#and noon and afternoon and evening and night and ---

[heylittleriotact]

but hidden in his coat is an orange right hand

Here it is. The most unserious thing I've ever written: Emmrich has the day off and Rook is at work. He decides to tidy her apartment for her, but gets distracted by the laundry. He borrows her lotion, and chaos ensues.

@aldisobey - I dedicate this to you with all of my love. This is in every way, in every fucked up word, for You <3

Read below or on ao3

It had all started out so innocently: Rook left for work, and he had the day off. He might have gone home, but with the automatic feeder for Manfred set up to be controlled with an app on his phone, Emmrich decided that loitering around Rook’s small apartment for the day would be a nice change of pace.

By noon he’d washed and put away the sink full of dishes, watered her houseplants, and made a trip to the grocery store to replenish her cupboards.

After vacuuming the carpet in the living room (how was there so much cat fur? She didn’t even own a cat), he changed the record on her turntable (the Velvet Underground and Nico was swapped for Cohen’s ‘I’m Your Man’), and decided to start on her bedroom: there was nothing like coming home to a tidy house, and there was no denying Rook’s well-lived in space was in need of tending.

He’d been partway through picking up the not insignificant amount of clothing on the floor, and depositing it into the duct-taped plastic laundry basket he fully intended to take down to the communal laundry room in the basement, when he found himself staring at the dark blue panties sitting atop a Motörhead t-shirt that he’d just placed in the basket.

They were just panties. They weren’t even her most alluring pair: these were plain modal fabric, free of lace or cut-outs or suggestive designs.

Yet he stared — and for a good deal longer than he had any reason to.

These were what she had worn to bed the night before after she’d emerged from the shower. She had cuddled up against him, fingers scratching lazily through his chest hair, falling into a deep easy sleep at least a full hour before sleep found him too.

It had been a long day for both of them, and neither had the energy to make love the night before. He liked that about this particular place in their relationship: it wasn’t that he didn’t relish every single opportunity he had to make her legs shake, but there was an ease about their day-to-day interactions after so many months of being together that was effortless and simple. No longer was every spare moment spent wrapped around each other as if it may be their last, but instead their lust had established mature roots until it became a comfortable - but ever-present - option instead of a necessity.

For reasons he couldn’t explain, however, Rook’s worn panties balled up innocently in the laundry basket had his heart racing and blood rushing below his waistline faster than he could say ‘pervert.’

How they’d ended up in his hand was a mystery to him, even as he swallowed hard and brought them to his nose, feeling sinful as he inhaled. His cock throbbed receptively as the familiar scent of her mingled with her body wash and laundry detergent flooded his olfactory receptors.

He moaned softly into the mid-afternoon silence of Rook’s bedroom, and surrendered himself with surprisingly little shame to what his body was implying it should do: it was only natural to feel called to see to oneself from time to time, after all.

Undoing his belt with one hand, he dropped onto his side of Rook’s bed, pushing up his cashmere pullover and unzipping his pants in one efficient motion.

He realized then that the bottle of lube was still in its most recently utilized location, which was the bathroom. Did he really want to hold his pants up and shuffle all that way to get it?

Deciding he’d rather not, his eyes landed on a nondescript bottle of lotion perched on Rook’s bedside table behind the ashtray. Figuring that plain old Jergens was good enough for him when he was a young man, it would most certainly do in a pinch now.

Setting the panties down atop the bulge in his underwear, he reached over the bed and pumped a generous palmful of lotion into his left hand and leaned back into his pillow, careful not to get any on his clothes or the sheets.

The panties were picked up again, and he fished his cock out of his briefs as he savoured the softness of her intimates under his thumb.

Rook… oh… even when he could have her whenever he liked, the thrill never wore off — never diminished to anything less than absolute…

His cock throbbed under his fingers and he let out a low groan as he worked the room-temperature lotion over his hot length. He dragged his teeth over his lower lip, uttering another indulgent moan through them as he lifted the hand gripping the panties again so he could steal another lungful of all that was her.

Everything. She was everything. His life could be defined as little more than banal purgatory before she’d graced it: elevator music and beige everything - endlessly waiting for something, though no one could tell him what.

Oh how he loved her… craved her… needed her…

He set a well-practiced pace, confident in his understanding of his body as his slick hand glided up and down his cock, the lewd sounds of his pleasure accompanying his deep, heavy breaths.

If only she could see: if only she could witness for herself the monumental effect that she had on him, reducing him - an accomplished and successful man of his age - to little more than a horny adolescent, unable to make it through a single afternoon without a furious and passionate wank...

He whined into the cotton against his face, completely lost in the ghostly sweetness of her mesmerizing cunt that had been in contact with the scant clothing only hours earlier.

Maker how lovely it would be if it was actually her cunt against his lips instead…

He’d spread her open like the pages of a lurid book, taking his time - as one should in a beautiful garden - to bury his nose within her perfect bloom; graze upon her with all the gentle innocence of a new fawn nibbling upon the delicate meadow flax of springtime…

She’d whisper his name first: a breathy, flattered little exclamation that would give way to rich moans from deep within the very core of her as her thighs shuddered against his ears and her hips arced upwards…

‘Ohhhh…’ she would sigh, deliriously, deliciously undone. ‘Oh Emmrich - I’m going to cum…’

‘Come for me, darling,’ he would say then. ‘Wash over me like a wave on a cruel summer day, and I shall be the happiest man who ever was - with your dew upon my lips, and the dream that I might yet savour your sweetness, even with my very last breath...’

His hips jerked and he fucked into his clenched hand, his breaths falling from his lips in frenzied bursts as his toes curled into the bedsheets.

He came with a ragged groan, feeling his hot spend pulse out of him and drip steadily down his greasy fingers, pooling on his exposed belly and pubic hair.

Reposed on the bed, he waited until the lightheadedness subsided and his vision cleared, the hand holding the navy blue panties that had been his undoing falling to his side as he swallowed thickly and took stock of the situation: he was laying in his girlfriend’s bed at three o’clock on a Tuesday, covered in lotion and his own cum while she was at work and a half-full laundry basket of clothes sat forgotten on the floor.

She very well may be the death of me…

Confident again in his ability to stand, Emmrich hastily cleaned himself up with the panties, feeling somewhat guilty about soiling them so vulgarly despite their impending date with the washing machine. They were dropped in the laundry basket and he tucked himself back into his pants and refastened his belt before making his way to the bathroom to wash the remnants of cum and lotion off his hand.

Certain he had his wits about him once more, he deposited a few more pieces of clothing into the basket, then hoisted it under his arm, grabbing the laundry detergent and a handful of quarters from the bowl by the front door and whistling a jaunty tune as he descended to the laundry room.

It was about an hour or so later when he was dusting Rook’s dresser that it first occurred to him that something was amiss.

Initially he thought the strange hue of his left palm might be merely a late afternoon shadow filtering in the nicotine-tinted window, but when he set down the Swiffer duster in his right hand and the rabbit shaped piggy bank he’d been dusting underneath, it became abundantly clear that was not the case.

“Uhhh…”

He inspected his left hand — the palm of which was now a vivid copper-orange. Aggressive brown stains lingered on the sides of his fingers and the skin between them, collecting gaudily at the edges of his many rings.

“Oh,” he whimpered, horrible, damning realization settling upon him. “Oh no.”

He cleared the distance to Rook’s nightstand in two long steps, stumbling over her vanity chair in his fervour, and snatched the bottle of duplicitous lotion from its innocent place, holding it up to read the label.

The words ‘natural glow’ imprinted themselves upon his brain in cruel confirmation, and he made a sound like a pelican gargling a bowling ball, fingers tightening around the damnable bottle.

Self-tanner. Why in the name of all that is precious and sane does Rook have a bottle of self-tanner next to her bed? She’s as white as the freshly driven snow! She gets sunburn if she stands close to a window at mid-day for too long!

Why? — WHY?!—

— Horrified and already knowing what awaited him, Emmrich slammed the bottle of lotion down and hooked his thumb into the waistband of his pants, pulling them away from his body far enough to dimly make out his mortifyingly ‘sun-kissed’ dick, nestled in his underwear.

Time. He needed time to figure this out.

