, his expression giving nothing away. You couldn't help but wonder what was going through his mind. Was he really just talking about shopping? Or was there something more beneath the surface?

You nodded again, a bit awkwardly this time. "Yes, I can do that."

The rest of the dinner passed in this strange, stilted conversation, with Thomas rattling off additional items you might need, and you nodding along like a puppet. Throughout it all, he would glance at you every few seconds, studying you.

As the meal came to an end, he leaned back in his seat, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Good. We'll set off early tomorrow then."

As he stood, you instinctively did the same, the movement feeling as if you were simply following his lead, a puppet on a string.

He didn't say anything at first, just stood there, looking at you with that inscrutable expression. You were acutely conscious of his gaze, of the unspoken words between you. Finally, he spoke, his voice a hushed murmur. "Oh and, [Y/N].”

There was a pause, a moment where the air felt thick with anticipation. You looked at him, awaiting his next words, your heart beating faster than it should. Whatever was coming next was important, you could feel it.

Finally, he finished his sentence, his tone almost casual. "Next time, after you’re done watching me, close the door.”

#Spotify #thomas shelby #tommy shelby #tommy x reader #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinder oc #peaky blinders #thomas shelby smut

22 notes · View notes

wildsaltair · 4 months ago

Text

gonna need a moment or possibly several to recover from the attempt on my life which is this raw unfiltered photo of the back of Maximus' head neck and shoulders

#HE'S SO PRECIOUS TO ME YOU DON'T EVEN UNDERSTAND #somehow this is so sweet and vulnerable and adorable to me #i just wanna hug him from behind and rest my cheek on his back and listen to him breathe for awhile #and then gently kiss his skin it's so smooth and warm and sweet i just KNOW IT I JUST KNOW IT #and then run my hands up the front of his body and make him moan and grab my hands and spin me around and pin me to the wall and and and #NOBODY TALK TO ME #DON'T THINK ABOUT ME DON'T LOOK AT ME DON'T BREATHE IN MY DIRECTION #i'm enjoying the fragile pleasure of gazing upon my beloved and imagining my moment with him #i want to BITE him #GENTLY #with absolute tenderness and love and adoration #i'm telling y'all he got me through my sickness #i kept imagining him sweeping me up in his big strong arms and carrying me to his bed and caring for me personally #how could i ever be sick if he was near????#why does he do this to me #why is his shoulder so visible if i cannot touch him #i feel like a tiger behind bars DESPERATELY trying to eat a zoo visitor #you know what i mean #i am audibly moaning groaning writhing aching burning longing wishing desperately pleading for him to just AAHDFHASFHGAH #JUST WHEN I THINK I CAN'T WANT HIM ANYMORE #HERE HE IS destroying my sense of accomplishment for the day #oh maximus you are always always always the husband of my heart #he's my roman empire he's all of it to me #everything good and precious and perfect and wonderful he is to me #gladiator #maximus #maximus decimus meridius #gladiator 2000 #russell crowe

7 notes · View notes

maskedbyghost · 8 months ago

Text

when simon wakes up in a hospital, the last thing you expect is for him to grab your hand, pull you close, and say, “hey, there you are, love.” his voice is so soft, so sure, it leaves you speechless. you stare at him, half in shock, because this is ghost—simon riley, the one person who’s kept every feeling locked up.

“simon, do you… do you remember anything?” you ask, testing the waters.

he blinks, looking at you with confidence. “of course, i remember. you’re my wife.”

you freeze. his wife? this is new, and you’re not sure where he got the idea, but before you can correct him, johnny walks in, taking one look at the two of you and biting back a grin. he leans in, whispering to you, “maybe just… go with it for now, eh?” he’s got that teasing glint in his eye, and something tells you there’s no harm in humoring simon for a bit, if it can be helpful for his recovery.

so, you go along with it. and to your surprise, simon doesn’t act confused—in fact, he’s more open with you than he’s ever been. suddenly, he’s holding your hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world, always looking for you, keeping you close, calling you “love” or “darlin’” in front of everyone. he’s even got that soft smile every time you catch his eye, one that makes it hard to remember this isn’t real.

the team’s amused but supportive, playing along with the whole story. simon keeps asking you little things, like what your favorite meal is, or how you usually spend your days when he’s away, as if filling in gaps in a life he believes you share. you find yourself answering with things that feel so genuine, and the way he listens—focused, attentive—feels more intimate than anything you’ve shared before.

one day, you’re patching up a minor scrape on his hand, and he just watches you, eyes soft, like he’s memorizing every detail. “i don’t know what i’d do without you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper. it’s so genuine, so open, that for a second, you forget it’s all just part of his memory loss.

then, one night, he pulls you close, resting his forehead against yours, eyes serious. “do you ever think about us?” he asks softly, like he’s trying to get at something just out of reach. “how we’d be if things were… different?”

you’re not sure how to answer because there’s no script for this. “sometimes,” you admit, feeling a pang of something deep and unspoken. and for the first time, you’re almost grateful he can’t remember—because maybe, just maybe, it’s the only reason he’s letting himself be this vulnerable with you.

as the days pass, you start catching little glimpses, small things that make you wonder if he knows more than he’s letting on. he catches you watching him once, and instead of asking why, he just gives you this little smile, one that feels like he’s in on the secret. and just when you’re starting to think this is all some kind of twisted dream, he pulls you aside.

“i know i’m supposed to remember,” he whispers, “but i don’t want this to end. not yet.”

it’s in that moment you realize the truth. he’s been aware all along—he’s been pretending just as much as you, holding on to this fragile, temporary illusion because, maybe, he needs it just as much as you do.

--------------------------------------------

hii!! i'm backkk!! send some requests plsss, byee <333

@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving

#simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon riley imagine #simon ghost riley

15K notes · View notes

zolo-san · 6 months ago

Text

I know I just rambled in the tag, but if you took the time to read all that, might I direct you to this post & my ramblings there as well~

Something about Zoro being one of the most misunderstood and mischaracterized characters in One Piece is funny (not haha funny, funny sad) to me because?? That’s literally how his introduction starts?? With people misunderstanding him and thinking he’s some big, monstrous demon who kills with cause and cannot be trusted or tamed.

