#and this part just. doesn’t make sense to me?

[thesewordsareallihavetogive]

Yell at Me - Dr. Jack Abbot x resident!reader

Summary: 2.7k words. You never expected your attending to suddenly end your years-long secret fling without warning. Now you’re both dealing with the fallout.

Warnings: 18+ content. No explicit smut, but mdni anyway please. Age gap. Lots of colorful language lmao. Angst, angst, and more angst. Miscommunication (I hate it). Yearning. Trust the process and stick around to the end pls

a/n: I was listening to “undressed” by sombr in the shower last night and the lyrics “I don't want the children of another man / To have the eyes of the girl I won't forget” are now imprinted in my brain. I wrote this during the commercial breaks of last night’s episode of Love Island USA and this morning. Enjoy!

Master list | Divider credit!

The Pitt feels sterile and cold at this time of night. It’s slow. Quiet, even. But no one dares to utter the words. Not even Doctor Shen—not after the absolute reaming Doctor Ellis dealt him once the Pitt Fest dust settled. There’s enough action to keep you from falling asleep, but there’s enough lulls to allow you time to talk with your coworkers while you wait for imaging and lab results to come back for your patients.

Even on nights like tonight, Doctor Abbot doesn’t join in on the drama. But, he hears bits and pieces of the hospital’s gossip in passing. He’s not intentionally eavesdropping in the clean utility room, but he could pick your voice out in the loudest crowd and spot your face in any room. The L-shape of the closet prevents you from noticing him quietly gathering supplies while you gossip at a low volume with another resident at the other end, hidden from view.

“We’ve gone on a couple dates,” you admit to your fellow R4. Abbot can hear the smile in your voice and it makes him pause. After working in trauma medicine for years, he has a stomach of steel. But the insinuation of your admission makes him queasy.

He didn’t have any right to feel any type of way—he knew that.  You were never exclusive, it’s been months since you fooled around together, and he was the one who ended things. But it still hurt.

Abbot recognizes the other R4’s voice as Doctor Ellis. Your next words hit him like a sucker punch in the gut. He swallows heavily around the lump in his throat. He knows he should stop listening, should leave, but he can't move from where his feet are planted.

“I don’t know!” you say giddily when Ellis asks you if it’s anything serious. “I’m honestly not sure if I like him that much. Maybe he’ll grow on me. A slow-burn, if you will.” Ellis deadpans at that. You’ve been seeing this guy for a month and haven’t progressed beyond I think he’s kinda cute ish.

It didn’t compare even slightly to the feverish passion you felt for Abbot. Not that Ellis knew that. Nobody knew about your… situation. Whatever odd iteration of a relationship you shared with Jack existed beyond the bounds of a definition or term besides “it’s complicated.” Moreover, not that your feelings for your attending mattered. He’d never want you like that, he’d made that very clear the same night you were about to open up about your true feelings for him.

It was like Abbot could sense a shift in the air that night. Like he could feel your heart beating just for him.

“I don’t think we should do this anymore.” The words left his mouth simply and short. It sounded smooth, a sharp contrast from the grating feeling clawing up his throat. Abbot couldn’t meet your eyes when he said it.

You pulled his bed sheet to cover your exposed chest. He spent that night—and countless other nights—leaving his mark on hidden parts of you, worshipping your breasts like they were the only altar he believed in.

“What?” you asked, lips parted in shock. Your post orgasmic haze was abruptly broken as a sinking feeling settled in your chest. Certainly you must’ve heard him wrong, you thought. You hoped.

But he doubled down. He repeated his words. This time, he willed himself to meet your eyes. His face was stoney, like he’d already detached and distanced himself. Jack was a horrible liar, but he was putting on an Oscar-worthy performance.

You didn’t argue. You didn’t fight or press for any more details. You just nodded around the lump in your throat.

You got out of his bed, taking the sheet with you, wrapped around your vulnerable frame. You couldn’t bear for him to see you naked, bare just for him, ever again.

The clothes you wore over to his apartment with the sole intention of him peeling them off your body were scattered across his bedroom floor. Your leggings, his t-shirt, his hoodie. You pulled the leggings on slowly and didn’t rush. You had to move slowly to prevent the tears weighing on your lower lashes from pouring down your face. Maybe it was pride, or spite, or hurt, or maybe all three, but you refused to let him see you cry.

You let your eyes drift around Jack’s room. You’d spent dozens of nights there in his arms, in his shower, on his counters and couch and lap, but you knew then it was the last time you’d ever see his bedroom. You’re not sure why you did it, one last thorough scan of the room, committing it as a masochistic memory.

Abbot watched you silently. He had since pulled on his own sweatpants, remaining shirtless. Even then, you couldn’t resist him. The attending had just rejected you in the cruelest way possible, and you still couldn’t steal your eyes from his defined chest.

You left his clothes on the floor and padded over to his dresser, the one he’d cleaned out a drawer for you in. You pulled on a dark shirt, thinking that maybe the fabric would hide the heavy tears you knew you’d shed on the drive home, and grabbed the rest of your belongings from the drawer. Whatever you couldn’t carry in your arms, you cut as a loss.

“Goodbye, Doctor Abbot,” you said in his hallway outside the door, bordering on apathetic. You didn’t have the energy to say it through gritted teeth.

‘Doctor Abbot’ was reserved for the Pitt. You never called him by his professional title outside of work, and you hadn’t for a while. You were respectful and professional at the hospital, but at home? In his bed? He was Jack to you.

Now, you looked at him like he was about to be no one to you.

You stood just beyond the threshold, another one you knew you’d never cross again. Jack had the decency to walk you to the door, even though it killed him to do so. When his eyes finally met your face, he saw the tears you couldn’t hold back, heavy in your eyes but not yet spilled. He saw how you bit your lip to keep it from trembling.

You left without ceremony. Jack stood in his open doorway for a while, watching your form retreat until you turned the corner and were gone from his view. He could hear blood rushing in his ears and he became acutely aware of his involuntary, erratic inhales and shaky exhales. The sobs wracked your body the second your car door was shut. It probably wasn’t safe for you to drive home with tears blurring your vision and your rib cage on the verge of cracking open, but you had little regard for anything in that moment.

Hours later, you laid in your bed staring at the ceiling. A world apart, Abbot was doing the same in his apartment that felt cold without you in it.

The next shift, you put anything Jack had left at your apartment over the past couple of years; hoodies, sweatpants, socks and underwear that you wore more often than he did in his locker. Part of him wanted you to keep it all. He liked knowing that your soft skin was wrapped up in his clothes. But you couldn’t bear to look at them, much less wear any of it, knowing how he tossed you aside after years together, albeit in secret.

None of it mattered now.

Doctor Abbot is roughly pulled back to the present when your next words stop him cold.

“But he seems like good Dad material,” you shrug and Ellis raises her eyebrows. You’re a woman of science, so you know your eggs aren’t drying up anytime soon, but that doesn’t mean you don’t still feel the pressure to think about the future, to family plan. Jack hears ringing in his ears, like he’s back overseas again and he’s narrowly escaped an explosion.

You had talked about what you wanted in the future in between pillow talk with Jack. A white picket fence, two or three kids, and an SUV, but definitely not a minivan. But it was always hypothetical, or so he thought. Jack didn’t know about the locked list in your notes app; he didn’t know that “Jack” was listed as one of the names under the “baby names for boys” heading. The goals you shared with him softly in bed were always maybes, none of which specifically included Jack.

But now? The mere thought of another man’s children with your eyes? The ones that haunted him for months—every time he closed his eyes or met your gaze from across the room in a trauma bay—that he was sure he’d never forget? It made him sick in a way he hadn’t felt since that night months ago.

Abbot didn’t realize how tight his white knuckle grip was until the saline flush’s wrapper popped in his hand from the pressure.

He doesn’t pause for any time to think, he just acts, as if on instinct.

He rounds the corner with purpose, making you blush as you realize he’d probably heard at least part of your conversation.

“Would you excuse us please, I need to show Doctor YLN something.” He grabs your hand and pulls you away from the conversation, not waiting for Doctor Ellis’s response. He’s tugging you in the opposite direction of patient rooms, moving so swiftly through the hallways that you struggle to get your bearings.

“Jack, what- Doctor Abbot, I mean, where are we going?” you ask flustered, startled by his interruption and sudden behavior.

Your question is answered when he tests the door handle of an on-call room, just beyond any areas of regular foot traffic, before ushering you both inside. The resolute click of the door’s lock sounds like a bullet echoing in the empty room.

“What the hell are you doing?” You’re beyond confused. It dawns on you that this is the first time you and Abbot have been alone since he kicked you out in the middle of the night with no remorse.

“Don’t go out with him.” Jack’s jaw is set tight and his chest moves unsteady as he looks, no, stares into your soul.

“What?”

“Don’t go out on a date with him.” The command sounds like a plea. Jack spits the word him with vitriol, though it’s not directed at you.

“Jack-” you start, but Abbot interrupts you by saying your name. Any edge in his tone is gone. He realizes it’s the first time he’s been able to call you by your first name in months.

“Please.” He’s begging. The motherfucker actually has the audacity to beg you to do anything, as if he wasn’t the one that threw you out like trash.

“No.” Your face set seriously, hardening and bordering on cold, only held back by the white hot rage you felt. You had slowly started to patch up your broken heart in past few months and Jack was dangerously close to undoing all that work.

“You made it incredibly clear that you don’t want any future with me, so you don’t get to be upset, or feel anything when I move on. When I try to have a life outside of this hospital.” You poke his firm chest and quickly recoil at the spark you feel when you come in contact with him for the first time in too long.

It’s fair. Jack knows that.

You’re upset and it’s manifesting in anger. Anger that Abbot deserves to have unleashed upon him. It’s long overdue. You never really got to hash it out—you just went straight to clocking in for your shifts, ignoring the energy drinks he left in your locker as a pathetic peace offering and promptly throwing them in the garbage until Doctor Abbot had spent well over a hundred dollars on your preferred caffeine, and only speaking to him when absolutely necessary.

Doctor Abbot’s face twists like he’s in pain. His jaw moves like he’s fighting the words falling from his lips.

“I still care about you,” he admits lowly. You scoff.