He looked at his watch: 4:17. Rook was finished work at 5:00 if no last minute First Calls wandered into the chapel, and Pemberly was a twelve minute drive from her apartment…

He forced himself to take a deep breath.

I have time. I can sort this out with time to spare, surely. Perhaps it hasn’t really had time to develop fully. A shower — yes, a shower is in order…

He was already halfway to the bathroom — sweater yanked off and discarded on the floor, his pants undone for the second time that afternoon — though this time for a much different reason.

This wasn’t as simple as correcting the colouring of a jaundiced cadaver with a few ounces of extra red colourant added to the embalming fluid and some clever cosmetics: this chemical was sunk into the outer layers of his skin, and cosmetizing a penis was no small feat: hiding this from Rook was not going to be an option — he needed to scour the tanner from his person before she got home.

Hopping into the bathtub like a startled doe, Emmrich cranked the faucet, not waiting for the water to heat up (which took no less than forty seconds in Rook’s shower) before standing directly under the frigid water and squirting a full palmful of her grapefruit and neroli body wash into his hand and working it into the briefest of lathers before applying it directly to his nethers.

He coated himself liberally, sudsy fingers slipping over his soft cock, panic mounting as every swath of skin revealed as he worked the soap around was still stubbornly orange.

“Nnnngh!”

He lifted his left hand and held it inches from his face, scrubbing his palm and fingers with his right.

I have to go to work tomorrow… what will people think of a supposedly ‘dignified’ mortician with only one hand suspiciously orange? Ohhhhhh—

“Please!” He begged the obstinate beauty product, as if it would do him any good.

Something else, perhaps…

He glanced around the shower: Rook didn’t use shower poufs or loofahs or anything he could solidly scrub himself with, but…

The pot of body scrub in the corner practically waved at him and he dropped the lid on the floor of the bathtub in his haste to access the contents within.

Three minutes and as much ‘gentle’ exfoliation as his cock could handle later, Emmrich abandoned the idea: it hadn’t helped - perhaps smoothed out some of the patchiness and the brown borders on his fingers, but it had done depressingly little to actually purge the stain from his skin.  

He turned the water off and got out of the shower, parsing his remaining options, settling finally upon the communal knowledge of the internet to hopefully get him out of this predicament.

Vinegar, baking soda, lemon juice - even toothpaste. He tried them all, and with time running out, nothing helped. In fact, the lemon juice might have even made it worse, and now he smelled like a middle-school science project to boot.

It wasn’t that he thought Rook would be disturbed or upset - quite the opposite: she would be delighted. She might never stop laughing.

She might never take him seriously again.

Who could take a man with an orange cock seriously?

He could just leave, he supposed. Text her and tell her that he forgot that he had plans that evening and he wouldn’t be able to see her until tomorrow when hopefully he could figure a way out of this mess…

“What 'plans?'” He asked himself sardonically: Rook knew better. He did too.

All he could do was act as normally as possible and hope that she wouldn't notice. It wouldn't be too difficult, would it? He was right-handed, and could conceal his left easily enough, and there was no real reason she would need to see him naked at any point in the evening. Even if they found themselves in an amorous mood, waiting until the lights were off before undressing would be easy enough. Indeed... with some cunning and carefully controlled lighting, he very well could get away with this without Rook being any the wiser... 

The folly of his plan became apparent a short time later when Rook walked in the door to her pristinely clean apartment and looked around from the entryway, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, before whispering, "Y-you cleaned my apartment for me?"  

He had barely opened his mouth to respond by the time Rook had dumped her backpack on the doormat and shed her jacket in a pile behind her, clearing distance between them with baffling ease and all but tackling him onto the worn couch, her weight - familiar and warm settling against him as her lips met his in an enthusiastic - and deep - kiss.  

"You spent your day off cleaning my apartment?" She breathed, straddling his thigh, her breasts pressing against him, "Why did you do that?"

Knowing where this was going as she nuzzled into his neck and slipped a hand past the hem of his sweater and up over his abdomen, he scrambled to redirect her.

"I-it was nothing, darling - I thought it might be a good way to pass the ti– TIME!"

He yelped when her hand redirected itself instead - directly into his pants, her fingers cool against his flaccid cock.

"I love you," she purred against his neck, her silken palm curving around his softness in a way his own hand never could. "I love you, I love you, I love you – you didn't have to..."

"No, but I wanted to – you know how I operate, dear."

If only he hadn't been enchanted by her panties...

She placed a sucking kiss against his neck, slowly moving her hand within his pants, "Thank you..."

"You're welcome, darling, b-but you needn't..." he swallowed and debated extracting her hand. "Reciprocate."

"But what if I want to?" She breathed against his ear, and he could hear her smile and smell her lipstick: a shiver stroked up his spine – he twitched in her hand.

Oh... the things she did... the way she did them...

His head hit the arm of the couch with a resigned 'thud' as she continued to lick and nibble his earlobe.

“Are you hungry?” He inquired, searching for a way out of this despite his conviction that waned with each stroke of her perfect hand. “L-let me — ohh… let me take you out for dinner — we can go anywhere you’d like.”

Yes — if he could get her out of the apartment…

"Sure..." she murmured, though to his dismay she continued her business within his trousers, grinding herself lazily against his thigh. "But first, an amuse-bouche."

He felt her hand leave his cock and flip the tongue of his belt free from the buckle.

"Wouldn't you rather wait?!" Emmrich half-screeched, catching her wrist before she could undress him further.

Rook sat up, hand still on his belt, his cock straining visibly against the front of his pants. Her eyes left his, wandering pointedly to the bulge between them. "Would you?"

"N-no of course not–" he babbled. "– it's only that, you see – I simply think that – if we only–"

She took advantage of his scramble for an explanation and batted his hand away from hers, easily undoing the rest of his buckle and fly, with a coquettish laugh. "You're being weird, babe. You never turn down a blow– oh!" His cock was in her hand again, bronze tint contrasting garishly with her pale, pale fingers.

Frowning, she studied him, then said, all business: "Emmrich, why is your dick orange?"

Blood rushed to his ears and cheeks. "Why do you have self-tanning lotion on your bedside table?!"

The frown wavered, twitched, then gave way to a disbelieving grin as Rook clearly put the pieces together in her mind.

"Did... did you...? No way..." an amused titter slipped past her lips. "Did you jerk off with self-tanner?"

"I fail to see the humour in this," Emmrich muttered reproachfully.

"Maker's tits, you did!" She was laughing properly now: just like he knew she would... now she was unlikely to ever stop.

"Well why would you leave it next to your bed?" He snapped, trying to sit up, but Rook had him pinned. "You don't even use tanning lotion!"

"No–-" she gasped, "– but at one point I thought I might, so I bought a bottle. That was years ago though. I used it maybe twice."

He wanted to grab her arms and shake her: it was all so funny now, but after a week of this, the novelty of a boyfriend with orange genitals might wear thin.

"I look ridiculous!"

"Yeah," she agreed, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes. She slipped down the couch, resting on her belly and putting her face close to the offending reproductive organ, "But you know what, handsome?"

He sighed, wishing for nothing more than to be enveloped by a black hole. "What?"

"I still love you anyway." The words washed over him, body and soul: hot, breathy, and utterly honest.

How had he found himself so fortunate? So blessed?

His breath caught when her tongue dragged up the underside of his length, flicking against the crown of his cock.

"Why does it taste like peppermint?" She inquired in a soft whisper from between his legs, licking him again, stroking him in tandem.

He chanced a look down – saw her looking up at him, the lust in her grey eyes tempered by that benign curiosity he loved so much.

"T-toothpaste..." he confided. "The... the Google suggested it might uh... lighten it. As you can see, it didn't work..."

She didn't call him an idiot for thinking it would. Didn't laugh at his foolish desperation.

Instead, she pressed her lips ever-so-sweetly against the tip of his cock, and they parted in a breathtaking smile.

He loved her. He loved her more than life itself. He would truly give anything to see that smile every day for the rest of their lives...

His Rook. His kind, enchanting, joyful Rook. Non-judgemental and compassionate – a marvelous woman by all definitions.

How foolish he was to think that she would be anything but understanding about this silly faux pas...