Meanwhile the actual Zoro is a driven guy who is often both literally and figuratively directionless in life and found his goals in life through good people (first Kuina and then Luffy). He's tied up in the Marine base not due to those actual crimes he commuted (well not inherently anyway) but because he ‘disrespected’ a Captain's son and stood up for a little girl. He accepts the challenge they present to him and because Zoro himself is a guy that puts his money where his mouth is he assumes the Marines will uphold their end of the deal and let him go (note the actual shock when Koby tells him the truth)

He joins Luffy's crew but also outright says he’s not gonna let his goal take second place to Luffy or anyone else's for that matter, he bears the weight of two people's dreams, his heart isn’t going to be swayed by some pirate.

Speaking of Kuina, her impact and influence on Zoro's life isn’t talked about enough for my liking. She was Zoro's first friend, his first rival, his first goal. He looked up to her so much and his reaction to her passing cracks my heart in half every time because you can seem him just..go numb. Kuina, dead? Kuina, the strongest person he knows, gone? Kuina, who swore to him just yesterday they’d race to the top of the world together, doesn’t exist anymore. His blank face only cracking within the privacy of his sensei before he begs. He begs on his knees, tears streaming down his face please please please let me take Kuina's sword with me. Let me take our dream to a high neither of us could imagine. I won’t let her name die here.

On top of gaining the Wado Ichimonji that day Zoro also gained…fear. Not of death, well at the very least not his own, he gained his fear of not being enough. Kuina kicked his ass every way a person could and still died, what could someone like him do? So he trains…and trains…and trains some more. Overly, obsessively, constantly telling himself he’s not enough, he’s weak, he can’t protect anyone like this and everyone's death would be on him.

As for Zoro being cold and stoic that’s just…not completely true? He’s not stone, he can be excited or sad or angry just as much as most characters he just sucks at showing it canonically (Kuina thinks he hates her before their final fight after all). Sure he’s not as forthcoming about it as some of the other Strawhats but Zoro's more of an action guy anyway, he'll show his love with his protection and unwavering faith.

In conclusion, Zoro is a ridiculously stubborn, incredibly loyal, mildly emotionally constipated, do what you say/say what you mean kinda guy.

(Also that whole ‘Zoro would kill the whole crew if Luffy asked him to’ thing? Top ten stupidest things I’ve ever heard from the fandom and that’s saying a lot. He’s loyal not brainless and heartless guys if Luffy asked him to do that, he would never but I digress, Zoro would square the fuck up with him so fast. DPMO.)

#I think there's a lot of misunderstanding of Zoro's character within the One Piece Fandom (partly because let's be honest media literacy is #apparently not a common skill and tumblr do be the website where we piss on the poor lol)#I think there's this dumb fanon version of Zoro where people take memes about him a bit too seriously and start to view/characterize him as #this brainless uncaring stoic/emotionless cold dude who can't think for himself and is like a fucking zombie for Luffy #which I'm just like ?????????? bitch where?????? I know media literacy is hard 🙄but seriously are we even looking at the same source #material???? and the same character?????#I also think some people misunderstand how Zoro expresses his emotions tbh #He's someone who acts more than he speaks so he expresses a lot through action but that doesn't mean he can't or doesn't verbally express #his emotions or his wants and dreams in fact Zoro very clearly verbally expresses his feelings and dreams/goals quite a bit people just #choose to ignore or not acknowledge it because it doesn't fit into their funny fannon version of him #In a lot of ways Zoro just presents himself as a very traditional Japanese man when it comes it his emotions he's not super outward with #how he feels but it's very clear that he feels his emotions very deeply and cares very deeply for ALL of his friends #Zoro is very much a protector and there are many moments where we see him do a say things that make it VERY clear that he also has a clear #personal moral compass #he is a caring and compassionate character who while he /is/ rough and blunt at times is also soft (i'd like to site that one scene that #makes me cry when I think of it in Alabasta where Zoro washes Choppers back in the bath because that is such a soft and caring moment and a #very vulnerable thing to do I just ;-;) but while one of the most important things to Zoro is to protect his friends (which we see him do #over and over again without any instruction from Luffy - and I agree with op that it probably has A LOT to do with Kuina and the fact that #/he/ couldn't do anything to help or protect her and she despite her being the strongest person he knew she still died) Zoro still clearly #wants to and /does/ continue to pursue his dream #idk man I could write a whole essay about Zoro's character and how so many people don't seem to understand him or mischaracterize him which #is really sad because that happens to in in the actual series as well people make a lot of incorrect assumptions about Zoro #I think the in universe misconceptions/wrong assumptions about Zoro are very intentional on Oda's part tho #He wants the assumed view of Zoro as a cold hearted killer and a 'monster of a man' to be constantly contradicted by who Zoro actually is #and how he acts #I also find it so interesting how unbothered Zoro is by this perception of him by others because Zoro is a very self assured character #he knows who he is and while he has some pride it's not so fragile that he can't push it aside to see that he can be better #also op I can go on for a bit about how influential Kuina was to shaping Zoro into the person he is now and I agree that not enough people #talk about that or give their relationship enough credit #I have a whole side tangent about the way Zoro treats/acts towards women (ya know the thing that pisses off Sanji constantly) has A LOT to

365 notes · View notes

kaiist · 1 month ago

Text

𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐄 ⋯ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐃-𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐔𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓

𝐗𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐄𝐑

The walls of your shared apartment seemed to close in, the air thick with unspoken resentments that had been building for weeks. What had begun as a minor disagreement about household chores had somehow torn open wounds neither of you knew were still bleeding. Xavier stood across from you, his brows furrowed, the only visible sign of his distress.