“That’s fucking rich.” Laughter bubbles past your lips, but there’s no humor in it. Behind the locked on-call room door, any semblance of professionalism is gone. Abbot doesn’t dare reprimand you for your colorful language.

But he’s only human, and your reaction gets a rise out of him.

“You think I wanted to end… this?” Abbot is exasperated and waves a head between your tense bodies, tight with frustration. He comes up short for a term to describe the relationship that evaded labels.

Another scoff.

“Well, you explicitly told me you didn’t want me anymore while I was naked in your fucking bed, so yeah, I’d say you absolutely wanted to end our… situation,” you spit, also struggling to define your years-long arrangement with your attending.

The heels of Jack’s palms are pressed against his tightly shut eyes, like he’s trying to will away a migraine or Myrna. He mumbles something you can’t hear. You’ve long since run out of patience and grace, not that you had much in the first place.

“Spit it out, Jack. I’ve got patients to see. I don’t have time for your fucking mumbling.” A rage burns in you that Abbot has never witnessed, much less been on the receiving end of.

Maybe you’re just being mean now, but maybe you just don’t care. The love you had for Jack never really left. It just… atrophied. Then turned bitter and black and blue, like a bruise that never goes away.

Abbot punched the damn bruise.

“I did it to protect you!” Abbot shouts, no longer caring whether or not the four walls are soundproof. His graying curls are tousled and he’s got a wild look in his eyes. His heart is damn near beating out of his chest. Jack feels like a powder keg and you’re standing over him with a tank of gasoline and a lighter.

Your eyes narrow. Now he’s really pissing you off.

“Protect me?” you seethe. “When the hell did I ever ask you to do that?” Your hands are flying wildly as you talk. You’re glad the on-call rooms don’t have windows.

Abbot presses his lips into a thin line. You didn’t ask. You never asked for anything, always giving to others until you didn’t have anything left for yourself. But Jack wanted to give you the world.

He admires how hardworking you are. You outpace everyone in your cohort by far, but Doctor Abbot knew if anyone found out about your relationship they’d just assumed you slept your way through residency. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Abbot is harder on you than any of the other students because he knows how much potential you hold. Hell, there were some days he thought you were a better doctor than him. Nobody gets to be the top candidate for the newest junior attending position without working their ass off.

He made the decision to break things off—to save your career—so you wouldn’t have to.

He cut it off, and broke both of your hearts in the process, so that you could focus on your career and secure your well-earned spot as a junior attending. Without distractions. Without Jack.

Abbot’s mind is going a million miles an hour. He doesn’t realize all his racing thoughts had spilled out loud until he looks at you.

Silent. Dumbfounded. Still.

Your hands rest by your side, tense. Like they don’t know what to do if they’re not waving through the air, your anger and passion directed at your current mentor, former lover, and eternal pain in your ass.

The silence breaks when both of your pagers beep simultaneously. An incoming trauma alert is announced over the hospital’s PA system.

There was still a sharpness to you, but some of it had softened around the edges. The fire in your eyes when Jack held your stare with his was less of a glare now.

“We are not done talking. You are going to buy me breakfast and we’re going to talk this out like fucking adults, Jack,” you point at him with squinted eyes before turning on your heel. You don’t hold the door open for the attending, but you let it swing wide enough so that it won’t hit him on his way out.

“Yes, Doctor.” Abbot agrees, following your lead back into the belly of the Pitt. He places his palm on the small of your back on instinct. When you don’t pull away, Jack feels hopeful for the first time in months.

a/n: blah blah blah then they have nasty explosive amazing makeup sex. The end.

edit: here's part 2! Call Out My Name

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED!

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[nkogneatho]

𝐃𝐀𝐃'𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

part one masterlist

—a/n: i came. i creamed my panties. ok bye. thanks for the patience.

—c/w: daddy kink, creampie, older satoru, reader is in her 20s, dirty talking, reader calls gojo sir.

you barely made it to your room. head spinning, heart pounding so loud it felt like it was gonna burst right out of your chest. the click of the lock? it hit different—like thunder breaking the silence all around the house. you leaned back against the door, trying to catch your breath, trying to make sense of what the hell just happened. but the fire burning low in your stomach? yeah, that wasn’t going anywhere.

satoru gojo. your dad’s best friend. his name echoed in your head, tangled up with that dark look in his eyes and the low growl of his voice. you hated that you wanted him. hated that he somehow knew exactly how to unravel you without even touching you. but you couldn’t stop replaying the moment his knuckles grazed your skin, sending shivers that crawled all the way down your spine.

you paced, bare feet sinking into the soft carpet like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. every step was a fight with your own thoughts. why’d he tell you to lock the door? a warning? a challenge? or something else? you didn’t know. but just thinking about opening it sent this crazy thrill buzzing through your veins you couldn’t shake.

minutes passed, maybe hours? hard to tell. the house was quiet except for a faint murmur of voices downstairs. you tried to distract yourself, scrolling on your phone, flipping through an old book but nothing worked. your mind kept drifting back to him.

then, a knock. soft. almost shy. your breath hitched and you froze, eyes locked on the doorknob. you didn’t move. and before you could, the door creaked open, slow and long, like it was teasing you, without even needing to be unlocked.

there he was. silver hair catching the hallway light, eyes dark and intense. no words at first, just that look that made your knees weak. then the smirk. slow, dangerous, curling on his lips, heat rushing through you like wildfire.

“i told you to lock it,” he said, stepping inside like he owned the space. you stepped back, but he followed, shutting the door quietly behind him.

“you’re not supposed to be here,” you whispered, voice shaky but loud enough to betray every fear and thrill.

“then you would’ve locked the door,” he said smooth as silk, gaze never leaving yours. he moved closer, presence swallowing you whole, until there was almost no space left.

your heart slammed as his fingers brushed your wrist—soft but certain. “tell me to leave,” he said low and dangerous. “tell me to walk away. right now.”

you opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out. you stood there, caught in the storm of his eyes, pulled in too deep to fight it.

then his lips found yours, dark, hungry, everything you didn’t know you needed. you stumbled back, his hands gripping your waist, strong and sure. the quiet power in his hold made your breath catch, and god, you hated how easy it was to melt into him.

“do you know what you’re doing?” you whispered between kisses, voice shaky, unsure.

his lips curled into that maddening smirk against your skin. “maybe the better question is… do you?”

his fingers traced your jaw, tilting your head up. his eyes locked on yours, sharp as knives, like he was reading every secret you tried to hide.

you wanted to push him away, tell him it was wrong. but instead, your hands clutched his shirt, trying to ground yourself in the chaos he brought. “this is insane,” you breathed, more a confession than a protest.

“maybe,” he said, lips brushing your ear, voice low and promising. “but it doesn’t feel like you want me to stop.”

your silence said all he needed. his mouth was back on yours—rougher, deeper, more demanding—pulling you apart piece by piece until all that was left was need. the air thickened, every touch, every whispered word dragging you closer to the edge.

“sir…” the word slipped out before you could stop it, raw and breathless.

he looked at you then, all dangerous and wild, and your knees went weak. your heart raced like crazy.

“you love playing with fire, don't you?” he said, voice low and amused.

you didn’t answer. how could you? the truth was in your body, in the way you leaned into him, in every hitch of your breath when his hands explored places only meant for him.

“on the bed. legs spread wide. now”

you did what he ordered. you climbed on the bed, your ass wiggling on the way. the moment you turned around to face him, he yanked you to the edge, making you yelp. his hands traveled up you thighs and stopped once they reached to your core.

“no panties, huh?” you shied away. you knew. you knew what he was implying. that you knew he was going to come in. and that you wanted him to take you. which was true by the way.

he ran his long, slender fingers up and down your slick, the wet voice of your weeping pussy filling up the silence in your room.

“all this for me? shit, sweetheart. i am so hard. i wanna fuck this pussy till you're crying.”

“then do it.” you didn't know if you were being bold or stupid, but you couldn't—wouldn't wait anymore.

that's all he needed to hear before he literally smashed his lips against your pussy, slurping like a hungry dog. it wasn't your first time getting your pussy eaten but it sure as hell was the first time you felt so good, like you were losing your damn mind.

you clung to his hair like it was the last thread keeping you from falling apart, and then his mouth moved with a ruthless hunger that made your whole body shake. “fuck, you taste so good,” he groaned, voice thick and ragged against your skin.

when you finally mustered up enough sanity to peek, you saw one of his hands stroking his hard cock. the angle made it difficult to see what his dick looked like but a man like him wouldn't act so superior for nothing. gojo satoru, as your father suggested, was never the one to say or do something he didn't have confident in. and the worst part? he had confident in everything he did. thinking about all of it almost made you forget that you're about to cum. you instinctively fisted his gray locks, tightened your thighs and prepared yourself for your orgasm.

your back arched, hips jerking instinctively as the wave hit you, hot and fierce and everything you didn’t know you needed. your breath hitched into shaky gasps, “sir—” oh that did it.

he didn’t stop. if anything, he only got more savage, fingers digging into your hips to keep you right where he wanted. his cock throbbed in his hand, slick and hard, teasing at the edge like it was aching to bury itself deep inside you. “calling me sir all the damn time like it never made your panties wet.”

“i—” you opened your quivering lips to speak but he shushed you. he got off his knees, blessing your eyes with the hottest view, a pink veiny cock, gray hairs decorating his pelvic region, and precum that looked like pearls under your lamplight. you gulped hard.

“what? scared?” you nodded, hesitantly. “want to stop?” when you didn't respond for a few seconds, he really thought he'd get the same answer—that he'd get blue-balled and this night will end in him relieving himself in the shower but, to his surprise, you nudged your heels against his ass, pulling him closer, making him lose his balance a little and almost falling against you.

“need...you.” you spoke softly. he laughs.

“let me wear a condom at least, sweet girl.” you shook your head.