He had been just about to tell her that when she placed his cock against the corner of her mouth, and said in the nasally imitation of a beloved cartoon character, "Ehhh... what's up, Doc?" –

– and then proceeded to give him the best blowjob of his life.

[youkaigakkou-tl]

thank you so much omg!! the timeline you gave is actually so helpful 😭 does the renren arc and the culture fest also happen on october? or is it more like towards the end of september and start of october? the lantern float was said to be on the autumnal equinox which is like 22-23 september? would it be correct to assume day 1 of the culture fest is the 22 sep, day 2 (when they meet kurai) and the closing party is friday 23, weekend 24-25, and parent complaints are on the monday so 26? (1/2)

if u look closely, monster parents (67) and renren 1 (68) when tamao gets his 38 is on the same day.

and also culture fes seems to span the weekend and then immediately 67 is on monday

so its like

renren gets called home early on sunday -> monday morning classes, renren ought to be here but hes not? haruaki thinks -> monday noon/afternoon, renrens dad and him come, and he goes to the classroom to get his things in his desk

and then everyone gathers at renrens house monday evening, and the whole ordeal happens through the night until tuesday sunrise is when renren arc ends

[francislangdon]

MILKY PLEASE we decide to play a game of chicken together which leads to one thing or another AU or we dated when we were younger and now we’re step siblings AU 🙇🏻‍♀️ on my hands and knees

we dated when we were younger and now we’re step siblings

It was barely even one year that she dated Frank Langdon.

Mel didn’t tell anyone. Not her friends, definitely not her dad— even Becca didn’t know.

It’s a warm secret, one that she keeps close to her heart, the only rebellious thing that she ever did as a teenager; date an older boy— a senior when she was still a freshman— and a boy with a girlfriend at that. “It’s not serious with Abby. We’re not exclusive,” Frank says, “But don’t say anything because she’ll freak out if she sees me with someone else.”

Mel nods, dumbstruck, her lips still tingling with the kiss they shared, clandestine and fervent against her locker when she should have been in math class.

The only time she ever skipped classes was that freshman year, asking for the bathroom pass and not so inconspicuously taking her bag with her so she could meet Frank during sixth period. He completed most of his credits already, doubling on math and science classes when he was a junior, taking no electives his senior year so that he could leave school early— usually with Mel in tow.

“You can probably do the same,” Frank says, while they’re sitting in a McDonald’s drive-through at noon on a sunny day, her classes forgotten, “You’re definitely smart enough.”

Mel already quizzed him about that, planned out exactly what AP and honors are worth it. Of course, she’ll need to make up for everything she’s missing right now, in Frank’s car instead of world history, but then he hands her fries and an oreo flurry to share and for once, Mel decides not to worry about it.

He’s a little bit of a bad influence.

Later, Frank kisses her syrupy-sweet in his bedroom, the house empty in the middle of the afternoon. It’s all clothes strewn on the floor, Nirvana and Oasis posters, an electric guitar in the corner. She’s worried he won’t like the press of her braces on his tongue, catching his lips, but he smiles against her mouth.

“You’re so cute, Mel,” before he kisses her again, deeper, doing something with his tongue that makes her quiver. Frank takes her virginity in that bedroom.

It’s always like something out of a movie with him. Cutting class to be with him, sneaking out of her window at night to meet him in the park. Sometimes, he even brings her around his friends, all older than her, hockey players and stoners.

Frank pulls her onto his lap as she declines the blunt and lets him pass it to one of friends instead.

“Who’s the freshman? I thought you were still dating Abby,” the guy says, eyes red and a laughing tone under his voice.

He shrugs, “If she asks, don’t tell her I brought a girl over,” he looks at her and winks, “Besides, Mel is like a sister to me. Nothing’s going on between us.”

“Nothing,” Mel repeats clumsily, blushing at their shared secret. It’s exhilarating to know something no one else does— only her and Frank. His arm tightens around her waist, squeezing her close to his chest.

He drops her off at home before the sun comes up, a few blocks away from her house so no one sees, and Mel climbs back through her window with shaky legs and an undercurrent of satisfaction.

They inevitably break up in the spring. Frank is going to New York for college, Mel is stuck in Pittsburgh for three more years with no expectation that he was ever going to wait for her. An expiry date was stamped on their relationship from the moment it began. It’s only a little melancholy when it finally does end.

She keeps a few pictures of them, a stack of his chemistry notes, his green hoodie, two sizes too big for her. Other than that, the memory of him is covetous, something surprising for her college roommate to giggle over when she tells her. My ex-boyfriend was four years older than me. Shaggy black hair, blue eyes. He was very cute. He played the guitar. But it’s only that— a memory.

It feels, almost, like dating Frank happened to someone else. It was so out of character for Mel, in those idyllic and unrepentant few months they snuck around. She could hardly tell you what came over her when they were together.

Frank is a ghost of a memory, one that Mel only glimpses occasionally. That’s why she doesn’t know how to react when she comes home from her first semester of college and finds him solid, standing in her kitchen, chatting casually with her dad.

Mel knows that her father remarried while she was at school. The woman is nice, she hears. Margaret, a widow as well. She has three sons, all older then Mel and Becca.

The youngest of which is, apparently, Frank Langdon.

Her dad introduces them. Or, he thinks he does. “This is my daughter, Melissa. Mel, come say hi to your brother.”

Mel cringes at the word brother when it’s describing Frank, tall and handsome still, a little more well-built than the last time she saw him.

“It’s…nice to meet you, Mel,” Frank says carefully, eyes roaming over her. His hand twitches in an aborted gesture, like he’s going for a handshake before thinking better of it.

She presses her hands against her neck, shaking her head slightly, trying to fight the automatic instinct to touch him, to play with his hair or pull him down for a kiss. Brother. Step-brother. “Um, l-likewise, Frank.”

He catches her eye and she reddens.

They’re going to be normal about this. She’s capable of being normal about this.

“These are new,” Frank says, later that night, after he sneaks into her bedroom. Their parents— their shared parents— are asleep. She’s in his lap, grinding against him softly as he plays with her tits, bigger now than when she was fourteen, “Guess my baby sister is all grown up now.”

“Please don’t call me that,” Mel winces. He pinches a nipple, grinding his cock into her through the layers of clothes.

“Don’t you think it’s kinda hot? You liked the whole forbidden thing when we were dating.”

“It’s gross,” her breath hitches when his clothed erection slides against her clit just right. She impatiently tugs at his sweats, “You’re not my actual brother. Our parents are just married.”

Frank swipes his hands over her hips to pull down her shorts, “My sweet little sister,” he teases, “Waited for me while I was away at college, right?”

An involuntary whimper comes out of her. It’s the thought of Frank coming back to her, like it’s a given. His cock rubs against her folds, gathering slick as they rock together. She fists a hand into his shirt, his body warm underneath her. He makes all those adolescent feelings come rushing back, everything raw and vernal where he touches her.

“Yeah,” Mel mumbles, “Missed you.”

He sighs contentedly, “Can’t believe I get to come home to this now.” His hips roll, he notches his cock at her entrance. “You have no idea how much I fantasized about fucking this cunt again.”

“Really?” she asks, nudging him deeper.

“Mmmh, fuck yes,” he groans, sliding home, “This pussy is just as sweet as the last time I had it.”

“Don’t leave again,” Mel blushes, starting to stutter out a desire that feels almost too filthy to speak, “You’re my big brother now, you can’t leave.”

“That’s right, baby, big brother’s not going anywhere,” Frank pulls her in close to his chest and starts to thrust into her properly, remembering exactly how she likes it. It’s so sedative, comforting— familial.