“You weren’t listening to what I’m actually saying!” you shouted, frustration bubbling over like a pot left too long on the stove. “It’s like I’m talking to a brick wall. Maybe we should just get divorced since you clearly don’t care enough to even hear me!”

The words hung in the air like smoke, poisonous and suffocating. Xavier went completely still, the color draining from his face as if you’d physically struck him. His carefully maintained composure shattered completely. For a terrible moment, he looked like a lost child, confusion and raw hurt etched across features that rarely betrayed emotion, as if trying to process whether he’d heard you correctly.

“What?” His voice came out as barely a whisper, the single syllable laden with disbelief. The tremor in his hands was visible now as he took a halting step toward you. “You want to leave me?”

The question hung between you, fragile and devastating. His eyes—usually so guarded—were wide with a naked vulnerability that made your chest ache. You’d never seen him like this, stripped of his careful control, looking at you as though his entire world was crumbling beneath his feet.

“No,” he finally said, the word coming out stronger than you expected, though his voice still wavered. “No, I don’t accept that.”

He moved closer, his eyes searching yours intently. “Is that truly what you want? To end everything we have…?” Xavier was stumbling over his words, fear making his movements uncertain.

The raw pain in his expression doused your anger like ice water. You felt a crushing wave of regret as you realized what you’d done.

You felt your anger dissolve, replaced by immediate regret. “I... I don’t know what came over me,” you admitted, your voice softening as you reached for his hand. “I’m just... I’m drowning here, Xavier. I feel so alone sometimes, even when you’re right beside me.”

Relief washed over his face in stages, as if he didn’t quite trust it yet. The tension in his shoulders unwound gradually, his breathing becoming less ragged. He closed the remaining distance between you, his hands tentatively framing your face as if you might disappear at his touch.

“You scared me,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “I thought—” His throat worked as he swallowed hard, then shook his head as if dismissing the painful thought. “I know arguments are normal, but please don’t say things like that unless you truly mean them.”

In a surprising move, Xavier pulled you gently against his chest, wrapping his arms around you. He rested his chin atop your head, his heartbeat gradually slowing from its accelerated pace. You could feel the subtle tremor in his body, still racing from the terror your words had inflicted.

“I know I’m not...” he struggled, pressing his face into your hair. “I know I don’t show it like others might. I know I’m... difficult to read sometimes.”

His arms tightened, as if afraid you might slip away. “But please understand,” he whispered against your temple, “never, never think that means I don’t care.”

The silence stretched between you, filled only by the sound of your mingled breathing slowly synchronizing. His hand moved in gentle circles against your back, a gesture so tender it brought tears to your eyes.

After a long moment, he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own still haunted by the echo of fear your words had planted. “Let’s talk about what’s really bothering you,” he said softly. “The real issue—not threats we don’t mean.” His thumb brushed a tear from your cheek. “I need you to know that I’m listening. Really listening.”

𝐙𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄

The kitchen lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across Zayne’s tired face as another late night unfolded into another argument. The takeout containers sat cold and forgotten on the counter, another dinner you’d planned to share, ruined by the hospital’s relentless demands.

“This is the third time this week, Zayne!” Your voice echoed off the pristine tiles, resentment burning in your chest. “I’m tired of coming second to your patients. I’m tired of planning my entire life around a husband who’s never actually here!”

Zayne’s shoulders slumped, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. “What do you want me to say? That patient would have died if I’d left mid-surgery. You know that.”

“What I know is that our marriage is dying while you’re saving everyone else!” The words spilled out like blood from a wound. “If your work is so much more important than what we have, maybe we shouldn’t be married at all!”

Zayne went completely rigid, as if someone had just flatlined on his operating table. His eyes widened with an unmistakable flash of terror that transformed his features into something you barely recognized.

“What did you just say?” His voice emerged as a hoarse whisper, so unlike his usual tone that it startled you both. The mug he’d been holding slipped from his fingers, shattering against the floor with a crash that neither of you acknowledged.

His hand instinctively reached for the counter edge, gripping it with such force his knuckles turned bloodless white. “Do you—” He took a deep breath, visibly struggling to regain his composed detachment but failing completely. “Do you understand what you’re suggesting?”

His other hand pushed through his hair, a gesture so uncharacteristically vulnerable it startled you. Zayne—always controlled, always collected—looked like he was coming apart at the seams.

“This isn’t—” he began, his voice unsteady. “This isn’t something to throw around in an argument.” His gaze locked onto yours, desperate and searching. “Do you genuinely want to end our marriage? Is that... is that what I’ve driven you to?”

The raw fear in his eyes struck you like a physical blow. Regret washed over you immediately, dousing the flames of your anger.

“No,” you whispered, moving toward him as if drawn by gravity. “No, Zayne, no. I don’t want that at all.” You stepped carefully over the broken ceramic, reaching for him. “I just... I miss you so much it physically hurts. Sometimes I feel like I’m competing with ghosts for your attention, and I’m always losing.”

The tension in his body didn’t immediately dissolve, but something in his expression shifted—a cautious relief mingled with lingering dread.

“You can’t—” he started, then cleared his throat, struggling to steady his voice. “You can’t say things like that. Not when you don’t mean them.” His eyes held a wounded vulnerability that made your heart ache. “Not even in anger.”

He reached for your hands, holding them between his own—hands that were always steady, now trembling slightly as they enveloped yours. His touch was gentle but desperate, like someone clutching a lifeline.

“I’ve lost patients before,” he murmured, his voice low. “Despite doing everything right, despite fighting with everything I had. It’s an inevitable part of what I do.” His eyes met yours, stripped of their usual protective distance. “But losing you... there’s no protocol for that. No training that could prepare me for a world without you in it.”

He pulled you closer, one hand moving to the small of your back while the other cradled your face. “We need to talk about this—really talk,” he said, his voice regaining some of its steadiness. “About my hours at the hospital and how they’re affecting you. About better ways to communicate when you’re feeling abandoned.” His thumb brushed gently over your cheekbone. “But threatening what we have... that can’t be your way of getting my attention. I can’t accept that.”