“need it now, sir”  holy fucking god what are you actually doing to him? something dark flickered in his eyes. you saw it. the crystal blue ocean was now imitating a sea of lava, cerulean blue gone bloody red. and before you could make out more of that expression, a sharp pain pulled you out. shit. he really is fucking big.

it was one thing about girth and being stretched out for him, because it was something possible. pushing his long cock in till it hits your cervix was another. you now lied under him, his cock perfectly engulfed in the warmth of your walls as tears stung your eyes. he could only lick them and assure you “just for a while. i promise i'll make it feel better, baby.”

baby

it was spoken in the heat of lust but why did it sound like a call of love?

and just like that, he started thrusting. slow, dragging his cock out but intense as he shoved it in.

your hands clawed at his shoulders, nails digging in as waves of pleasure and pain twisted through you. every thrust hit a nerve, every touch setting fire to the cracks in your skin.

“shit, you’re so tight,” he groaned, hips stuttering against yours. “sweet pussy's driving me insane.”

you were so busy getting your brains fucked out, you forgot this is your father's best friend, a man old enough to also be your father. moreover, the fact that you were fucking him in your bedroom while your parents were asleep downstairs? girl, what the fuck?

“you have no idea how long i've wanted to wreck ughh this pussy.” that made your pussy throb. “saw you on tinder god! made me jerk off to your pictures like a horny fucking teenager.” he was pounding into you, ruthlessly, like he was drowning and you were his only anchor. “i'll ruin this fucking pussy tonight.” he groaned, deep and guttural, and snapped his hips harder, rougher now, fucking the sanity out of you one thrust at a time. “call me sir like a good girl. cum on my cock sweetheart.' but you did something even more insane.

“ngh, daddy!”

he stilled. and in that moment, you thought you'd summoned a beast with flame in his eyes and an intention to do nothing but wreck you and you weren't completely opposed to the idea. a chuckle arose in his throat, not the sweet kind, but the mocking one.

“daddy, huh? calling me fucking daddy? who taught you to—ughh use such dirty language? if i knew you were like this, mhm would've surely—ngh fucked you earlier”

“pleasepleaseplease” you weren't even sure what were you begging for but, it was definitely not for him to stop.

“heh! look at'cha, baby. you wanna cum? yeah? wanna cream on daddy's cock like a good girl? hah. go ahead.” he mocked. the words that were embarrassing enough to make tears well up in your eyes, in turn made your pussy clench. and then it hit you. the high you were chasing for. begging for, earlier. you held onto him like your world was escalating and he was your only anchor. your pussy throbbing around him, yet the man refused to slow down. he wasn't sure he could hold back anymore. he wanted to pull out and make a mess on your stomach but seems like your fresh out of the orgasm self was deliriously tightening you legs around his hips. fuck. he can't pull out.

he doesn't want to.

“fuck. fuck, baby, fuck.”

and just like that, satoru let out a deep growl, his movements sloppier but hard as he painted your walls in his warm cum. unfortunately, your mind was to hazy to pick up the fact that you need to clean up. all you craved at this moment was his warmth. and he was right there. on top of you, chest collapsing against yours.

“you did so good for me.” the praise made your cheeks warmer than they were before. “uhm...i should leave before your parents find out sweetheart.”

“can't you stay for...a bit more?” gosh how can he say no to those words spoken with those pretty pouty lips of yours. he is not completely in his right mind either but he knows the consequences of his actions. he crossed a line. well fuck he fucking cart-wheeled his way out of the line. there's no going back so he might as well enjoy this moment with you. you were leaving back for your final year of college anyways. it's not like you'll ever let him cross this line again.

yeah...about that. oh how naive he was for a man at his age.

because now here you were in his room, holding a pregnancy test.

“i'm pregnant.”

[casssmalefantasy]

hiii can i request a fic where paige has a series of bad games and reader tries to comfort her but paige lashes out at her including saying she doesn’t understand cause she isn’t an athlete which is already a an insecurity of hers to be dating a high profile athlete and feeling like there’ll always be a part of paige she’ll never be privy to, so reader she up crying and walking out which makes paige come to her senses but reader isnt answering calls and messages so paige spends the next days groveling please and thank you

THE QUIET PART - PAIGE BUECKERS X OC

I synopsis: paige comes home carrying more than she can hold. you try to help. she pushes too hard. now you’re both figuring out what it means to stay.

| warnings: emotional conflict, hurt/comfort, one-sided argument, feelings of emotional dismissal, crying, soft angst with resolution, and lots of feelings.

I word count: 1.9k

I author's note: hopefully you like this!! thank you for the request ♥️

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the door slams harder than it should.

keys clatter on the counter like they’ve been thrown, not dropped, and it’s the kind of sound that echoes too long in a space meant to be quiet. you glance up from the couch, halfway through some comfort rewatch you weren’t even paying attention to. the tv hums behind you like static.

you expect to hear a soft hey, or even just the weight of her footsteps toward you. but paige doesn’t say anything.

she walks straight past. her sneakers squeak once on the floor before they disappear into the bedroom. not even a glance.

you blink. sit up. the silence stretches.

this isn’t her.

you don’t hesitate long. the bath you’d been running in your head as your future reward for a long day suddenly feels too far away. you pad barefoot across the apartment and stand in the doorway of her room.

she’s halfway through pulling her sweatshirt off. there’s a tension in her shoulders you don’t like. when she yanks the hoodie off, she tosses it onto the edge of the bed—not careless, but not careful, either. like she’s too full of something she doesn’t want to carry anymore.

“paige?” you ask, soft.

she pauses.

turns. finally. slowly.

and you hate the look in her eyes—not because she’s mad, but because she’s gone. like something’s been gnawing at her and she let it in too deep. like she doesn’t know how to talk to you with it sitting in her chest.

“talk to me,” you say gently.

she breathes out a bitter, frustrated laugh. “there’s nothing to talk about.”

you step closer.

you reach for her arm. not fast, not forceful, just soft—just trying to ground her, just trying to remind her you’re here.

but she flinches like it stings. like your touch is too much.

“can you not do this right now?” she snaps. “i don’t want to talk, okay?”

you freeze.

her voice isn’t raised—but it’s tense, high-strung, breaking at the edges.

she exhales, sharp and frustrated, stepping away from you. like she needs more room to breathe, or maybe to break.

“do you even understand how hard this is?” she says. “i came here straight from uconn. i’ve never dealt with losing like this. not this much. loss after loss, and i know what we’re capable of. i know we can win, but then we don’t, and there’s nothing i can do about it.”

you stay quiet.

her hands move—into her hair, then tugging at the edge of her shirt, then down again. she’s restless. spiraling.

“i work my ass off and it still isn’t enough. and everyone keeps acting like it’s fine because i’m paige fucking bueckers and i’ll figure it out eventually, but what if i don’t? what if this is just who i am now?”

you try again.

“i do get it. i might not be on the court, but i—”

“no i don’t think you do,” she says, quieter now, but not softer. “you’re not an athlete. you don’t… you don’t know what this feels like.”

and maybe what hurts the most is that you do— not the training or the noise of the court, but the weight she carries afterward. you’ve sat in silence next to her after games, handed her a protein shake she didn’t touch. you’ve folded her jerseys and tucked sticky notes into her gym bag that just said, proud of you, always. you’ve loved her through bruises and exhaustion and late-night replays. and still—none of it mattered. not to her. not tonight.

the silence is sharp.

it hits like the end of a dream. or a free fall. or something cracking in your ribs.

you don’t say anything right away. you can’t.

because it’s not just what she said—it’s the way she said it. like you’ve been trying so hard to show up in all the ways you can, and none of it mattered. like you’ve been loving her from the quiet, watching her come apart, and it still wasn’t enough to be seen.

you freeze.

and for the first time, you feel the tears sting behind your eyes.

your voice comes out small. wounded.

“wow.”

her head snaps up, and the regret’s already flickering in her eyes, but it’s too late.

you step back.

“i’ll get out of your way, then.”

“wait, baby—”

but you’re already turning. your throat’s tight. the living room feels too small. the whole apartment does.

you stop at the edge of the couch. your keys in one hand. her hoodie in the other. the one from uconn, soft with wear, smelling like detergent and her valentina fragrance.

you don’t know why you grab it. maybe because it’s hers. maybe because it still smells like her. maybe because your hands need something to hold besides your heart.

you don’t look at her. not once and for a second, you consider staying. saying something back. or nothing at all.

but you know if you stay, you’ll cry.

and tonight, you don’t want to be soft in front of her. not after that.

your phone’s in your hand before you even realize what you’re doing.

you text dijonai.

you

hey. can i come over for a bit? just need a second.

nai

ofc. everything okay?

you

just had a thing with paige. it’s fine. just need air.

nai

come thru. door’s unlocked.

you don’t look back.

your phone vibrates halfway through the elevator ride.

paigeyyy 💗

where are you? please answer.

i didn’t mean it like that. i’m sorry.

please just tell me you’re okay.

you don’t open them.

—

nai doesn’t ask questions.

she just opens the door in sweats and a bonnet, gives you a long look, and says, “blanket’s on the couch. you want tea or tequila?”

“tea,” you whisper, voice wrecked.

she nods. disappears into the kitchen.

when she returns with two mugs, she sits beside you without pushing. doesn’t say what happened? or why’d she say that? or do you wanna talk? she just hands you the tea and leans her shoulder against yours.

you could cry just from that.

she glances at your phone once when it lights up on the coffee table.

more missed calls, another “please” from paige

you don’t reach for it.

“you want me to tell her you’re okay?” nai says quietly.

you nod.

your throat’s too tight to speak.

she types something, slides her phone face-down.

lets you breathe.

you fall asleep curled on her couch, wrapped in paige’s hoodie like muscle memory.

—

back at home, paige’s apartment is too quiet.

she stands in the hallway for ten minutes staring at the door after you leave.

then she tries calling you.

once.

twice.

again.

she doesn’t mean to start crying, but she does.

it hits her like a crash—the weight of what she said. the way you looked at her like she’d just proven your worst fear right. the hoodie gone.

she can’t sit still. she paces the bedroom. opens and closes her notes app. starts to write something—erases it.

tries a voice memo.

records it. re-records it.

finally sends the third one.

paigeyyy 💗

0:56

it’s just her voice, shaky and wrecked.

“i didn’t mean it. god, i didn’t mean any of it. i’m sorry. i’m so sorry. i don’t know what’s wrong with me but i know i never want to make you look at me like that again. please come home. please.”

she sits on the floor by the bed with her arms around her knees and stares at the door.

you’re her calm. her constant. her tether to the part of herself she likes best.

and she just shoved you away.