[alarwynnwhispers]

🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 32: ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴘᴏᴛʟɪɢʜᴛ 🧡

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ɴᴏʀʀɪꜱ ᴀᴜ | ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ + ᴅʀᴀᴍᴀ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ɪɴᴛᴇʀɴᴇᴛ ɢᴏꜱꜱɪᴘ, ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ ꜱᴘᴇᴄᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴀʙʟᴏɪᴅ ᴄᴜʟᴛᴜʀᴇ

ɪɴᴠᴀꜱɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴘʀɪᴠᴀᴄʏ (ᴜɴᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀɪᴢᴇᴅ ʀᴇᴘᴏꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ᴏʟᴅ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴍɪꜱʟᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇxᴛ)

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ᴍᴀɴɪᴘᴜʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴍᴘʟɪᴇᴅ ᴘᴀꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ-ᴀɢɢʀᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ʙᴇʜᴀᴠɪᴏʀ ʙʏ ᴀɴ ᴇx (ᴍᴀɢᴜɪ)

ʀᴇꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴄᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ ꜱᴄʀᴜᴛɪɴʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏɴʟɪɴᴇ ʜᴀʀᴀꜱꜱᴍᴇɴᴛ

ʟᴀɴᴅᴏ ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴇɴᴄɪɴɢ ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ꜱᴛʀᴇꜱꜱ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ꜰᴀʟꜱᴇ ɴᴀʀʀᴀᴛɪᴠᴇꜱ

(ʏ/ɴ) ᴇxᴘʀᴇꜱꜱɪɴɢ ꜰɪᴇʀᴄᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛɪᴠᴇɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴍᴀɴᴀɢɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴘʀᴇɢɴᴀɴᴄʏ-ʀᴇʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴠᴜʟɴᴇʀᴀʙɪʟɪᴛʏ

The following week unfolded with media ripples Lando had expected, but not like this.

Social media was still ablaze with speculation. F1 gossip accounts posted timelines, compared old photos of (Y/n) and Lando from Monaco to Austria, even dug up clips from the boutique’s online presence. One reel, captioned “From thrift shop queen to paddock royalty,” had over a million views.

Lando tried to ignore it. He had more important things to focus on.

Like the nursery plans.

Or the twins' names.

Or making sure (Y/n) drank enough water before noon.

But in the background, something colder stirred.

It started with a single tagged post.

@magui.x | Vienna, Austria 🇦🇹💫 When you know, you know. 📸: elegant heels, a glass of wine, her signature charm.

He didn’t think anything of it, until the DMs started rolling in. Fans were sending screenshots. Theories were spinning.

“Did Magui just throw shade at Lando?” “She’s in Austria too??” “Imagine watching your ex win a Grand Prix and have babies with someone else…”

Lando shrugged it off, until he received a text.

Magui: So Austria, huh? Big moment. Congrats, I guess. Hope you remember what we used to talk about doing if you ever won there.

No emojis. Just that.

He didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

(Y/n) had just walked into the room with a tray of fresh-cut fruits, her bump swaying slightly beneath a soft white cotton dress. She looked radiant, and real. Not curated, not filtered. Just here. His now.

But the past didn’t stay quiet for long.

Two days later, Magui posted a cryptic story: a mirror selfie from a dimly lit hotel bathroom.

And then the real hit dropped.

A grainy photo. Posted by an anonymous tabloid page. Two figures in the hotel bar lobby. One of them unmistakably Lando. The other, long legs, dark hair, sly smile, could only be her.

The caption read: “EXCLUSIVE: Lando’s late-night ‘catch-up’ with ex Magui sends fans into chaos. Trouble in paradise already?”

It wasn’t real.

The photo was old. From over a year ago. But Magui didn’t correct it. She didn’t deny it. In fact, she reposted it, captionless, before deleting it an hour later.

And just like that, she’d stirred the pot.

—

Back at their Monaco flat, Lando tossed his phone across the bed.

“She’s playing games,” he muttered.

(Y/n) looked up from the couch, concern flickering in her eyes.

He walked over, kneeling in front of her, resting both hands on her knees.

“I need you to know, I haven’t spoken to her. Not since before Austria. Not properly.”

“I believe you,” she said quietly. “But she’s not going away, is she?”

“I don’t think so. Not yet.”

A silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken worries.

Then she said, “If she wants drama, she’s not getting it from me. But if she tries to drag you into it… I’ll protect what’s mine.”

Lando looked up, genuinely startled.

“Damn,” he whispered, half a smile forming. “You’re kind of terrifying.”

“Only when I have to be.”

He pressed his forehead to her bump. “Don’t worry. I’m not stupid enough to look back.”

“But she might try harder,” she warned. “She watched you win. She saw us on every screen. She knows she lost.”

He nodded. “And now she wants a rematch.”

(Y/n) reached out, fingers threading through his curls. “Then let her fight shadows. Because we’re living in the light.”

Outside, the sea shimmered in the late afternoon glow. Inside, despite the headlines and whispers, there was still peace.

For now.

To be continued... 🧡

🧡 ᴜɴᴘʟᴀɴɴᴇᴅ — ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 33: ʜᴇʀ ʙɪɢ ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ’ꜱ ᴀʀʀɪᴠᴀʟ 🧡

📝 Note from the Author: Fifth post of the day. FIFTH. 😩 You better hydrate and stretch after all this emotional cardio because I am not slowing down. This chapter? Whew. She’s for the ones who know what it means to choose maturity over mess, love over noise, peace over pettiness.

Magui? Oh, she stirred the pot. The subtle shade, the old photo, the cryptic captions? A masterclass in manipulation. But (Y/n)? She didn’t flinch. She didn’t spiral. Instead, she said:

“Then let her fight shadows. Because we’re living in the light.” And that right there? That’s power. That’s grace.

We’re entering the part of the story where public pressure and past ghosts come knocking. But this couple? They’re choosing each other, again and again. Even when it’s messy. Especially when it’s messy.

Drop a 🕶️ if you felt Lando’s “I’m not stupid enough to look back.” Drop a 🐍 if you’re ready for Magui’s games to get shut down. And drop a 🌊 if you felt that last line, the sea shimmering while the world spun wild, but peace still found them anyway.

Let me know how you’re holding up in the comments. And yes, I will still be scheduling posts while I go MIA for a bit, because I love you that much.

With love, me 🧡

[fisherld3]

Detention Hearts — Part VII: “Snowed In”

Word Count: ~2,300

Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Snow Day Fluff, Cozy Domestic, Soft Melissa, Teasing & Banter

⸻

It starts with a text at 5:48 AM.

You groggily fumble for your phone as it buzzes on the nightstand:

Ava Coleman: School’s closed. Snowpocalypse 2025. Don’t come in unless you wanna freeze. XO

You blink at the screen.

Snow day.

You roll over—only to find Melissa, hair mussed, still half-asleep beside you. One arm thrown lazily across your waist.

The sight sends a warm little pulse through your chest.

You smile. Brush her hair back.

“Hey, snow day.”

She grumbles. “M’not awake.”

“We don’t have to be. School’s closed.”

That earns a sleepy blink, then a smirk.

“Good. You’re stayin’ here.”

⸻

You hadn’t planned to stay at Melissa’s last night.

Just a late dinner. Some wine. The usual bickering-that-turns-into-kisses.

But then the roads iced over, and she’d looked at you with that mix of stubbornness and quiet worry.

“You’re not driving in that, Rookie. Keys down. You’re stayin’.”

You hadn’t argued.

⸻

By 8 AM, the city is blanketed—thick white drifts on every surface.

You find Melissa in the kitchen, barefoot, hair in a messy bun, scooping coffee into the pot.

She glances up. Smirks.

“Look who’s finally up.”

“Technically I’ve been up since your snoring woke me at five.”

She gasps, mock offense.

“Snoring?! Please. I’m graceful even in sleep.”

You grin. Steal a kiss as you pass.

“Sure you are.”

⸻

Coffee turns into pancakes—messy, delicious. The two of you shoulder to shoulder at the tiny counter, arguing over the right amount of cinnamon.

“It’s too much, Rookie.”

“It’s not enough. Trust me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Stubborn.”

You grin. “You love it.”

A beat.

Then, soft:

“Yeah. I do.”

Your heart flips, simple as that.

⸻

Midmorning, the snow’s still falling heavy.

Melissa peers out the window, frowning.

“We’re not going anywhere today.”

You smile. “Good. I like being stuck with you.”

She raises a brow. “You sure? Could be hours. Could be days.”

You step closer, looping your arms around her waist.

“You threatening me with a good time?”

She smirks. “You’re ridiculous.”

But she’s leaning in, lips brushing yours.

“Lucky for you… I’m feelin’ ridiculous too.”