His forehead came to rest against yours, his breath warm on your skin. “I chose you,” he whispered. “Not just once at the altar, but every day since. The hospital gets my skills and my time, but you...” His voice caught. “You have everything else. My heart. My future. Everything that matters.”

𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐀𝐘𝐄𝐋

“You promised, Rafayel. You promised you’d be there tonight.” Your voice trembled with hurt and frustration. “And you just... didn’t show up.”

Rafayel’s expression cycled through confusion, realization, and then dismay as he glanced at the clock. Paint smeared across his forearms, flecks of blue and gold caught in his disheveled hair. “The dinner... was tonight?” His voice was small, stunned. “I thought—I was sure it was tomorrow. I just—”

“Of course you did,” you cut him off, tears burning your eyes. “Of course you probably got distracted by a pretty sky while I sat there making excuses for you!” The shame and embarrassment of the evening washed over you afresh. “You never take anything seriously! Not my feelings, not my situation—nothing!”

You knocked over an empty paint cup, sending it clattering across the floor. “Maybe we should just get divorced if I’m so easy to forget!”

The words seemed to physically strike Rafayel. The ever-present light in his eyes extinguished instantly, as if someone had snuffed out a flame. His expression crumpled in stages—shock, horror, then a devastating anguish that transformed his features into something almost unrecognizable.

“No,” he whispered. Then louder, more desperate, “No, no, no—you can’t mean that. Please tell me you don’t mean that.”

He moved toward you with frantic urgency, nearly knocking over his easel in his haste. His hands reached for yours, fingers trembling visibly. “Please,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Please don’t say that. Don’t even think about it.”

Tears welled in his eyes, catching the light like a fractured crystal. His hands clutched yours with desperate intensity.

“I’ll do better,” he promised frantically, words tumbling over each other. “I’ll be better. I’ll set alarms. I’ll never miss another dinner. I’ll—” His voice broke. “I’ll do anything. Just please don’t leave me.” His breath hitched on a suppressed sob. “Please don’t leave me alone in a world without you in it.”

The raw panic in his eyes made your heart ache. You squeezed his hands, shaking your head quickly. “Rafayel, I didn’t mean it,” you said softly, reaching up to brush away a tear tracking down his cheek. “I would never leave you—I love you too much. I was just hurt and embarrassed, but I spoke without thinking. I’m so sorry I scared you.”

The relief that washed over his face was almost painful to witness—like watching someone being pulled back from the edge of a cliff. His shoulders sagged as if a crushing weight had been lifted, and a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob escaped him. Without warning, he pulled you into an embrace so tight it nearly stole your breath, his body trembling against yours.

“You scared me,” he whispered against your hair, his voice unsteady. “The world without you in it... it wouldn’t even be a world anymore.” His arms tightened around you, as if he could somehow merge you into himself, keep you from ever leaving. “The ocean would lose its blue. The sunset would mean nothing. Everything would be wrong.”

For a moment, you glimpsed the true depth of his feelings. Rafayel clung to you as if you were his only tether to sanity.

“You’re the only one,” he murmured brokenly, his fingers tangling in your hair. “The only one who’s ever truly seen me. The only one I’ve ever truly loved.” His voice caught on the words. “Others... they’re just shadows. Background noise. But you—” His breathing hitched. “You’re the melody I can’t stop hearing.”

He pulled back just enough to cup your face in his hands, eyes still glistening with unshed tears. “I know I’m not... I know I’m difficult,” he admitted, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. “I get distracted. I get lost in my head. I disappear when something catches my attention. But none of that means I don’t care.” He rested his forehead against yours.

Rafayel pressed a trembling kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then finally a feather-light touch to your lips. “I’m sorry about tonight,” he whispered. “I saw the sunset reflecting on the water, and it reminded me of the way your eyes catch the light when you laugh, and I just... got lost in trying to capture it. A moment that reminded me of you.” He shook his head slightly. “But that’s no excuse. I should have been with you.”

His arms wrapped around you once more, holding you as if you were something infinitely precious and terrifyingly fragile. “Tell me how to make it right,” he pleaded softly. “Tell me what you need from me, and I’ll give it to you. Anything. Just... just promise you won’t say those words again. Not even in anger. I couldn’t bear it.”

𝐒𝐘𝐋𝐔𝐒

“You’re being reckless again,” he said, his voice cool in a way that only stoked your anger further. “You’re letting emotion cloud your judgment.”

Weeks of feeling second-guessed and undermined by the very person who should have been your greatest ally finally erupted. “Not everything needs your perfect, polished approval, Sylus! Sometimes instinct trumps your precious spreadsheets!”

His eyes narrowed slightly—the only outward sign that your words had struck a nerve. “Instinct without strategy leads to disaster. You know that.”

The argument echoed through the room. What had started as a disagreement about your latest ambitious ideas had escalated beyond reason when he questioned your methods.

“What I know is that you don’t trust me anymore,” you said, voice rising with each word. “If you think so little of my ideas and my capabilities, then maybe we should just get divorced and you can find someone who meets your impossible standards!”

The temperature in the room seemed to plummet. Sylus went completely, unnaturally still. Surprise and disbelief appeared on his features. He regarded you with an unfathomable stare, his jaw tightening visibly as a muscle worked in his cheek. You’d never seen him look so... shaken. The silence stretched between you, heavy with implications neither of you was prepared to face.

“Is that what you want?” he finally asked, his voice unnervingly quiet. There was steel underneath his words, but also something else—a carefully concealed pain that threaded through the syllables. His eyes never left yours, studying every micro-expression with devastating intensity.

He moved toward you in a few steps. “Very well,” he said softly, the words carrying a finality that sent ice through your veins. “If that is truly your desire, I won’t stand in your way.”