—

paige still can’t sleep.

it’s currently 2AM and the sheets feel too cold without you. her hands feel empty.

her mind replays every second of your argument a few hours ago like a highlight reel in reverse—what she said, how she said it, the look on your face after.

her guilt is bone-deep.

she gets sits up and paces once around the apartment before sitting on the edge of the bed. your pillow still smells like your shampoo.

she closes her eyes and breathes it in like a prayer.

maybe you’re gone for real. maybe this time, she pushed too far.

the hoodie you left behind is still on the floor. she picks it up. hugs it to her chest.

so when she wakes up—or doesn’t, really—and hears the hum of the fridge and the quiet clink of a glass cup, she thinks she’s dreaming.

she sits up slowly. heartbeat stuttering.

she finds you standing at the counter, back to her, pouring coffee into one of the mugs you brought from your dorm. the one with the chipped edge.

“hey,” she says, soft. broken. barely above a whisper.

you turn around.

her eyes are red. her voice sounds like it hasn’t worked right since last night.

she sees the hoodie still on you and it makes her crumble a little.

“i’m sorry,” she says, immediately. “i didn’t mean what i said. i was scared and insecure and i lashed out. and that’s not fair to you. you’ve been everything. you always are.”

you nod, slowly.

“you really hurt me,” you whisper.

her face breaks.

“i know,” she says. “and i hate myself for it.”

you let her words settle. then say, “i know i’m not a teammate. i know i don’t run plays or drop stats or sit in on film. but i see you. i’ve always seen you. and that should’ve been enough.”

paige steps forward, slow like she’s afraid she’ll scare you off.

“i know,” she says. “and you’re right. i just… i didn’t know where to put it all. the pressure, the disappointment, the noise in my head.”

she swallows.

“you’ve been my quiet in all of this. and i… pushed you away.”

you nod.

“yeah.”

“i love you,” she says. “more than basketball. more than winning. you’re the thing i’m proudest of.”

that’s what breaks you.

your throat tightens again—but this time it’s not from hurt.

“you’re just not allowed to say i don’t get it,” you whisper. “not when i see you. all of you.”

she steps closer. still slow. still cautious.

“can i hold you?”

you nod.

she crosses the room in three steps, and suddenly she’s there—arms around your waist, face buried in your neck, whole body dropping into yours like she’s letting herself be safe again.

you exhale into her shoulder. close your eyes.

“don’t do that again,” you whisper.

“i won’t,” she murmurs. “i swear. you’re the best thing in my life.”

you kiss her temple.

she kisses the inside of your wrist.

“come home?” she asks.

you glance around. technically you’re already here.

but you know what she means.

“yeah,” you say. “okay.”

and for the first time in twenty-four hours, both of you breathe like you believe you’re allowed to.

—

you’re on the couch, her head in your lap, your fingers in her hair. the tv’s on, but neither of you are watching.

her hand finds yours. she holds it like a lifeline.

you trace soft letters on the back of her palm— just little things.

L, then O, then V.

you don’t finish the word.

you don’t have to. she squeezes your hand like she feels it anyway.

she kisses your wrist like she’s saying sorry again.

and in that moment—it doesn’t matter if she wins or loses the next game.

you’re here.

and she knows it.

and this—this is the part the world never sees.

but it’s the part that saves her, every time.

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 A DEAL YOU CAN MAKE ON A MIDNIGHT WALK ALONE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: dazai's worst nightmare has come true, and with you standing before him once again, he has no idea how to act or feel. he's angry. he's resentful. hateful. sad. hopeful. yearning. in love. there's so many emotions clouding his mind that he can hardly think straight. but he's sure of one thing: his run-in with you makes him realize that he'll do anything to get you back again.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: PART TWO IS HEREEEEE HEHEHEHEHE I HOPE U ENJOY - i rushed getting it together skfaizsjf so hopefully it's all ok. let me know if im missing any warnings. reblogs and comments always appreciated!!

GENERAL WARNINGS: fem!reader, port mafia boss!reader, civilian!dazai, mentions of past war crimes, ptsd, mentions of alcoholism, temporary amnesia, dazai is mentally unstable, so is reader, both of them are struggling LOL, grieving (reader), a bit of suicide ideation (that's a given from dazai, a little bit from reader too tho), as always: reader is part of the mafia, expect mafia behavior from her, she is not a good person.

SEE: THE LAND IS INHOSPITABLE (BUT ARE WE?) SERIES MASTERLIST

God is famous for his coincidences and absurdism. Dazai is all too familiar with it. Time and time again in his life, it’s been proven over and over. You and he are even the prime example of this: everything from the part you played in his family’s demise eight years ago to you unwittingly saving his life last year. 

But this? 

This can’t be real. 

This can’t possibly be happening. 

Dazai stares at you like you’re a ghost, the air whooshes out from his lungs, and his vision blurs and tunnels until all he can see is you. All of the other patrons of the bar fizzle out of space and time until only the two of you are left in the room, and Dazai just doesn’t know what to do. He’s still half convinced that this is a hallucination, a cruel trick—even an ability working on him would make more sense than you actually standing in front of him.

When he doesn’t respond to you, you raise your eyebrows at him, but he thinks that even if he wanted to respond, he wouldn’t be able to. His voice is stuck in his throat, along with a lump shaped suspiciously like his heart. He can’t get a grasp on his surroundings, and he’s starting to feel dizzy; his ears are ringing terribly, and his fight or flight instincts are triggered, but Dazai is just frozen. He can’t push himself off the chair to leave, he can’t speak, he can’t do anything.

This can’t be real, he thinks again, more desperately this time, but the longer he stares at you, the more real you become. You’re wearing a sleek black suit, the same one you were wearing when you called for the meeting with Fitzgerald to get Dazai back, and a dark coat over it, the same one you would drape over him when you came home to him passed out on the couch, and you’re beautiful, you’re as beautiful as Dazai remembers. More. Impossibly more. Though your eyes are much more tired and vacant than he last remembered them being, and you now wear a red scarf around your shoulders and a ribbon around your neck, it’s you standing a few feet away from him—there’s no mistaking it.

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” you continue conversationally when he remains silent, and to his horror, you make your way over to him. “You’re really familiar, though, maybe we’ve met in passing. Do you come around here often?”

Your words feel like knives jabbing into his back, and Dazai almost wants to cry, but he refrains with a thick swallow and a deep breath. He’s had nightmares about bumping into you on the streets and being slapped in the face with his new reality this way: that you have no idea who he is, that he’s a stranger to you when you’re still everything to him. He’s had nightmares, but he never thought those nightmares would become reality. You’re the boss of the Port Mafia now, what the fuck are you doing at some random bar without any protection?

He’s drawn out of his trancelike state once you’re standing next to him, and Dazai is acutely aware of the number of eyes on him now. The bartender is looking between the two of you with a concerned expression, and the other patrons aren’t slick in the way they keep casting nosy looks in your direction. It’s only when your gaze snaps up, an irritated expression crossing your face, that they all look away, and Dazai realizes a bit dreadfully that this must be a mafia establishment. 

Of course, it is, he thinks bitterly, no wonder he met you here the first time. 

The irritated expression is gone as quickly as it appears, replaced with a far more pleasant one as you look back down at him. 

For a moment—just a moment—Dazai’s chest swells with warmth because he can almost pretend it’s the same way you’d look at him when you’d come home to find him sitting at the piano trying to teach himself a song that he could only vaguely remember. A small smile curling at your lips, a soft expression on your face, and a fond look in your eyes that would make Dazai’s breath catch.

But he can’t pretend because it’s fake. Dazai can tell it’s fake—the small smile on your lips is disarming, and the soft expression is enchanting, but it’s not enough for him not to notice the way it doesn’t meet your eyes. Maybe it would be enough if he were anyone else in the world, but he’s not. He knows you well enough to catch what others would miss, and he’s so used to you looking at him with all three that the absence of one is glaring and unsettling.

It’s not right—none of this is right.

“No,” he finally answers your question when it becomes abundantly clear that you’re not going to move on until he addresses you. Does he want you to move on? Dazai doesn’t know; he can’t even bring himself to look away from you, trying to memorize your face before you disappear again. “I don’t come around here often.”

His voice is unbearably hoarse, and as your eyes trail over him curiously, Dazai becomes hyper-aware of how sloppily he’s dressed. His clothes are rumpled because he was lying in his futon for hours, and he hasn’t changed his bandages in days, so the ones on his wrist are yellowed and frayed at the edges. He tries to pull the sleeves of his tan coat down to cover them, but you’ve already caught sight of them from the way you squint and then look back up to his face.

“Hm,” is all you say in response, pulling out the stool next to him to sit down. You rest your elbow on the bar top and your chin on your hand as you look at him. Dazai wonders what you’re thinking; you’ve always been hard to read, but never more than now. “What’s your name?”

That lump is back in his throat, and the air around him feels too thin. Dazai almost struggles to breathe, but he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself. He’s finally able to bring himself to look away from you, staring down at his lap—his fingers are trembling, he notices absently, starting to feel oddly detached from the situation. He forcibly stills them, trying to get himself together before answering your question, but each passing second only makes him spiral more. 

What’s your name? 

The question rings through his head mockingly, and at once, the resentment he feels is back with a fervor. What’s your name, asks the woman who almost died trying to protect Dazai less than a year before. What’s your name, asks the woman who Dazai lived with for months. What’s your name, asks the woman who sacrificed everything, killed her own father, just to keep Dazai safe. What’s your name, asks the woman who Dazai loves because she wiped her memories of him after he begged her not to. 

It’s like a joke, he thinks so bitterly that he can taste it in his mouth. It’s putrid, disgusting—his life has always been a joke, but things finally started looking up once he met you. You gave him hope for the future, you made him want a future, and then you ripped it away from him, worse than anyone ever has before.

A joke.

“Don’t wanna tell me?” you ask easily, leaning back in your stool. The smile on your face is teasing, but it still doesn’t meet your eyes—he’s a bit unnerved by it. When he first met you, you were cold and aloof; you wanted nothing to do with him. He didn’t think you were even listening to him while he rambled; he’d been surprised when he ran into you the day after, and you remembered what he’d been saying. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Are you… flirting with him?