⸻

By noon, you’ve exhausted all the usual distractions.

You try watching a movie—Melissa gripes about the plot within five minutes. You try a puzzle—lasts ten minutes before turning into a competition.

Finally, sprawled across her couch, you sigh dramatically.

“We’re gonna die of boredom.”

Melissa snorts, curled against your side.

“Speak for yourself. I’m cozy.”

And she is—warm, soft sweater, cheek resting against your chest.

You can’t stop running your fingers through her hair.

“This is nice,” you murmur.

She hums. “Yeah. Real nice.”

A pause.

Then, quieter:

“I could get used to this.”

You blink.

Melissa Schemmenti—the woman who fought this thing tooth and nail for months���just said she could get used to you like this.

Your heart nearly bursts.

⸻

By late afternoon, the storm’s still going strong.

You venture out long enough to shovel her steps—Melissa protests but lets you, standing at the window with a cup of coffee, scowling like a worried mom.

When you come back in, half-frozen, she meets you with a towel and a hot cup of cocoa.

“Told you,” she mutters, fussing. “Coulda slipped. You never listen.”

You grin.

“But then you wouldn’t get to play nurse.”

She swats your arm, but her cheeks flush pink.

⸻

Evening settles in.

Outside, the city’s silent—snow muffling every sound.

Inside, Melissa lights a few candles. The heater hums. Her little rowhouse is warm, safe, yours for now.

You’re curled together on the couch, blankets piled high, her head on your shoulder.

No school tomorrow. No plans. Just the two of you, snowed in.

And for once—you’re both okay with slowing down.

⸻

Melissa breaks the quiet first.

“Hey.”

You glance down. “Yeah?”

She shifts to face you, expression soft.

“You know… I like this. Us.”

You smile. “Me too.”

“And you—bein’ here? Feels right.”

Your chest tightens—so full of her, of this.

“I love you.”

A breath. Then her smirk returns, teasing.

“Took you long enough to say it today.”

You laugh, pulling her closer.

“I’ll say it as many times as you want.”

She leans in, kiss slow and sweet.

“Good. ‘Cause I love you too, Rookie. Snow or no snow.”

⸻

Outside, the storm rages on.

Inside, wrapped in her arms—you’ve never felt warmer.

⸻

END PART 7

[aro-culture-is]

aro culture is being sleepy in the morning

.

[airenyah]

ooooof why did it take me about 3.5 hours to write about the very first fadelstyle scene alone. at this rate i'm never gonna finish the main text by sunday night (monday noon)

[awkward-teabag]

Not that I needed it but more proof my circadian rhythm doesn't fit in nicely with 9-5 capitalism: After months of having to get up around 8AM, I still default to staying up "late" and have to set multiple alarms to maybe get up.

That should be long enough to adjust but nope, I can't do it just like I couldn't do it when I was in school.

[constantlyquestioningg]

the great thing about having my exams on thursday and friday is i have the rest of that week to revise

the problem is that thursday and friday are the afternoon of the week, and as such the exams don't feel real or important until monday or tuesday (the morning of the week)

[arurikart]

[psi-hate]

pulling all nighters every day to fix my sleep schedule is so actually awful they should just let me reverse my body clock at will cus at this point I'm always 12 hours inverted for at least half of every year. why does god hate me

[ghoulish-activities]

⛧°🜁 ⋆༺⸸༻⋆ 🜃°⛧

໒꒱ ‧₊⸸𖤐────────═━┈┈━═────────𖤐 ⸸₊‧꒰ა

Hello, you can call me Rat, this is (mostly) a Ghost blog. My preferred pronouns are they/it, but I don't really mind others. As my handle suggests I'll be mostly focusing on ghouls. I'm really into animals well, nature in general, but let's not dwell on that, I'll treat ghouls as such, instead of them just being purely magical creatures. I researched cat genetics, skull structures, bone flammability and use of pigeons in warfare, to name few, just for fun (yes, I'm autistic).

I'm still in highschool, so I'll most likely post irregularly. Especially for longer posts, or if there's a busy week in school or in my private life.

I'll try to post at least once a day, however ultimately I will prioritise the quality over quantity of posts. Even if sometimes it might seem I didn't put enough effort...

English isn't my native language, so I apologise in advance for any mistakes in my writing. And with regret I have to apologise for my often narrow vocabulary. Keep in mind, I'm prone to making spelling related mistakes ever since I was learning to write for the first time and sadly it appears this struggle will persist until last words I'll ever type in this life.

Not all post will be Ghost related, but usually they will be revenant to the blog, like if I'm unable to post. Or some update I thought might be important to bring up.

─────────────⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆───────⛧⋆.˚

⏝꒷︶ ͡𑁬♱໒ ͡ ︶꒷⏝

Asks are open, but there are things to keep in mind:

I'm 17 (I'm fine with non-sexual nudity tho).

Don't spam, it makes it less likely for me to respond timely if asks would be flooded.

I have arachnophobia so pls no spiders.

I'll most likely inform when I'll take a break. I might still reblog stuff or write something short, but I might be taking long with longer stuff.

I won't be discussing any political topics, (especially not US related ones)

───────────⁺‧₊˚ཐི⋆☥⋆ཋྀ˚₊‧⁺────── ⛧⋆.˚

I think that's it for now

[amaranthinespirit]

loser!könig with a high sex drive

can't convince me this man doesn't have an insanely high libido, especially after you took his virginity. this man is always craving sex, whether it be morning, before noon, noon, afternoon, evening, or night, this man is desperate to be between your legs.

he'll plead with you, aching for you to give him just another taste of how sweet you are, broad chest flush against your back as he grinds his hips against your plush rear.

his ears tipped red and flushed, mind going dumb at the slightest touch you'll give him, but it's not enough, mauschen. you're just too sweet, and too giving.

if you reject the poor man, he'll whine and sulk, but ultimately respect your wishes because he was grateful you stuck around after you had first split yourself open on his throbbing, hung cock. most women would've ran away, or gotten too mad at his persistence.

you can't be too mad at him, he doesn't talk with many women, not properly anyways. it's a miracle he even managed to bag you, you sweet thing.

you're so nice when he humps his massive cock against your folds, aching and oozing with precum as he lubes himself with your slick. drool leaking from his lips already onto your shoulder, his paws groping your breasts and his mind already hazy before he even slips his cock into your sweet warmth.

when he does, he cums so hard again, whining against your skin as he hopelessly ruts into your plush rear. he mumbles incoherently about how good you are to him, pleading with you to never leave as he once again shoves his cock deep into your spongy walls, most likely bruising your cervix as he reaches a second orgasm in a matter of thirty seconds. face flushed and sweat dampening his skin as he clings to you, pressing wet, open kisses to your neck. he listens to your sweet mewls as he keeps going, despite the sensitivity, because you deserve to cum for being so patient, schatz, such a sweet girl to such a brutish loser like himself.

[kurp-stuff]

.

[psformybss]

You Said You Loved Me

drew starkey x costar!secretgf!reader

warnings: emotional whiplash, betrayal, heartbreak, mental health themes, self-harm mention, panic attack, regret, heavy emotions

a/n: tumblr isn’t letting me answer the request like usual but here is this one requested by @kieeslove . this is one is probably one of the most heartbreaking one-shots i’ve written to be honest but i love how it ended up coming out. please please please read the warnings before reading it.

The apartment is quiet. Too quiet.

You’ve had the whole day to yourself—no call time, no script changes, no wardrobe fittings. Just a long, open stretch of silence that you’d usually welcome.

But today, it’s been anything but peaceful.

You’ve barely moved from the couch since noon, wrapped in the hoodie Drew left on the kitchen chair last night, half-watching a show you’ve seen before just to fill the space. Your phone rests in your lap, screen dim, but your mind hasn’t stopped racing for hours.

You saw it this morning.

The story.

Odessa’s.

It popped up right after breakfast, when you were still groggy, sipping coffee on the balcony. You tapped through mindlessly until you froze on a video—shaky, close-up, her voice giggling behind the camera.

Drew.

He was leaning against a trailer, smiling—no, laughing. That wide, rare kind of laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes. She flipped the camera back to herself, grinning like it was an inside joke between just the two of them.