His hand reached out, hovering near your face but not quite touching, as if memorizing your features from a distance. The gesture held such unexpected tenderness that it made your throat tighten. “Though I would ask you to consider carefully if that is what you genuinely want,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper. “Some decisions can’t be undone.”

The subtle vulnerability in his controlled demeanor broke through your anger. You could see it now—the carefully masked fear behind his eyes, the slight tension in his shoulders that betrayed how deeply your words had cut him.

You reached for his hovering hand, pulling it to your cheek. “No—please, don’t agree to that,” you said, your voice softening with immediate regret. “I spoke without thinking. I was hurt and angry and I lashed out in the worst possible way.” Your fingers tightened around his. “I value what we’ve built—what we have—more than anything in the world. I would never want to throw it away, especially not over a disagreement.”

Relief flickered across Sylus’s face, though so carefully guarded that you might have missed it had you not known every minute shift of his expression.

“I suspected as much,” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. His hand, which had been hovering near you, finally made full contact, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. “Still, you should be more careful with your threats. I might have taken you at your word.”

He pulled you against him then, arms wrapping firmly around your waist. The embrace held a desperate quality that belied his controlled exterior, as if he was trying to reassure himself that you were still there, still his.

“You are...” he began, then paused, choosing his words with characteristic precision. “You are irreplaceable to me.” Coming from Sylus—a man who measured every word as carefully as he measured risk—the simple statement carried more weight than flowery declarations might from others. “What we have built together is not something I would surrender without a fight.” His arms tightened infinitesimally. “But I would never force you to remain if you truly wished to leave.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.

“We disagree. We argue. That is the nature of two ambitious minds existing in the same orbit.” His thumb traced your lower lip, the gesture surprisingly intimate. “But don’t threaten what we have unless you genuinely wish to end it.” Something vulnerable flickered in his eyes. “I respect you too much to assume your words are empty.”

For a moment, you glimpsed behind the mask of the strategic leader who planned several steps ahead in every situation—seeing instead a man momentarily confronted with a possibility he hadn’t fully prepared for: your departure from his life.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐁

The argument had been building for weeks, pressure accumulating like a storm system. What started as a seemingly minor issue—Caleb canceling dinner plans again due to a last-minute work emergency—had erupted into something far more devastating. The living room felt too small for the tension between you.

“That’s the fifth time this month,” you said, voice tight with hurt as you paced the living room. “I understand your work is important, but am I even a consideration anymore?”

Caleb ran a hand over his face, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. “It’s not like I had a choice. When—”

“You always have a choice!” The words burst from you, weeks of loneliness and frustration finding their target. “You choose your career over me, and I’m tired of making excuses for why my husband is never home, never present, never here when I need him!”

“That’s not fair,” he countered, his own frustration rising to meet yours. “You knew what my life was when you married me. The Fleet doesn’t care about our dinner reservations.”

“And clearly, neither do you!” You grabbed your keys from the counter, the metal biting into your palm. “Maybe we should just get divorced if your career is always going to come first! At least then I wouldn’t be waiting for someone who’s never coming home!”

The atmosphere shifted instantly, as if all the oxygen had been sucked from the room. Caleb, who had been pacing, stopped dead in his tracks. His entire body went rigid, eyes widening with a look of such raw horror that it made your heart stutter.

“No,” he said after a long, terrible pause, his voice dangerously quiet. “No, you don’t mean that.”

He closed the distance between you in two swift strides, his eyes never leaving yours. There was something in his movement, a barely contained desperation, that made your breath hitch.

“You don’t mean that,” he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument despite the slight tremor underneath the words. “You’re upset, and you have every right to be. But that—” he shook his head sharply, “—that’s not an option. Not now, not ever.”

His hands found your shoulders, grip firm but gentle. The look in his eyes was a volatile mixture of hurt, fear, and something possessively fierce that sent a shiver down your spine. “We’re not doing that,” he said, each word emphasizing. “You’re mine, and I’m yours. That doesn’t change because we’re fighting.”

The intensity of his reaction cut through your anger like a blade, leaving only regret in its wake. You felt the fight drain out of you as you leaned into his touch, reaching up to cover his hands with yours.

“You’re right,” you whispered, tears finally spilling over. “I don’t mean it at all. I would never—” Your voice broke. “I’m so sorry, Caleb. I was trying to hurt you because I felt hurt, but that was cruel and unfair. I would never want to lose you. I just feel so alone sometimes, like I’m competing with the entire Fleet for scraps of your attention.”

The iron grip of tension in Caleb’s shoulders eased slightly, though the intensity in his eyes remained. He exhaled slowly, as if releasing a breath he’d been holding since your outburst. One hand moved from your shoulder to cup your face, his touch gentler than his words had been.

“Don’t ever say that again,” he said, his voice quiet but carrying a dangerous undercurrent. “Not even in anger. Not even as a weapon. Not ever.” The hand against your cheek trembled slightly. “I couldn’t bear it.”

He pulled you against his chest, one arm wrapping securely around your waist while his other hand cradled the back of your head. You could feel his heart hammering against your cheek, his breathing uneven.

“The thought of losing you...” he murmured against your hair. “It’s not something I can bear. Not something I would ever accept.” His arms tightened around you, as if he could physically prevent you from leaving by holding you close enough. “You’re the only thing that keeps me human out there. The only reason I fight so hard to come back.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “I know I’ve been distant,” he acknowledged, his thumb brushing away a tear from your cheek. “The Fleet demands so much, but it’s no excuse. Nothing—” his grip tightened slightly, “—nothing is more important to me than you. Not my career, not my duty, not anything.”

“We’ll figure this out,” he promised, pressing his forehead to yours. “Whatever it takes. More time together. Better communication.” His lips brushed yours.

“Just don’t ever threaten to leave me again. I need you to promise me that.” His voice softened, revealing a vulnerability you rarely glimpsed. “Because I don’t think I’d survive it.”