The teasing tone, the small, flirty smiles, the way you’re putting in just enough effort that any other man would’ve been charmed—he would’ve been charmed if he didn’t know any better—is that what this is? Dazai suddenly feels unsettled. He thought maybe you came here to relax… take a break from work, like the first time he met you here. Maybe you were even just coming to drown out your sorrows like him, although that may just be wishful thinking on his part. The realization that you might’ve come here to find someone to fuck away whatever is clearly eating at you for the night didn’t cross his mind once until now. He doesn’t like it—something in his gut twists, and he thinks he might throw up. He blames it on the whiskey he’s been drinking, but he knows that’s not the real reason.

What if he hadn’t been the one here?

How many times has he not been the one here?

His suspicions from earlier were confirmed just like that, and Dazai is miserable about it.

“Dazai,” he finally tells you, throat spasming like it doesn’t kill him to have to introduce himself to you again. “My name is Dazai.”

You give him your name in return, and it’s just another stab to the heart—he knows your name. It’s the same name that haunts his dreams. The same name he’d spent half a year cursing into oblivion. The same name he’d gasp when he was in bed with a stranger. He knows your name better than his own, it’s etched into his soul; he would never forget you like you’ve forgotten him.

Something strange crosses your face when Dazai looks back at you—a hint of familiarity that has his heartbeat stuttering. He sees the brief confusion, the way your mind races behind your pretty eyes as if trying to understand why his name and face were inexplicably familiar to you. For a brief second, he allows a speck of hope to bloom: your love for him is enough to overcome the ability that was used to wipe your memories of him. 

“You’re an author,” you say suddenly, finally realizing why he seems so familiar to you. The spec of hope that had begun to bloom withers in an instant—his throat feels swollen, and his mouth is dry. “I read your book.”

What.

“What?” Dazai asks hoarsely, voicing his thoughts aloud as he stares at you. “You—”

“That’s what it is. I knew your face was familiar, but your name is what made me realize,” you add more to yourself than to him. 

Dazai wants to be disappointed that it’s not just you subconsciously recognizing him, that your love for him is not strong enough to outweigh the effects of the ability used on you, but he can’t be because he’s frozen at the idea of you actually having read his book. He’s wondered over the past few months if you’ve seen it around—when he first published it, it started gaining a lot of traction. It’s still pretty popular; he has people come up to him to talk to him about it, and he always thought maybe you would see his face or hear his name in passing, that maybe when you did, a part of you would subconsciously miss him. That he could haunt you like you’ve haunted him. 

He never imagined you would’ve fucking read it.

“You read my book?” Dazai presses, his voice almost as faint as he feels. The ground suddenly feels uneven, and the stool he’s sitting on sways. He has to try to casually reach for the bartop to pretend like he’s not having to steady himself. 

“Yeah,” you say, and don’t add anything else. 

Dazai turns his head to the side to look at you. Did you think it was bad? Why aren’t you saying anything else? He wonders, a bit horrified by the thought. When you don’t make any effort to explain how you feel about it, Dazai grimaces and forces himself to speak up.

“And… what did you think?”

He’s not sure if he actually wants to know the answer.

“It was good,” you say simply, but Dazai can tell that’s not your full opinion. He can hear the unsaid ‘but’, and he doesn’t want to know what that ‘but’ is, yet he finds himself pressing anyway.

“But…?” he prompts, against better judgment. 

You look at him, that empty look that’s been lingering in your eyes is replaced, a bit more entertained now as you look over him curiously, as if trying to decide whether or not you actually want to tell him the ‘but.’ Dazai’s fingers thrum impatiently against the bartop as he waits for you to speak, and you notice from the way you glance down and then back up to his face. 

“The ending was interesting,” you finally say.

Dazai blanches. “Interesting?”

“It was cynical,” you amend, and Dazai’s eye twitches. “The whole novel was built up to expect a happy ending, and you had the main couple just leave each other at the end. It came out of nowhere. I didn’t like it.”

“Sometimes, people don’t get happy endings, and sometimes, it happens when you don’t expect it,” Dazai spits, a bit too bitterly from the way you raise your eyebrows, the corner of your lips curling up in amusement. Dazai isn’t quite as entertained, wondering where you get the audacity to say you didn’t like the ending that you gave him. “It’s realistic. People don’t get happy endings. Clearly.”

“Clearly,” you echo, sounding all too entertained by the conversation that has Dazai’s blood boiling.

“What? And you think it’s not realistic? Is that it?” Dazai turns his head away from you instantly, taking a long sip of his drink to try to quell the way his stomach churns.

“I think it’s cynical,” you repeat. “They clearly loved each other—there was no reason for them to split the way they did.”

Dazai’s head snaps back in your direction. “Well, that’s life—one minute, someone loves you, and you’re their whole world, and the next, they toss you aside. You’re forgotten, left behind. And they just move on like you never even existed.”

“Cynical,” you say again, and Dazai wants to throttle you for it, but he refrains. “People don’t just forget someone that they loved. It’s not possible—you can’t forget someone who was once so important to you.”

“Impossible?” Dazai asks through gritted teeth. “What about you? You’ve never forgotten about someone important to you?”

The amusement on your face fades as you study him a bit more carefully; Dazai realizes miserably that he’s being way too obvious with his resentment toward you, and you’re going to get suspicious. And you don’t know him, the last thing he needs is to be on the Port Mafia’s radar like this.

… Or maybe, it might not necessarily be a bad thing, he thinks, mind starting to race with possibilities. You told him how Ilya Repin’s ability worked while in the safe house. Now that you’ve followed through with your plan, the Three Deaths should officially be subsumed into the Port Mafia, meaning there’s a high chance that Repin is still somewhere in Yokohama, and with him, the painting that stole your memories of him. 

If he could find it…

“What do you mean?” you finally question, and Dazai’s drawn back to reality.

He averts his gaze from you immediately. “Nothing,” he replies quietly, the fight draining from him instantly when he sees your brows furrowed in confusion. “It’s nothing.”

Your lips part to speak, but you’re interrupted when the door to the bar slams open harshly. You don’t even turn around to see who entered before you roll your eyes, giving Dazai a wry smile. “I’m afraid that’s my cue, my keeper has arrived.”

You rise to your feet to leave, your drink still untouched on the bar in front of you. Dazai’s gaze lingers on you for a second before he looks to the door, eyes shooting open when he sees none other than Nakahara Chuuya standing there. The man is livid, and Dazai can hear the litany of curses about to spill from his lips, but tilts his head curiously when it never comes. 

It doesn’t come because he’s too busy staring at Dazai, eyes wide and lips parted.

Does he… recognize Dazai?

Dazai straightens in his seat, brows furrowing as he observes Chuuya carefully. You seem to notice the odd reaction, too, from the way you squint at your executive. This shouldn’t be possible, though—the plan was that everyone would have their memories of Dazai wiped in order to ensure that there was no evidence that he was ever connected to the Port Mafia. Connected to you. There’s no way Chuuya should know who he is, but that expression was damning; it’s like he knows exactly who Dazai is and knows the implications of you running into Dazai by chance.

“We’ll talk later,” Chuuya finally says, voice rough. “Let’s go.”

You sigh, looking thoroughly disappointed as you glance back at Dazai once, an odd expression on your face. He thinks maybe you’ll say something, but you don’t, and the bitterness he feels returns with a vengeance. 

He calls your name as you turn your back to him, and when you pause, he says, “Red is your color.”

It’s not a compliment, it’s him sharpening a knife that he’s preparing to jab into your chest, but he guises it as one because you don’t know that he knows what he does. You stiffen at his words, and Dazai’s suspicions are confirmed when Chuuya shoots him a vicious look behind your back. He knows.

“Yeah? My father used to say the same,” you say, voice a bit too tense to be casual.

“Used to?” Dazai presses, readying the knife against your skin.

You hum in agreement. “Used to. He passed.”

Passed, Dazai thinks mockingly. He makes sure to hide his scathing tone as he smiles sweetly and drives the dagger right into your heart, “I’m sure he would be proud of you.”

You don’t respond, but Dazai can see the way your head hangs a bit lower at his words, and your hand lifts to toy with the ribbon around your neck. For a brief second, Dazai feels gleeful—he’s glad that he can hurt you, even just a little—but the momentary satisfaction dissipates quickly. He doesn’t like hurting you, but more than that, he knows whatever pain he might’ve caused with his words is still nothing compared to the last six months he’s suffered. 

You leave without another word, and Chuuya follows after you, but not before giving Dazai another dirty look, one that promises that this isn’t the end. He sighs as he slumps over on the barstool. The satisfaction is long gone, the adrenaline rush that your appearance triggered has dissipated, and Dazai just feels sick again. He feels sick and lonely, but most of all, he just misses you. He misses you so bad that he thinks he might be willing to do anything to get your memories of him back

With that thought in mind, he fumbles for his phone and shoots a text to Ranpo before he can lose his nerve.

Dazai: ok. i’ll help but under one condition

Ranpo: knew you would :P deal

--------

Chuuya has been stiff since the two of you left the bar. You can tell that he’s waiting for you to say something, and that alone is proof that something weird is going on. You figure otherwise, you would’ve been scolded from the moment you stepped outside of the bar to the moment you slammed the door to your office in his face.

You don’t confront him right away—he’ll try to slip away if you make an attempt at cornering him, so you wait until the two of you are in the elevator going up to your office to say anything.

“Who was he?” you ask as soon as the doors slide shut, positioning yourself in a way so that he can’t reach the buttons without getting through you first. Chuuya stiffens as his gaze cuts to the side to focus on you. “The boy at the bar. You recognized him. How?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says tightly.

Your eyebrows shoot up at the blatant lie, mind spinning as you try to figure out why Chuuya would lie to you about this. The only thing he’s ever lied to you about before is whatever it is he knows about the Port Mafia’s regime change that eludes you. Could it be related? You doubt it—you’re not sure what some random one-hit-wonder author would have anything to do with a mafia coup—but it makes you feel a bit nervous, it makes you unsure of where you stand with the one person who has always been your other half. 

Why is he suddenly so comfortable lying to you? 