And maybe it was.

The next slide was a photo. A candid. He had his head thrown back, laughing at something you couldn’t hear, while she stood beside him with only half her face in the frame.

But it was enough.

Enough to make your stomach twist.

Enough to make you stare too long at the caption.

“Set life with this goof 🤍”

The cast knows about you and Drew. Everyone on set does. You’ve stopped pretending around them—stopped hiding the way you slip into his trailer during breaks, how he kisses your temple when he thinks no one’s looking.

But outside of that circle, no one knows. No Instagram posts. No red carpets. Not even soft launches in the comments section.

And you understood why at first.

Keeping it private felt safer. Cleaner. Something just for you two.

Until moments like this.

Moments where he looks like someone else’s.

You scroll back through the texts—between you and Drew, between you and Odessa.

There’s nothing wrong, not really. But there’s a shift. A subtle unraveling.

He doesn’t say “I love you” before bed anymore. Doesn’t kiss your forehead when he leaves for work.

And Odessa—your best friend, the person who once felt like your other half—she’s been on set more and more. Not because she has to be. Just because.

You used to think she came to see you. To hang out between scenes, raid craft services, sit on your trailer floor and gossip about everything and nothing.

But lately, it feels like she’s there for him.

You told yourself not to overthink it. Not to read too much into the way her hand lingers on his arm when she laughs, or the way he seems more awake when she’s around.

But today, alone with your thoughts and too much time, the pit in your stomach hasn’t let up.

You pick up your phone again and scroll to your thread with Odessa.

No new messages.

She didn’t text you today.

Not after she posted those stories. Not after she spent half the afternoon on the same set your boyfriend was working on.

You’d texted her earlier—just a casual “You on set today?”—but it’s still sitting there, unanswered.

You switch to Drew’s messages.

You (9:42am): Miss you today. Hope the scene went okay.

You (12:16pm): Odessa still there?

You (3:03pm): Are you home late tonight?

All read. None replied to.

The front door opens at 1:14 a.m.

You don’t even flinch anymore. You just pull the hoodie tighter around you and pretend the tightness in your chest isn’t there.

Drew walks in with slow, tired steps, jacket slung over his arm, hair tousled from a long shoot.

You look up at him, soft but cautious. “Hey.”

He pauses at the doorway to the kitchen. “Hey. You’re up?”

“Didn’t have any scenes today,” you say, voice quieter than you mean. “Just stayed home.”

He nods, distracted. Opens the fridge. Grabs a bottle of water. Doesn’t ask about your day.

He scrolls his phone, thumbs moving quickly.

“Long shoot?” you ask after a moment.

“Yeah,” he says, cracking open the bottle. “Ran over like an hour. Just wrapped a little while ago.”

You hesitate. “Was Odessa still there?”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “For a bit. She left before we wrapped.”

Another beat of silence.

You want to say more. You want to ask why she’s always there lately, or why he hasn’t said I love you in four nights straight.

But your throat closes around the words, like saying them out loud would make it worse.

Drew glances at you again. “I’m gonna crash. Early call.”

You nod. “Yeah. Okay.”

He disappears down the hall. No kiss. No touch.

And again—no I love you.

You stare at your phone until the screen fades.

Open Odessa’s story one more time.

Watch the way he laughs like he’s weightless. The way she looks at him like she knows something you don’t.

They don’t look like they’re hiding anything.

But you feel like you’re the only one being kept in the dark.

You wake up to an empty apartment again. Drew left early for set, just like he said, but something’s different today. You didn’t have to film any scenes today either, so you stayed home, hoping maybe things would feel normal again. Maybe Drew would come back and the silence wouldn’t stretch so thin between you two.

But that’s not how it goes anymore.

You scroll through your phone, trying to shake the heaviness. You glance at your messages—nothing new from Drew, just the usual short replies.

Your eyes flick to Odessa’s name, the friend you’ve known for years—the one who always seemed like your sister, the person who knew you better than anyone. But lately, even she’s become distant.

You tap her name and open your texts.

“Can’t wait to hang out tomorrow! Dinner and drinks like old times?” you typed a few days ago. No reply. Just like the other texts since then.

The next morning, you woke to a curt text from Odessa: “Had to fly back to LA today. Sorry, last minute. Hope you understand.”

No call. Just a text.

Your stomach dropped. You’d been looking forward to that night all week, but now it was gone—just like her.

You tried not to overthink it, telling yourself she was busy.

She returned, just a few days later but didn’t tell you. You found out the worst way possible.

You were walking past the trailers on set when you saw them.

Drew and Odessa.

Laughing together.

Close.

Too close.

The easy way they leaned into each other—like you used to, all three of you—felt like a punch to the gut.

You stopped, heart hammering in your chest.

They looked up and caught your eyes. Drew smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Odessa’s grin faltered for a moment before she turned back to him.

Your throat tightened.

You blinked, trying to tell yourself you were imagining things. Maybe they were just friends. Maybe you were just overthinking.

But deep down, the pit in your stomach grew.

The distance between you and Drew had been growing too. More than growing—it had widened into a chasm you didn’t know how to cross.

Your conversations were clipped, like you were just two roommates trying to coexist rather than the couple you once were.

You found yourself wondering if maybe you were the problem.

Maybe I’m too much.

Maybe I’m not enough.

You replayed every conversation, every look, every silence between you two.

The way Drew would zone out when you talked about your day.

The way he spent more and more time texting someone you couldn’t see.

The way Odessa—your best friend—pulled away too, her responses short and distracted whenever you tried to ask if she was okay.

One afternoon, you caught her alone near the trailers.

“Hey, you’ve seemed… different lately. Is everything okay?” you asked, voice gentle.

She glanced up at you, eyes guarded.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” she said, but you knew better.

She was closing off, just like Drew.

You wanted to reach through the walls that were building around her, but you didn’t know how.

The days blur together, each one heavier than the last.

You watch the calendar pages turn—slow and unforgiving—but the distance between you and Drew feels like it’s growing faster by the day.

He’s quieter. More distracted. Even when he’s in the room with you, it’s like you’re separate islands sharing the same space.

It’s been over a week since he kissed you.

Not a single brush of lips, not even a quick peck in passing.

You catch yourself waiting, holding your breath for the moment it will happen. But it never does.

You try to convince yourself it’s just stress. Long shoots. Exhaustion.

But when the lights go out and the apartment is still, the silence screams louder than any excuse.

One night, you find yourself standing in the bathroom, warm water streaming over your face, blurring your vision.

You don’t want him to hear the quietness of your tears—so you let them fall only in the shower, behind the locked door.

The water carries the ache away for a little while.

Later, when Drew leaves for set—his phone forgotten on the kitchen counter, screen unlocked—you hesitate.

Curiosity gnaws at you.

You pick it up, fingers trembling.

His messages open to a thread with Odessa.

You scroll through, the words soft but sharp:

“Missed you today.”

“Can’t wait for tomorrow.”

There’s nothing explicit. No promises or declarations.

Just the kind of words that linger in the spaces between.

Your chest tightens.

You close the phone carefully and set it back down.

Staring at the ceiling, you wonder how long this has been going on.

How long you’ve been standing on the outside looking in.

You want to confront him. To demand the truth.

But the words catch in your throat.

The apartment is quiet again.

That terrible, airless quiet that makes you feel like even the walls are watching.

Your phone buzzes.

You almost don’t check. You’ve been trying to be good—trying to stop torturing yourself by scrolling through Instagram, through posts with her name tagged beside his, through photos where his eyes don’t even look like his anymore.

But the name on your screen is one you can’t ignore.

Odessa.

Your pulse jumps. You hesitate. Then you open it.

“I told Drew I’m in love with him. He feels the same. I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The air leaves your lungs in one slow, numb exhale.

You reread it once. Twice. A third time, as if the words might change if you look hard enough.

They don’t.

No emoji. No nervous laughter. No gray area.

Just a quiet confession and a knife between your ribs.

But you don’t cry.

You don’t scream.

You don’t even blink.

You just sit there on the couch, arms wrapped around your knees, the message open on your screen, the cursor blinking like it’s daring you to respond.

You don’t.

The front door opens not long after.