Phew, finally. This turned out to be one of my longest scenarios yet. I’m honestly pretty proud of it, and yeah, I got emotional—tears were shed, lol. I really hope it’s enough to repay all the love and enthusiasm you’ve shown. I’m so grateful you’re here to read it. Thank you!

4K notes · View notes

odorefal · 5 months ago

Text

◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ sukuna ryomen wasn’t used to feeling guilty, but the moment he saw the hurt flash in your eyes when you guys got into a pretty heated argument, he knew he had taken things too far.

the way his own sharp tongue had driven you to silence.

you made him weak. he had always thought vulnerability was pathetic, yet here he was, fists clenched as he watched you step away, regretting every sharp word he had thrown at you.

he vowed to never let those pathetic tears clouding your eyes ever again.

the sight of you curled beneath the blanket, your shoulders trembling with suppressed sobs, made him pause. sukuna’s brows drew together as he opened his mouth, but the words failed him.

his pride made it difficult, but eventually, he managed to whisper, “i didn’t mean it.” the raw sincerity in his voice was enough to make your heart ache. however, your fingers toyed with the hem of your sleeve, any excuse to ignore the weight of his presence beside you.

when you refused to look at him, he simply grabbed you and settled you into his lap, resting his chin on your head with a quiet sigh and shifted, pressing you flush against his chest, the steady thump of his heartbeat pulsed under your touch.

his fingers twitched at his sides before he hesitantly reached out, brushing a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb, his usual arrogance nowhere to be found.

finally, he muttered, “...i shouldn’t have said that,” voice low but sincere. another sighed and he leaned in, pressing a firm yet lingering kiss to your forehead. his palm remained on your waist, as though savoring the contact

sukuna didn’t say anything. he just looked at you — eyes laced with regret and a depth of emotion words could never capture.

sukuna had held many things in his life — power, destruction, fear. but this? this quiet, fragile thing between you, where silence spoke louder than words, where his grip on you felt more like an anchor than a restraint; this was something else entirely.

and for once, he didn’t know whether to embrace it or run from it. by silently saying, i don’t want to lose you.

after cupping your face and pressing a lingering kiss against your lips, sukuna’s voice dropped to a low murmur, rough yet laced with something almost uncertain.

“does this mean i'm forgiven?”

it wasn’t teasing, nor was it smug; just quiet, almost reluctant, as if he wasn’t sure he deserved it.

“no,” you replied with a cheeky grin.

“tch. brat.” his grip on your face tightened slightly; not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who you were dealing with. then, without warning, he kissed you again, deeper this time, as if daring you to say it again.

when he pulled back, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “try saying that again, darling.”

6K notes · View notes

hislittlesparklejumpropequeen · 6 months ago

Text

Watching you

Hwang In-ho x female!reader.

Summary: In-ho sees you and his brain chemistry changes. A/N: in reader’s pov he’s referred as Young il. Sorry if it’s confusing. Warnings: Obsessive and possessive behaviour, masturbation, stalking, perverted opinions, murder, blood, kissing, mentions of arousal, mentally and physically vulnerable characters, dubious consent, non-con touching, manipulation, sadism, dacryphilia

W/c: 3,5k

It was strange that he kept his eyes on you more than anyone in the games. The moment he saw your shaking figure among the crowd of people in the green suits, he felt his breath get stuck in his throat. You were looking around with eyes that were full of fear, hands wrapped around yourself and holding back tears as others started an argument in the middle. You listened as someone complained about his shoes being so expensive, and someone asking for his phone, an old lady argue with her son and guards answering the players’s questions with patience.

He kept his eyes on you as the first game started. He saw your eyes widen when someone was shot right in front of you, and he watched you as you realise the seriousness of the game you accepted to take part in. Gi-hun was interesting to him, yes. He was searching for them, for him have been for years now. And he was brave enough to come back to the games just to find who was behind them. He respected his determination. Yet there was something about you that he could not name. Something captivating. Something that shifted things in him, made his skin sting in ecstasy as you nearly moved when the doll turned around. You looked around with those innocent eyes and blood of someone flowing down your cheek, he felt his trouser tighten. A small, tingly sensation took over his loins and made him frown in confusion. He had never taken a liking to a someone, let alone a little, fragile thing like you.

When he found the video of you playing ddajki with the recruiter, he felt himself get harder and harder as he watched you spill tears in pain every single time you received a hard slap on your cheek. The camera captured the noises you made as your body was falling backwards with every single slap. The recruiter hit you hard and In-ho wandered if you would sound the same when he pounded you hard on his bed. He took his mask off and palmed himself trough his trouser as he kept replaying the video over and over again. When he was finished spilling his seed into his palm, he wished that was your mouth wrapped around his tip instead.

When the first game finished and your number and picture still shone bright on the floor, you voted for ‘X’ and expected everyone to vote same as you. Yet you were so wrong when the last player 001 and all others voted ‘O’, causing all of you to stay in this hellhole. You felt tears fill your eyes as some people were cheering with victory in front of you. You sat down on one of the beds at the front and hugged your legs with disappointment. As you were thinking what was going to happen next, you felt someone sit next to you.

“I’m sorry, I thought staying was the best option.” Said the man who was looking at you, watching your tears flow down your flushed cheeks. You looked at his number and saw 001 in bright white font. He was the person who voted last and made the decision. You sighed and shook your head.

“It is not only you, sir. Half of us wanted to stay.” You said as you pointed at the people who had the ‘O’ banners on their right side. He did not look at the direction you were pointing at, he kept his eyes on. You were so pretty when you cried. He wandered how beautiful you would look when you were overstimulated with his fingers in you. He felt his cock twicth when you looked at him again. Your lips were plump, and the tip of your nose was red. He wandered how your tears would taste like.