Why is he lying to you at all?

“And you’re lying to me about it,” you say tightly, swallowing thickly as your mind races for answers to your questions. 

He’s been distant lately—is it because there’s something going on that no one is telling you about? You know Chuuya wasn’t happy about your decision to demote Kouyou. Has it left him more resentful than you initially thought? You suddenly feel very, very alone. If you don’t have Chuuya solidly at your side, then who do you have? Klaus? Is that it? 

History moves in such vicious circles, doesn’t it? You remember the amused words Mori spoke to you many, many years ago—back when you’d followed him to the underground clinic before he became a doctor for the previous boss, when he would sit you at his desk and force you to read old textbooks and recite them to him because he refused to have an uneducated protege.

Doesn’t it? 

The previous boss was the right-hand of his father and took power from him by force; you heard it was a brutal execution, and people whispered that it should’ve been the first sign of madness. The previous boss was killed by Mori, the man he trusted to take care of him, a man who quickly became his right hand when his mind continued to deteriorate, and then Mori took control. Mori was killed by you, his heir, his second-in-command, his right hand, and then you took control.

Your gaze slowly tracks over to where Chuuya still refuses to look at you.

Doesn’t it? 

“I met him before,” Chuuya finally says, shaking his head, oblivious to your spiraling thoughts. “He was a fucking asshole. Don’t waste your time with him.”

“When did you meet him?” you ask, voice coming out a bit sharper than you intended. Chuuya gives you a wary look, like he’s only now realizing that something is seriously wrong, and you try to smooth your face out. “Just curious.”

“At the same bar,” Chuuya tells you. “A couple weeks ago. He was a little shit—drunk and insulting me as soon as I walked in.”

“Is that so?” you question flatly, eyes settling on him, watching the way his expression twists in frustration.

“Why would I lie to you about this?” Chuuya demands.

“I don’t know, Chuuya, why would you?”

A hurt expression flies across his face as he fully turns to face you, arms crossed over his chest. When he speaks, you can hear the anger dripping from his tone, but more than that, you hear the hurt. “What exactly are you accusing me of?”

Your shoulders slump, the fight draining from you when you see how betrayed Chuuya looks by your questions. Your voice wavers as you whisper, “I don’t know.”

He sighs at your answer and then steps forward. Your eyes slide shut as he rests his hand on top of your head. He brings his other hand up to cup the side of your face, tilting your head up to force you to look at him. You want to cry when you see the pain in his eyes as he studies your face. You chew on the inside of your cheek and try to look away, but he forces you to keep your gaze on him.

“I’m on your side,” he whispers, thumb running over your cheek. His other hand slides from the top of your head to hold your face between both of his hands. The leather of his gloves is coarse against your skin, but it’s achingly familiar—you’ve missed Chuuya desperately. “I’ve always been on your side.”

“Then why are you lying to me?” you ask weakly, hands coming up to curl around his wrists. “Chuuya, I feel so lost. I don’t understand what’s going on, I—”

Chuuya sighs and steps away as the elevator reaches the top floor of the building. The two of you walk down the hall past your guards and step into your office quietly. You walk over to the door in the back of the office, leading to the penthouse apartment. The moment you get in there, you feel suffocated again. The air is too heavy, and when you try to breathe in, it tastes stale and rotted. You look back at Chuuya to distract yourself and raise your eyebrows.

“Please,” he says, tired. “I can’t.”

You nod tightly and look around the apartment. It’s just as Mori left it—you’ve hardly touched it at all. You haven’t brought anything over from your own place. The walls are still black and empty except for some pinned-up crayon drawings of Elise’s, their bright colors feeling almost out of place. The living room is staged with gaudy decor, remnants of Mori’s taste, meant to impress any possible guest rather than comfort its owner. But the bedroom is stripped of everything personal, as cold and impersonal as a hotel room.

You like it this way. It’s easier to pretend you don’t actually live here, that this isn’t where you fall asleep at night, isn’t where you wake up to suffocating silence. You can almost pretend that Mori is still around, and you’re just occupying his space until he returns. But some nights, the weight of it settles too heavily on your chest, and the emptiness echoes too loudly for you to handle. Like tonight.

Chuuya follows you into the living room, expression unreadable as he glances around. “You still haven’t done anything with this place.”

“I haven’t,” you agree quietly, looking down at a picture on a nearby table. It’s of you, Mori and Elise—you were much younger then, it was taken when you were ten, still at the underground clinic, before he became the doctor for the previous boss. “Did I ever tell you how I met him?”

Chuuya doesn’t respond immediately. “How you met… Mori?”

“Mhm.”

“You didn’t,” he murmurs, taking a few steps closer to you to look down at the picture in front of you. “When you were still cute.”

“Hah,” you say, unamused, nudging his shoulder. “I lived on one of the main warfronts during the Great War before Tokoyami Island appeared and the fighting moved there.”

Chuuya lets out a noise of acknowledgment. “You told me that much.”

“It was a small village in a valley,” you continue quietly. “I don’t even… really remember where. The war was going on all around us, but the mountains and the forests kept us shielded from the worst of it. But we could hear it. Smell it. The gunfire and the explosives, the smoke was so thick that it reached our village. We couldn’t leave our houses without masks; there was a constant haze and—”

You cut yourself off as you look away, swallowing thickly. You feel Chuuya’s hand come to rest on your shoulder, concern rolling off of him in waves.

“I thought you didn’t remember any of this,” he says. “From before Mori found you.”

“I didn’t,” you reply, voice cracking. “Not until—”

Until you killed him. Until all of the memories you repressed came rushing through the floodgates without the one person who helped you hold them back.

“We weren’t supposed to leave the village,” you rasp. “They were scared that one wrong move would draw attention our way. I was seven, Chuuya. I didn’t understand, not really. I didn’t understand why my dad suddenly stopped bringing me out to the river—it was the only place where we could see the stars clearly, and I loved the stars, so I went to go see them on my own one night when everyone was asleep.” 

Chuuya says your name quietly, like he knows what you’re going to say, but he doesn’t. Your mouth is so dry that it feels like ash has built up in it, but you force yourself to continue.

“I didn’t even see him at first—the soldier,” you whisper. “He was hidden in the brush. Hurt. His leg was stuck in a bear trap, and he was dehydrated. He thought he was hallucinating when he saw me, thought I was an angel. He scared me, I wasn’t going to help him, but he was so young, Chuuya. He didn’t look any older than my cousin, and he was in so much pain, and he was so kind to me. Offered me the last of his food when he realized I was scared. I got him water and bandages and helped him free his leg. I was just a kid, I was only trying to help. I didn’t understand what I’d done.”

“That’s not your fault,” Chuuya says hoarsely. “Whatever happened wasn’t your fault, that’s—”

“By the next night, the village was burning,” you interrupt. “He got back to his regiment with my help, and he led them back to us. I don’t even remember his face now, but I remember him. I was playing with my brother by the well, and he stepped out of the tree line, and I didn’t even think I was seeing things right until my brother dropped his toys, but then the rest of his regiment followed, and the gunfire started, and the screaming. And he came up to me, and his eyes were empty. I’ve never seen anything like it before, it was—”

Chuuya starts to say your name, but you interrupt him, agitated. 

“Would you just listen?” you rasp, nails biting into your black jacket. “He didn’t kill me. I figured it was his way of repaying me for saving his life; he hit me over the head, and when I woke up, I was at the bottom of a pile of corpses.”

Chuuya inhales sharply. He reaches out hesitantly for your hand, and you let him hold it, but your hand remains limp in his.

“Do you know what death smells like?”

“I’ve killed—” he starts to murmur.

“No, the decay, Chuuya. For the first few hours, all you can smell is the blood,” you breathe out. “That’s what you smell. You never stick around for cleanup, and even if you did, cleanup always happens quickly. But after a day passes, the bodies start to decompose. It happens fast when it’s humid. And it was the middle of the rainy season. Hot. Muggy. By the end of the first day, all I could smell was rot.”

Chuuya looks sick, you can see it in the reflection of the picture you’re staring at, but his grip on your hand tightens.

“It’s so thick that you can taste it in your mouth when you try to breathe,” you say softly. “I tried to hold my breath at first, but that only made it worse because eventually I needed to breathe, and when I did, it was so…”

You don’t finish the sentence, lost in your own thoughts as you look up at the window looking over the city.

“And the flies,” you swallow thickly, almost gagging past the lump in your throat. “The flies showed up after the first day. The buzzing. There were so many of them, I wanted to cover my mouth, but my arms were pinned at my side. I still can’t take deep breaths without tasting the rot in the back of my throat. Sometimes when it’s too quiet, I can hear the buzzing of the flies around me.”

Chuuya lifts his free hand to wipe away a tear that you didn’t realize was rolling over your cheek.

“I could just barely see the sun rising and setting through the limbs above me. I was stuck beneath the corpses of my family members and neighbors for four days before a different regiment showed up—they saw the smoke. They started pulling the bodies off the pile to bury them, but I couldn’t even call out for help.”

You reach out for the picture on the table, brushing your thumb over Mori’s face.

“He was the first face I saw,” you whisper. “He didn’t even realize I was alive at first, but when he did, he pulled me out of the pile and carried me somewhere safe. I couldn’t speak or move for weeks; I was pretty much catatonic. His superiors wanted him to send me away, but he was the head physician and said I was better off with him. I don’t know if it’s because he realized I had an ability or if it was because he was worried about sending me away, that he knew I’d never be okay again back in the real world.”

 “He saved me, Chuuya,” you finish, turning to face Chuuya again. You reach out to grab his jacket, forcing him to look you in the eye. “Do you understand now why I can’t just accept I did what I did on a whim? On a suspicion that he used me as a scapegoat? Do you understand why I can’t just let it go—why I need to know what you’re keeping from me?”

Chuuya almost looks like he wants to cry when he looks down at you. You know his answer before he says it. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because you asked me to,” Chuuya finally says, hands reaching up to cradle your face again, begging you to listen. “Please, you have to stop asking.”

Asked him to, you think, even more confused than you were to begin with. Your mind races to put together the few pieces of the puzzle that Chuuya gave you. But why wouldn’t you remember asking him unless—

Repin?