You hear it before you see him—his key sliding into the lock, the door creaking open, boots hitting hardwood.

He walks in humming, like he’s had a good day.

Like the world didn’t just drop out from under you.

Then he sees you.

And the humming dies.

“Hey,” Drew says slowly, careful. His voice is soft, uncertain now. “You got her text.”

Your head turns slowly toward him. Your eyes are glassy, unreadable.

So he knows.

Of course he knows.

“She told you she was going to send it?” you ask, voice flat.

He nods once. “She said she felt guilty. She didn’t want to lie anymore.”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“And you let her?”

“I didn’t let her,” he says, stepping closer. “I tried to stop her, but—”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. It sounds like something breaking.

“She said you feel the same.”

Drew hesitates. “That’s not what I—look, it’s not black and white, okay? It’s complicated—”

You stare at him. “Complicated,” you repeat, the word like acid in your mouth.

He moves toward you, crouching beside the couch, reaching for your hand.

You flinch before he can touch you.

He freezes.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says quietly.

Your hands shake as you stand, your voice rising without warning. “Don’t you dare say that to me.”

His eyes go wide. “I—”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back. “You don’t get to say you didn’t mean to. You chose this.”

“You think I wanted to hurt you?”

“You did hurt me.”

The fury rises in you like a tide—faster than you can stop it.

“I’ve been here,” you whisper. “Every single day. Loving you. Waiting for you to love me back the way you used to.”

You grab the photo from the coffee table—the one from Paris, the one where you look happiest, safest, most certain of him.

You throw it across the room with every ounce of strength you have.

It hits the wall and shatters, glass and memories scattering across the floor.

He flinches.

“You were supposed to love me,” you say, voice cracking now. “Not her. Me.”

Drew steps forward like he’s trying to fix something already broken. “I do love you—”

“No, you don’t,” you snap. “Not really. Because if you did, this wouldn’t have happened.”

He tries to hug you, arms reaching for you like he still has a right to them.

You let him.

But not out of love.

Out of exhaustion.

His chest presses to yours, and for one brief second you remember the comfort that used to live in that space.

Now it feels foreign.

He murmurs, “We can fix this. Please. I’ll cut things off with her. We can go to therapy or—”

You press your hands to his chest and push him back gently.

“No,” you say. “This isn’t something you fix.”

“I didn’t want to lose you.”

“Well, you did.”

You walk to the door. Open it.

His breath catches. “You’re really kicking me out?”

You nod.

“I need space. I need you gone.”

Drew just stands there, stunned.

You look him straight in the eye.

“Come back for your things when I’m not here.”

“Please,” he says again, voice cracking. “Just let me explain—”

“You already did.”

And then you close the door.

Not hard.

Just enough to say this is final.

The click of the lock is the only sound in the apartment now.

The kind of silence that feels like grief.

Weeks pass.

The days don’t feel like days anymore.

Just hours strung together like dim beads on a thread you didn’t ask to hold.

You’re back on set.

Back in makeup chairs and wardrobe trailers. Back in long shooting days and artificial sunsets. Back in scenes where you’re supposed to smile, touch, kiss. Where you’re supposed to cry in the rain, shout until your throat is raw, crumble in someone else’s arms like your heart is breaking.

Pretend.

You move through it all like a ghost.

Quiet. Efficient. Detached.

You say your lines. You hit your marks. You laugh when the script says you’re supposed to. You kiss him when the camera rolls. You sob against his chest on cue, let your voice crack in that way the director loves. You even slap him in one scene—your eyes glassy, your voice trembling as you yell through clenched teeth.

But nothing touches you.

Not really.

You feel like someone’s removed your insides and left only the outline of you behind. Something hollowed out and left on autopilot.

Between takes, you sit by yourself.

No music in your headphones. No books cracked open. Just silence, staring at nothing, like you’re afraid to fill the space with anything real.

You used to light up on set. You used to steal the crew’s snacks, laugh between takes, tease Drew when he flubbed his lines. There was always an energy around you—light, warm, full of spark.

Now, the spark is gone.

And everyone feels it.

They don’t say anything, not directly. But you can feel the stares. The too-gentle hellos. The quiet way people check on you like they’re afraid you might shatter if they speak too loud.

Even Drew notices.

Especially Drew.

You don’t look at him unless the scene requires it.

You don’t answer when he says your name off camera.

You don’t sit near him at lunch, don’t meet his eyes when the director gives you blocking notes, don’t flinch when you’re told you’ll be filming another kiss today.

You just nod.

And do it.

Like it doesn’t hurt.

Like it doesn’t kill you every time his hands touch your waist, every time he looks at you like he remembers what it used to feel like to be loved by you.

The worst part is—he still looks at you like he’s in love.

Like he’s sorry.

But sorry doesn’t undo the wreckage.

You’ve already learned how to carry the debris.

Today, there’s a scene. You’re arguing. The kind that gets rewritten the night before for “heightened emotional stakes.” You scream at him, tears in your eyes, spit flying as you shove him in the chest. Your voice breaks in all the right places. The crew holds their breath.

"Cut."

You step back. Wipe your face. The tears vanish as fast as they came.

You turn away from him without a glance, your expression flat. Cold.

Drew just stands there, stunned. Still catching his breath from a fight that wasn’t real—at least not on paper. Still staring at you like he’s waiting for something soft to return to your face.

But your face is steel now.

Sharp angles. No trace of the vulnerability from a moment ago. Just rage simmering under the surface, quiet and controlled and utterly unreachable.

Like flipping a switch.

And that’s what terrifies him.

The way you can drop the emotion like it never existed. Like he doesn’t exist.

Between takes, you walk off set. You need air. Space. Anything that doesn’t feel like recycled heartbreak.

You step out behind the trailers, where no one’s watching.

Your hands tremble as you pull a cigarette from your jacket pocket. You haven’t smoked since college, since a messy breakup you thought nothing would ever top.

Funny.

You light it with shaking fingers, inhale, exhale, trying to find some kind of calm in the burn.

You don’t hear Rudy approach.

But you feel him.

He walks up slowly, hands in his pockets, eyes kind.

Without a word, he reaches out and gently takes the cigarette from your fingers.

You don’t fight him.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You glance at him, just barely. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

It’s the kind of question that should come with a dozen follow-ups. But he doesn’t push. Just asks it like he’ll believe whatever answer you give him.

You nod once. “Yeah.”

It’s a lie.

He knows it’s a lie.

But he lets you have it anyway.

Rudy looks at you for a long moment before dropping the cigarette to the ground and stomping it out.

Then he slings an arm loosely around your shoulders.

You don’t lean into it. But you don’t pull away, either.

You just stand there.

Side by side.

Quiet.

Because some silences don’t beg to be filled.

Some are just there to be witnessed.

The moon is a sliver above the water—ghostly and thin, like it’s watching but too tired to shine.

Drew finds you sitting at the edge of the dock, legs drawn up, arms locked around your knees like if you let go, you’d come apart completely.

You haven’t moved in what feels like hours.

He stands behind you for a while, saying nothing. Just… watching.

You look so still.

Too still.

So he steps forward, wood groaning beneath his weight, careful not to scare you. Not that you react. Not even a glance. Your eyes are locked on the black water, the surface rippling quietly like it’s holding your secrets.

He settles beside you, close but not touching. The wind brushes through your hair.

For a moment, all he hears is the hush of the waves and the far-off echo of laughter from the house.

He thinks maybe you’re calm.

Then he hears it.

That faint, stuttering breath. The wet sound of someone trying not to fall apart.

He turns to look at you—and sees it.

Your shoulders trembling.

Your jaw clenched so tight it’s trembling.

The soft, broken sound clawing from your throat as your lungs fail you.

You’re crying.

But it’s not just crying.

It’s a full-body unraveling.

He shifts closer, alarm rising in his chest. “Hey. Hey, breathe. Look at me.”

You don’t.

Your body hunches in tighter, shoulders shaking harder as your breath gets faster, shallower—like you’re trapped under something heavy.

“Breathe with me, okay?” Drew tries again, voice soft. “Just… follow me.”

He reaches out carefully, fingers brushing your wrist to anchor you, like he used to do back when things were simpler—back when that touch meant safety.