“We have a winner here. I thought we could use this for our advantage.” He explained as he pointed at Gi-hun who looked very troubled not so far away from you. Your eyes were on the last winner when you felt the man beside you stand up and take few steps towards the player 456. Yet he stopped mid way and looked back at you, as if he was waiting for you to follow him. And for some reason you wiped your tears away and followed him like a lost puppy as he walked towards the previous winner of the games who was already accompanied by few guys who kept asking him questions.

And the small group was formed with two of you joining them. You did not know much about others, did not trust them meanwhile player 001 was confident and comfortable talking to them. When he sat down next to Gi-hun, his eyes pointed at the small space next to his feet, so you sat down there. Being close to him brought you a sense of safety. He was the first person who approached you in this mess of a place with kindness. You did not know him, didn’t know his name or why he was here. Yet there was a look in his eyes that made you want to stick beside him.

When everyone went to sleep, In-ho looked at your resting form. You were wrapped in the thin blanket and was curled up into a ball. He looked at your curves that were visible from the tracksuit, his mouth watered. You were so frightened and powerless. You needed someone to protect you in the games. Someone who would look after you, make sure you make it alive. He knew what humans were capable of doing in a place like this. People were going to go mad and hurt one another viciously. Would he be able to just stand and watch if you got hurt?

Your soft whimpers and cries brought him back to reality. When you woke up from your few hours of sleep drenched in sweat and tears flowing down your cheeks, he crawled to you, in the darkness of the hall. He reached out to you, from the metal bars of the beds, and held your shoulder. You squirmed in fear and was about to scream until a large hand covered your mouth.

“It’s me.” He whispered to your ear as his whole body was pressed against your back, other arm wrapped around your shoulders. He was towering over you, as you felt sweat drops make their way to your neck from your temple.

He let go of your mouth, but his touch did not leave your body when he moved to sit next to you. He was close, his breath hitting your face and neck when he looked at you with observing eyes that did not give any feelings away. His touch made your heart beat fast and quicken your breaths, yet you did not want him to stop holding you.

“Bad dream?” He whispered, his voice is low yet deep enough to make your insides shake. You nodded when tears filled your eyes again. The images of dead bodies all over the playground haunted you since the moment you came back from the game as winners. You didn’t want to cry in front of anyone, but you felt like he would not mind seeing you cry.

He nodded along with you, almost like a grown up talking to a little kid and mirror her moves to befriend her. When he saw your bottom lip tremble and eyes full of fear scan the hall of people sleeping, he felt his loins burn in need. The face you made when you were scared and felt alone was enough to make him cum in his underwear without any touch.

Without hesitation he brought your body closer to his own and his arms embraced your shaking form with mercy. You buried your face into the crook of his neck and wrapped your smaller arms around his waist. He was warm. Very warm that you felt your fingertips burn over his body. When you breathed in and out in the crook of his neck, all In-ho wanted to do was throw your body back into the bed, rip those clothes off of you and ravage you in front of dozens of people without any care. The though of fucking you, turning you into mass in front of them, giving them a show as he claimed you, sent shivers down his spine.

“I’m so scared,” you whispered, your crying voice reaching his ear as he tried to hold back a smile at your situation. You were so helpless that you were crying in the arms of the man who was the reason why you were still here. He was a stranger, who had the potential to do anything. Yet here you were, quivering against his chest and making his member throb in need.

“I’m here.” He said. And you had no chance but trusting him.

———————

The next game you were automatically given the Gong-gi game as the only female in the group. Yet your hands were shaking when it was your turns to play after player 390 completed his part successfully. When you missed two times, you were so sure you were going to die and worse, be the reason for everyone’s death in your group.

He watched you panick, drop the pebbles and fail to catch them midair. Everyone around you was getting inpatient and scared naturally. Even tho he loved the way you were struggling and feeding into his twisted desire, he could not let you die. He held your waist and stopped the trembling of your body. You looked at him under your lashes that were wet with your tears and went back to work once he gave you a reassuring smile. With that you managed to catch all the pebbles in your palm and passed the round.

It was then, you felt something was off, when it was his turn to play his own game. The top kept slipping from his hands or landed wrong on the floor that was covered in the blood of eliminated players. You wanted to step back yet could not because of the ties when he started to scream in anger and slap himself. There was a crazy, off-putting look in his eyes. It was less uncomfortable when he was looking at you, yet it was still there. His eyes made your skin crawl and stomach twist in sickness. You did feel safe around him. But not like you would feel safe with a family member, a friend, or a lover. It felt like he was a wolf who claimed a lamb, kept her on his chest and waited for right moment to eat her.

When your group managed to survive and go back to the hall, he kept to you close. His hand was on your back, leading you to your bed. When it was mealtime, he gave half of his food to you, telling you to not to worry about him when you tried to reject him. He watched you until you finished all your food. After all of you exchanged names, he watched you talk to player 388 about his time in marine and watch you laugh when he was talking excitedly, telling everyone how prideful he was about his military service. He watched your tears dry up as you listened to the conversation that was flowing in the group. Your smile made his stomach twist and his jaw clench.

Your hopes once again were shattered when people voted for “O” more than “X” and decided to continue playing the games. Young-il wiped your tears away and convinced you to get some sleep for the night. You could only relax and fall asleep when he sat next to you on your bed and caressed your head as he decided to stay awake. He looked extraordinarily strong to you. He did not need to sleep, gave his food to others, calm people down when everyone was scared, raged and pass the games like it was nothing. Most importantly, he held you close no matter what. Did not mind you cry and fail and fall. Maybe it was a sense of guilt he felt, for making you stay in the first round of voting, you thought.

——————

Next morning he held your hand when everyone was taken to the new game. It was mingle. Your group had decided to stay together. You were grateful that they had take you in and did not leave you alone. You all took your place on the platform and started to spin as the song was playing. You felt his hand get tighter around yours, reminding you that he was here with you.