“Repin,” you realize softly, looking up at him for answers. The heaviness in his eyes is enough of an answer. “And… does this boy from the bar have anything to do with it?” 

He sighs heavily, hands dropping to his side as he gives you a long look.

“No,” he answers after a moment. “That little shit doesn’t have anything to do with it.”

“Is that another lie?” you ask with a slight smile that wavers at the edges.

“No,” Chuuya says quietly. “It’s not.”

You search his face for something—anything—that will make this all make sense. That will make it hurt less. But there’s nothing. Just that same pained look, the weight of everything he isn’t saying pressing down on you incessantly. 

Your fingers loosen their grip on his jacket, slipping away as your shoulders slump. You don’t know what you were hoping for. Answers? Closure? Neither would bring Mori back. Neither would fix whatever had broken inside you the moment you pulled the trigger. Neither would rid yourself of the rot in the back of your throat or the buzzing in your ears.

Your head tilts slightly, eyes flickering toward the window. The city outside is bright, alive—but you feel impossibly far from it, like you’re watching from the wrong side of a one-way mirror. The top of this building is a prison; the scarf around your neck is a shackle. 

A humorless chuckle slips past your lips. “It never ends, does it?” you murmur. Your breath hitches, and you tilt your head back to look up at the ceiling. “This will never end. I’m so tired, Chuuya.”

“I know,” he whispers, reaching up to brush your hair behind your ear. “I know, I’m so sorry.”

“I just want a break,” you say shakily, leaning into his touch for a moment. “I just need a break.”

Your lips part as you look up at him again, his eyes are dark as he looks down at you, entirely unreadable. You shift your weight forward, closing the space between you again. You lift your hand to trace the light scar on his cheek before sliding to cup his jaw. His lashes flutter as he turns his face into your touch like he always has, the familiar warmth of his skin seeping into your fingertips. You look at him through your lashes, studying his face carefully as you run your thumb over his bottom lip. 

“Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” you breathe out, thumb pressing down gently on his bottom lip. He swallows thickly, pupils dilating as his lips instinctively part for you. Your lips curl up into a teasing smile that’s a bit frayed at the edges. “Like old times?” 

He lets out a shaky breath, and your hand slides down from his face to cradle the side of his neck, thumb tracing slow circles against his pulse. You lean in to ghost your lips against his jaw before trailing slow kisses down the column of his throat, savoring the way his breath hitches and how his muscles tense beneath your touch. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s not sure if he should reach out to grab your hip or push you away.

“Please,” you murmur, kissing his pulse point once before resting your head in the crook of his neck. Your hands slide down his body to rest on his waist before you slip them around him, holding him close. You press your body closer to his, your breath shaky against his skin, feeling his warmth, his presence—the one thing that grounds you in the suffocating haze of what has become your life. “Please, I need one night to forget. I can’t keep going like this.”

Chuuya tenses under your touch, and for a moment, he’s utterly still. The silence stretches between you, too heavy, and you hold your breath as you wait, heart hammering in your chest. His hands finally move—one settles at your hip, the other curls into a fist at his side. 

For a second, he doesn’t push you away.

After what feels like an eternity, he exhales sharply and grips your shoulders, pushing you back just enough to look you in the eye. His gaze is dark and conflicted, and your heart sinks.

“We can’t,” he says quietly. “I can’t.”

“Please,” you whisper again, voice cracking as you shift closer to him. Your fingers hook in his belt loops, clinging to him desperately. “Just for one night.”

You don’t wait for an answer—you don’t want to hear his rejection. You lean in to press your lips against his. They’re warm and familiar, tasting of red wine and nicotine—you’ve kissed Chuuya a million times before, you’ve always felt most at home with him, but it feels… wrong this time, and you don’t know why. 

Frustrated, you press yourself into him again, lifting your hands to cup his cheeks. You slant your lips against his to deepen the kiss, trying to remind yourself of what this used to be. You barely notice the wetness against your lips until the salty taste seeps in.

When did you start crying?

Chuuya kisses you back, but there’s no heat behind it—it’s empty, he’s just going through the motions. His lips move chastely against yours, never taking the step to deepen the kiss, and you know it’s another rejection. When he pulls back to rest his forehead against yours, you take in a ragged breath, swallowing a sob.

“I can’t give you what you want,” he murmurs.

A shudder racks through your body, fingers digging into his shirt as you press your face against his chest. His hand comes to rest between your shoulder blades, holding you close to him.

“I don’t know what to do,” you gasp, speaking the words out loud for the first time. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Chuuya. I don’t know what to do about Cao Xueqin. I can’t get him to back down. And the government is threatening to send the Hunting Dogs to Yokohama—I don’t know what to do. He would—he would, and he’s gone, and he’s gone because of me. I need him, Chuuya, I don’t know why I did this, I don’t get it, I—”

Your words break into another sob as Chuuya presses his lips to your forehead, arm tightening around you as you collapse into him. He shifts to he can sit down on the couch, pulling you into his lap and cradling you in his arms. He presses your ear to his chest so that you can hear his heartbeat, stroking your hair gently as you let yourself break down in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. We’ll get through this.”

It’s not the first time, and certainly won’t be the last time, that Chuuya’s words of reassurance do little to keep your anxiety at bay. Paired with his gentle rejection, it’s useless against the war that’s raging within you. You need to quell the doubt in your mind, the paranoia devouring all of your logical thoughts, the voice in the back of your head that gnaws at your mind and tells you that this isn’t right. But you’re exhausted, so instead of searching for answers or seeking out a body to numb your mind, you allow yourself this moment to drown.

--------

Dazai knows what he signed up for when he agreed to help the Armed Detective Agency. He’s been warring with it since he got home from the bar last night. Helping the Armed Detective Agency means working against you—he knew this when he messaged Ranpo, but it was different actually hearing the plans happening around him.

“Getting the new mayor out of office or trying to apprehend and imprison one of the most dangerous ability users in the world, I think one is quite obviously less dangerous than the other,” Ranpo says dryly, sticking a lollipop in his mouth as he kicks his feet up onto the conference table. “One is also less likely to bring the entire wrath of the Port Mafia down on us. If only marginally.”

“How are we supposed to get the mayor out of office without getting information from the Port Mafia?” Yosano asks, shaking her head. “Pictures of him talking to suspected mafia affiliates aren’t enough to get the assembly to vote him out. We need actual correspondence. Proof that he’s just an extension of the Mafia.”

An extension of you, Dazai finishes when Yosano spares a look in his direction. His fingers are stiff in his lap—he should probably speak up, he’s not even supposed to be here, he’s only here to give some insight into the Port Mafia and he hasn’t helped with much of anything, but every time his lips part to speak, he tastes ash in his mouth.

“I could apply for a job in the city hall,” one of the office workers, Haruno, offers quietly from the corner of the room where she’s taking notes for the meeting. “There’s an open job posting for a secretary at the—”

“Out of the question,” Fukuzawa says immediately, raising his hand to silence Haruno. “We will not be putting our office workers at risk.”

“But President,” Haruno protests, setting down her notepad. “The best way to get this information is to get on the inside—”

“No,” Fukuzawa interrupts firmly, crossing his leg over his knee as he leans back in his chair. “Whether we’re directly up against the mafia or going at this from a side angle, this is going to be dangerous. Our detectives will be the ones to handle this, but—”

“Going through it that way will take too long,” Ranpo says dismissively, head tilted back to look at the ceiling. “Plus, it’s not reliable enough. There’s no telling if you’ll get the job, and if you do, if you’ll have the clearance you need to get the information we need. We need to be more direct than that—”

“We can’t just storm the city hall, Ranpo,” Kunikida sighs, pushing his glasses up. “That’s a great way to get us thrown in jail.”

“What about—”

“I met her the other night,” Dazai finally says loudly, too abruptly. He swallows thickly when all eyes turn onto him. His gaze flickers over to Yosano, who looks concerned, and then to Ranpo, who doesn’t look surprised. “Her.”

They all exchange looks with one another, and though Dazai technically knows he is an outsider, the Agency has never made him feel like one before now. He could only imagine what they’re thinking—wondering if he’s going to rat them out to you, wondering if their plan is doomed before they’ve even fully begun. He knows they don’t trust him; they don’t really have much of a reason to, but it still makes his stomach flip. His throat tightens, fingers tensing in his lap as he looks down.

“What do you mean?” Yosano demands after a moment of silence. “She sought you out?”

“No. No,” Dazai says immediately. “She… didn’t even know it was me. It was just by chance.”

“She didn’t know it was you?” Kunikida splutters. “How is that possible—?” 

“What happened between you two, Dazai?” Yosano asks quietly, and Dazai’s heart sinks, a lump forming in his throat as he stares down at the table. He knows there’s no getting out of it this time, and he has to brace himself as he decides what to say. “We have to know before doing all of this.”

“She wiped her memories of me. Her and everyone who knew about me. All traces of our—” Dazai cuts himself off, taking in a shuddered breath before exhaling. “That’s not the point. The point is, I know the places she frequents. I can get the information you need if I can get close to her again. I can—”

I can do exactly what I was accused of. 

The thought rings through his head too loudly; his stomach churns, remembering the accusations Mori hurled at him and the betrayal on your face. He would be doing exactly what he was accused of. But it’s for the better, right? If he gets close to you, he’ll have a better chance at finding the painting that Repin used to take your memories of him, and if he finds some information to help the Agency, then there’s less of a chance that the military police will be sent in to deal with the Port Mafia and less of a chance that you’ll be caught in the crossfires or targeted yourself.

“Out of the question,” Fukuzawa repeats, dismissing Dazai immediately. “You are a civilian. I was against even letting you stay here for mission preparation, but Ranpo insisted on it. We are not sending you into the heart of it.”

“I haven’t been a civilian in a long time, you all know that, and I have the best chance of anyone here,” Dazai argues, sitting up in his seat. He ignores the nausea creeping up his throat. “I know her. I know all the places she likes to go. If one of you tries to do this and gets caught, you’ll be lucky if she kills you. You have no idea what she did to the journalists trying to expose her. But I know her, so—”

“But she doesn’t know you, Dazai,” Yosano interrupts, voice unusually gentle. “You’ll be at risk.”