But this time, the contact makes you flinch.

And still, his hand closes gently around your wrist—and that’s when he feels it.

His fingers still.

Then tighten—just slightly.

Because he knows what he’s touching.

Scars.

Fresh ones.

Fainter than they used to be, maybe. But new. Raw.

His entire body goes cold.

“Please…” His voice breaks, a whisper edged in panic. “Please tell me those are old.”

Your head snaps toward him.

Your eyes—red, wide, furious—are like a slap.

You rip your arm from his grip and clutch it against your chest like a secret.

“I told you I wasn’t doing that anymore,” you snap, voice cracking. “I told you I was okay.”

“I thought you were,” he says, stunned. “You promised—”

“You think I wanted to start again?” you explode. “You think I wanted to go back to that?”

Your voice is all rage and ache and grief. “Do you know what it’s like? To sit in a bathroom with a towel under you and a razor in your hand, and you’re shaking so bad you can’t tell if you want to die or just want it to stop?”

He’s silent.

Paralyzed.

“I stopped for you,” you say, trembling. “I stopped because you made me feel like I was enough.”

Your voice drops to a whisper. “But then you weren’t mine anymore. You were hers. And I couldn’t breathe, Drew. I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

You stand up so fast he can barely react.

You stumble backward a few steps, chest heaving, arms wrapped around yourself like a shield.

“If you were just gonna fall in love with my best friend…” Your voice cracks. “Then you shouldn’t have asked me to be your fucking girlfriend.”

He rises slowly, hands out like he’s approaching a wounded animal.

“I never meant to hurt you like this.”

“But you did!” you scream, backing away. “You knew how fragile I was. You knew. I told you everything. I told you what it felt like to want to hurt myself. I told you what it cost to survive it.”

Tears streak your face, wild and fast.

“And you still chose her.”

He tries to reach for you. “Please—just talk to me.”

You shove his chest with both hands. Hard. Then again. And again.

“You were supposed to love me.”

He doesn’t stop you. He just stands there and takes it.

“You were supposed to be different,” you cry. “I trusted you with everything. I gave you every broken piece and you just—God—Drew, you left me there.”

More footsteps. Fast ones. The house has gone silent behind you, but now someone’s running.

Rudy reaches you just as you collapse forward.

He catches you in his arms, sinking with you to the dock.

Your body shakes with silent sobs, all strength gone, all resistance dissolved.

Madelyn grabs Drew, her expression unreadable—fear and fury clashing behind her eyes.

She pulls him back, away from you, away from the collapse.

“What happened?” she hisses, voice low and sharp.

But Drew can’t answer.

He’s crying too.

Watching the way Rudy holds you like something sacred and shattered.

Your voice, small and hoarse, cuts through the stillness.

“I really loved you,” you whisper, like you’re trying to remind yourself it mattered. “I really did.”

Rudy closes his eyes, jaw tight, hugging you closer.

“And I tried,” you say, your breath hitching again. “I really tried not to hurt myself. I really did.”

The only sound left is your broken breathing and the water moving beneath the dock.

No one knows what to say.

No one knows if anything would help.

And Drew—

He kneels in the shadows, hands shaking, the words I’m sorry caught somewhere between his heart and throat, knowing they’ll never be enough.

Not now.

Maybe not ever.

The room is cold. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting pale shadows across the long table that stretches between you and the others.

You sit at one end, fingers curled tightly around the edge of the wood, knuckles blanching with pressure.

Across from you, the cast shifts uncomfortably in their seats—Jonas standing at the head of the table, his hands resting on its surface like an anchor, eyes serious and tired.

Drew sits near the middle, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed on the scuffs in the floor.

The silence hangs like a storm about to break, thick and unyielding.

Jonas clears his throat.

“We can’t keep filming like this,” he says, voice low but steady.

“This tension, this… distance. It’s hurting the work. And it’s hurting all of you.”

He looks around the room, then back at you.

“We all want to move forward. But that means you and Drew need to talk. You need to clear this, or at least try.”

Your throat tightens, words lodged in your chest like shards.

You stare down at the table, tracing a scratch in the grain with your finger.

Drew finally speaks, voice hesitant, raw.

“I never meant for things to get this messed up. For me to fall for Odessa.”

He looks up, meeting your eyes briefly.

“I wasn’t trying to use you, YN. I swear. You have to believe me.”

You swallow hard.

Bitter words claw at your throat, but they spill out before you can stop them.

“You promised me everything.”

Your voice breaks, trembling like a frayed wire.

“Paris. A house with a garden.”

“Kids. Marley from the pound.”

You close your eyes and press your palms to the table to stop them from shaking.

A cold certainty wraps around your words, unshakable.

The room is still.

Drew’s shoulders slump, a bitter twist in his chest.

“Do you really think I fell for her just to hurt you?”

His voice breaks like glass, fragile and jagged.

You don’t answer.

You don’t want to.

“You think you’re the only one hurting?”

He shakes his head, voice rising with desperate frustration.

“You think this is easy for me?”

The words are raw, ragged.

You lean forward, voice cutting through the thick silence.

“Easy?” you scoff. “You and Odessa? The perfect little couple who ruined me?”

Jonas steps between you with a steadying hand raised.

“Enough.”

You lift your head slowly, voice low and final.

“I can do the scenes. But Drew stays away from me.”

“Odessa stays away, too. If she ever visits, I don’t want to see her.”

The words fall like a decree, clear and unyielding.

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping hard against the floor.

Your breath catches—sharp and uneven.

The door slams behind you.

Leaving behind only silence and the lingering weight of what’s broken.

Time passes in strange ways after everything breaks.

The apartment is quieter now. Not silent—just… softer. Like everyone’s learned to move around the wound without touching it.

You’ve stopped crying in the bathroom.

You still avoid him on set.

But you’re functioning again.

You wake up with the sun instead of dragging yourself out of bed at noon. You drink water. You make your bed. You sit on the balcony in the mornings with a journal in your lap and your knees curled to your chest, scribbling down thoughts you won’t say out loud.

You don’t live in the old apartment anymore.

You couldn’t. Not after everything.

The quiet was too loud there. The walls still held the shape of him—his coffee mug on the counter, his laugh echoing in the hallway, the soft imprint of a life you built and lost all at once.

So you packed it all up and left. New place. New routine. Smaller, lonelier, but yours.

No ghosts.

Just space to breathe.

Sometimes, you paint again. You drag an old easel out to the balcony and lose yourself in blues and golds and soft, wide brushstrokes. Your fingers end up stained for days.

Sometimes, you laugh.

Mostly with Rudy. He’s your shadow now. Always close. Always watching.

He knows when to joke, when to distract you, when to sit in silence and just breathe beside you.

JD brings you coffee every morning from town, no matter what. It started as a quiet gesture. Now it’s a ritual. He doesn’t say much—but you know it’s his way of reminding you you’re seen. Still wanted. Still here.

The cast has adjusted. They don’t talk about what happened. Not in front of you. Not in front of him.

You and Drew still share scenes. Still work together like professionals.

But off-camera? You orbit each other like broken planets.

Not friends.

Not enemies.

Just… nothing.

And maybe that’s worse.

Drew keeps his distance, like you asked. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t try.

But he watches you when he thinks you won’t notice.

From the far side of the room, across the lawn, just past the camera setup.

Always just out of reach.

You caught him once, lingering in the doorway as you laughed too hard at something Rudy said, your head thrown back, hair messy, eyes brighter than they’d been in weeks.

He didn’t smile.

He just stood there, quiet and still, his expression unreadable.

Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel anything.

Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

Some days, you think you might hate him.

Other days, you ache just thinking his name.

But mostly—you’re just tired.

Tired of missing someone who��s still right there.

Tired of feeling haunted by a version of him that doesn’t exist anymore.

And Drew—

He wonders how it got like this.

How a joke at a table, a few lingering glances, a shared hoodie and some stupid, unspoken boundaries turned into something he’d ruin with a single mistake.

How he lost the girl who loved him enough to break for him.

He watches you from afar, regret curling in his chest like smoke.

You’re still beautiful. Still brilliant. Still trying.

But now, when you smile—it’s never at him.

And he doesn’t know if it ever will be again.