You ran as fast as you can and took deep breaths when all 10 of you finally managed to get into a room. The sound of lock made you jump slightly. You saw Young il’s eyes on Gi-hun as he pulled you under his arm. The images of him looking at Gi-hun since the moment you met him lingered on your mind until the woman who claimed to be a shaman started to speak loudly in the middle of the room. As you waited for gunshots to stop and doors to open, you could not help but wonder the reason behind Young il’s weird behaviour about Gi-hun. He seemed to get along with him. Seemed to respect his ideas and experiences about this place. They seemed to understand one another, somehow. Yet that unexplainable look in 001 eyes was making you shift uncomfortably in your place.

Until last round, you had no chance but sticking beside Young il. As you entered rooms and people kept dying outside, you became more paranoid. And when it came to the last round, Jeong-bae asked how many people it was going to be this time. Without hesitation Young-il answered.

“2.” And it was it. When the song stopped and the platform stopped spinning, Young il held your hand tighter than before, and started to run to closest room. As you were trying to catch up with his pace, someone bumped into you, causing you to lose your balance and stumble midway. Young il turned around immediately and wrapped his arms around your waist. He lifted you like a piece of feather and made his way to the yellow door that was already opened by a guy. Young il pushed you into the room and threw the other guy away from the door. When you scanned the room, your eyes were met with pair of foreign eyes.

“Out.” Young il said sharply to the other man in the room.

“We were here first.” The man said, his voice cracking as he was shaking in fear. Person behind the door tried to open it. You pushed your back against the door and held it with all of your strength. There was not much time left, and you were afraid that all of you were going die in this room.

Young il grabbed the man and locked his arms around his head. As they scooped to the floor, his arms got tighter around the player 343’s neck. You were still holding the door and preventing the other player to get in. For a second Young il’s intense gaze met with yours and you couldn’t look away.

He looked into your eyes, showing no emotion or weakness as the man he was choking started to turn purple. Your breath got stuck in your throat, your knees were shaking, and your palms were getting sweaty with the scene taking place in front of you. As there were few seconds left for the countdown, Young il twisted the man’s neck. The sound of bone cracking filled the room along with the sound of door locking behind you. He kept his eyes on you, as he tossed the dead body of the side.

The lifeless body of player 343 laid on the ground and the gunshots filled your ear. The screams of people scratched your brain, and you finally managed to close your eyes. He had killed someone in front of you, broke his neck with one swift motion and he had no emotion on his face as he did it. Your heart was beating so fast that you thought it was going to fail at some point. Then the images of him came to your mind. When he knocked down player 124 and 230 as he looked down at them with those emotionless eyes, when he carelessly slapped himself in the second game, when he looked at Gi-hun as if he wanted to strangle him when he thought no one was looking, when he pushed everyone out of his way to get both of you to safety during the mingle game and now when he killed someone.

“Open your eyes.” He breathed out, his breath hitting your face. Suddenly you felt his warmth surrounding you and him towering over your head. You slowly opened your eyes and there he was. Looking down at you, his eyebrows lifted up and with a mocking look in his eyes. His face was close to yours. Yet it did not feel comforting and safe like it did a night ago, when he was comforting you after a nightmare.

“What did you do?” Your voice was shaky and sounded terrified as you tried to look at the dead body that was in the corner of the room. He did not let you look away with his fingers finding your chin and holding it tight. He held you with those hands that just took the life of someone. You felt chills going down your spine.

“I made sure that we survived.” He whispered without breaking eye contact with you. You could hear soldiers cleaning up the mess outside of the rooms.

“You killed him.” You tried to shake his touch away, yet he didn’t let you. Instead, he got closer, until you were trapped between him and the door. His hot breath made your skin tingle, and his touch made you wanna cry.

“Yes.” He said, and his lips touched your cheek that was wetted by your tears. His lips planted a soft kiss onto your skin. The kiss made you feel dizzy and your knees weak.

“For you.” He continued. His words made you freeze in your spot. His lips traced over your skin like a ghost and reached the corner of your lips. “Only for you” He kissed the side of your mouth, softly, gently, with mercy. You wanted to rip his hands off of you, and run away. The floor beneath your feet was slippery with the blood of eliminated players. If you slipped and fell, would he let you go?

“All for you.” His lips found your chin, then your nose, then your other cheek. He did not rush or hold you harsh enough to hurt. Yet knowing that he had just killed someone with those hands made you wanna throw up.

Your tears dropped to his lips, and he licked his lips as if he was dying over thirst. And when he made eye contact with you again, it was the first time you saw a clear human emotion in his eyes. An emotion he did not try to hide or was afraid to show; yearning. You did not know if it was for you or winning. In both cases, it terrified you to your very being.

“Stop!” You said as sobs filled your mouth and he pressed his forehead against yours hard. You felt him shake his head, his arms wrapping around your fragile, little body compared to his strong form.

“I will give you everything you want, you need.” He said and pressed his lips against yours. Without waiting, his tongue made his way into your mouth, forcing your lips to open up for him. You felt the dizzy feeling take over your head. Your ears were ringing, your mind was foggy as he kissed you harsh, deep. There was no power left in your body, so you just let yourself to his arms.

His teeth crushed against yours and he was biting every corner of your lips until he drew blood. The irony taste filled your senses, made you jump. You did not know if it was you bleeding or him. But there was blood everywhere. Covering your tongue, your lips and staining your chin as your shared spit escaped from the corner of your lips. You felt your body burn all over. Your back was arching like a cat to get any closer to him, and there was a soreness between your legs that made your clit throb. You felt shame fill you and guilt making you wanna cry out. Instead, you kept kissing him, devouring him, eating him as much as you could.

You whined and pushed your head towards him when he parted your kiss with the sound of lock. The door was opened. The third game was finished. There was still a dead man in the room. Your mouth was covered in blood, making you look like you just feasted on someone. And his eyes were on you, watching you.

#squid game #squid game 2 #front man #hwang in ho #young il #lee byung hun #frontman x reader #hwang in ho x reader #young il x reader #squid game x reader #squid game 2 x reader #blood and gore #he’s so daddy

6K notes · View notes