“No,” Dazai says, swallowing thickly. His pulse is pounding; he has to blink to clear his vision. “No, she wouldn’t hurt me, she—”

“You can’t be sure of that,” Kunikida says. “She’s boss of the most dangerous mafia in the eastern hemisphere—maybe the world right now. If she figures out that you’re trying to get close to her for information, she’ll kill you just like she would any of us.”

“She won’t,” Dazai insists. He knows it in his heart. Even if you can’t remember him, you’d never hurt him, and it would never get to that point because—“She made sure that her second-in-command kept his memories of me. If things go wrong, I can go to him and he’ll intervene—”

“This is ridiculous.” Kunikida shakes his head, expression twisted in concern. “There are too many holes. It’ll never work. If you get close to her and he notices and realizes what you’re doing, it’ll blow everything up. And there’s no guarantee that he’ll save you if you mess up—”

“No, it’s perfect,” Ranpo says as he sits up in his seat, glasses hanging on the bridge of his nose as he looks down at all of the pictures on the conference table. “Wiping conscious memories might not necessarily affect the subconscious. He’s right—she might not hurt him, might even be blind to his real intentions because her subconscious is at ease with him. And if things do happen to go wrong, he has an extraction plan that has nothing to do with us.”

“And if that extraction plan goes wrong?” Kunikida demands. “There’s no telling it’ll work—we’re betting everything, his life, on a maybe. Just because he thinks the second-in-command of a mafia boss remembers him, how do we know he’ll protect him if things go wrong?”

“Because,” Ranpo says, lips curling up into a smug smirk as he leans forward to look at Dazai, “this whole transition of power happened to keep you safe, didn’t it?”

Dazai stiffens. The weight of Ranpo’s words slams into him, knocking the breath from his lungs. His mind reels back to the last night he spent with you at the safe house—the resignation on your face, the anguish in your eyes when you realized what had to be done. You made the choice to kill the closest thing you had to a father to protect him.

And now, here he is conspiring against you.

He feels sick so suddenly that he has to physically steady himself by grabbing the arms of his seat. He tells himself again that this is for the best—he needs to get close to you anyway, he needs to find the painting that took away your memories of him because he needs you back, and if the government doesn’t get something, then there’s going to be a military operation in Yokohama that you’ll be at the center of. 

Going behind your back to get a few files to incriminate your friend is nothing compared to that.

Right?

“I was trying to figure out what the missing piece was,” Ranpo continues with a grin, looking mighty pleased with himself. “From what I knew about Miss Mafia Princess through Akiko, she never would’ve killed Mori without a reason. It was to protect you—she wiped her memories to not drag you back in, wiped everyone else’s to keep you safe, but let someone she trusted keep their memories to intervene in case she made a mistake somewhere along the way. It was all to keep you safe.”

Dazai gnaws at the inside of his cheek. This is too much for him in one day—seeing you yesterday had been too much, and now this—now working with the Agency, working against you, having all of this brought up again and thrown right in his face—

“I think I should go,” Dazai suddenly says, standing so fast his chair scrapes violently against the floor. “Let me know if you want my help.”

“Dazai—” Yosano starts to call after him, but Dazai is already tunnel-visioned on the door, making his way out of the conference room rapidly. 

“Dazai,” Ranpo repeats. Dazai pauses, but doesn’t look back. “Do it. Get close to her. See what you can find out.”

Dazai glances over his shoulder. Fukuzawa looks displeased, but Dazai has learned that they seem to know better than to question Ranpo’s decisions, so he’s not entirely surprised when the older man nods in agreement. 

Dazai exhales shakily before nodding in return and quickly making his way out of the office. He only gets into the hallway before he’s keeling over, hands on his knees as he breathes in deeply. His head is swimming, his chest is so heavy that he feels like he’s being crushed. He clenches his fists as he tries to push away the nausea rising in his throat, pressing his forehead against the cool wall. He squeezes his eyes shut, willing his mind to go blank, but the weight in his chest refuses to lift.

His fingers tremble as he exhales slowly, trying to force the ache into something manageable. It doesn’t work. His thoughts are relentless, whispering accusations in the dark corners of his mind.

Conspiring against you. Doing exactly what he was accused of. 

It’s unforgivable. 

But it’s for the best, he tries to convince himself desperately. He needs you back, and you need him. Dazai knows it; he could see it in your face just from that brief meeting—you’re lost and lonely, just like him. Despite your betrayal, despite his resentment, despite his desire to hate you, he still loves you. He’ll always love you. He needs to find the painting Repin created that stores your memories of him, so he can destroy it, so you two can have each other again. And he needs to help the Agency find something to get Lippmann out of office, otherwise the military police is going to rain hell down on Yokohama, on you.

It’s for the best.

Dazai presses his knuckles to his lips, biting down on the skin hard enough to hurt, desperate for something to anchor himself, but he’s drowning in memories of you now. The warmth of your skin against his, the way you would gently cradle his face between your hands, the adoration in your eyes as you looked down at him—he needs you back. Everything he’s tried to push away for months crashes onto him at once. 

The months of anger and resentment have drained for the time being—all he wants is you, and he’ll do anything to have you back again. 

Anything.

--------

The grand chandeliers of the New National Theater glitter like a thousand tiny stars, casting warm, golden light over velvet-lined balconies and the sea of elegantly dressed patrons below. The air is thick with perfume, candle wax, and the hushed anticipation of the evening’s performance. Usually, you wear your suits to your weekly trips to the opera house—you come here for business, not pleasure—but tonight, you’re dressed in a gown.

You move through the crowd easily, your heels clicking against the marble floor. Your executives think that you’re meeting with an informant for intel. You don’t give them specifics. You don’t need to—you’re the boss now. But you give them just enough that they’re not suspicious—that Chuuya’s not suspicious—you don’t need him, of all people, to know who you’re really meeting. 

Anticipation curls low in your stomach, fingers twitching in the silk of your gloves. You don’t know what you expect from tonight, but you know what you want, and that’s why you came dressed in your nicest gown and in the color he likes best on you.

You reach the box and pause in front of the heavy velvet curtain. A slow inhale, a careful exhale, and then you push inside.

He’s already here.

Seated in his chair with one arm draped lazily over the backrest, Fyodor Dostoevsky looks as unbothered as ever, as if this is simply another night at the opera instead of a meeting between enemies. 

“You’re late,” he murmurs when he hears you enter. “The show has almost begun.”

His gaze flicks over his shoulder to assess you, violet eyes widening just a smidge when he sees your attire. His lips curl up into an unreadable smile, something between amusement and curiosity, but he rises to his feet to greet you. He holds out his hand and you place yours in it, breath catching when he bows his head down to brush his lips against your knuckles. 

When he lifts his head back up, he doesn’t let go of your hand.

His fingers tighten around yours, cold despite your gloves. His smile remains in place, but his eyes are as calculated and knowing as ever. In spite of everything, you find yourself enjoying the weekly mind games and power plays that take place between you and Dostoevsky.

“You dressed up for me,” Dostoevsky hums, voice soft as silk, thumb brushing over the inside of your wrist, a feather-light touch that sends a ripple of heat down your spine. “I’m flattered. You look beautiful—I did tell you that red is your color, didn’t I?”

He has said those words to you before—the first time you met him here—but for some reason, your mind draws back to the boy you met at the bar instead. His face flashes through your mind—smiling, eyes warm as he meets yours, which is odd because he didn’t smile at all during your brief encounter with him, and he certainly wasn’t warm; he was angry and bitter about whatever was bothering him.

Weird.

“I dressed for myself,” you reply smoothly before your prolonged silence becomes suspicious. “Though I suppose it’s a happy coincidence.”

His lips curl up into a smirk. “How fortunate for me, then.”

He tugs lightly on your hand, guiding you a step closer. His touch is deceptively gentle, but there’s something beneath it—a quiet command, a reminder of who he is and what he’s capable of. 

He’s playing with you. He always is. 

You don’t usually entertain it, tonight you do.

You could pull away, but you don’t. You let him guide you forward until your chest nearly brushes his, and you don’t push away his other hand when it comes to rest on your waist.

His gaze remains fixed on yours, eyes lidded and pupils a smidge larger than they should be. “I wonder,” he muses, voice dipping lower, “what it is you truly want from me tonight.”

The question should put you on edge. Instead, it makes the heat spread from your abdomen to your chest, fire coursing through your whole body. You don’t answer right away, letting the silence stretch and the tension rise between the two of you. 

Will you admit it? Or will the two of you spend another evening dancing around what it is you both really want? 

He wants you to say it, you know that, but you fear it might cross a line that shouldn’t be crossed. Fyodor Dostoevsky is your enemy still, and it’s only a matter of time before he makes his move on Yokohama. It would not look good if word spread about your meetings with him when it happened, and it could be exactly what he’s plotting to smear your reputation.

“What I always want from you,” you say at last, tilting your chin up. His face is so close to yours that you can feel his breath against your lips. “Information.”

His smile widens, teeth glittering like knives beneath the warm lighting of the opera house, and the thumb on your wrist presses down, just enough for him to feel the steady, rapid beat of your pulse beneath it. “Is that so?”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you,” you offer, a lie, and he knows it from the way his eyes glimmer with amusement. “Would that be so strange?” 

“Strange?” he echoes, entertained. “Not at all. But terribly dangerous, don’t you think?”

You know what he means. You’ve known from the moment you started these little meetings, these clandestine encounters dressed up as you meeting an informant. You shouldn’t be here, standing so close to him, entertaining whatever this tension is between you. But the thrill of it—of knowing that you shouldn’t and doing it anyway—makes you stay. Gives you something to look forward to when you have nothing.

Dostoevsky leans in just enough that his breath ghosts the shell of your ear when he speaks. “You intrigue me,” he breathes out. The confession is quiet, meant only for you. “No one plays games with me quite like you do. I enjoy our meetings very much.”

You turn your head to the side just enough that your lips skim his jaw. His throat bobs at your brief touch, and your lips curl up into a pleased smile. You make your decision.

“Or maybe I want something else tonight,” you continue, like he didn’t speak at all, your voice quiet. He turns his face to look at you—you’re so close that your lips almost brush his when you speak, but you don’t let it deter you. “Indulge me?” 

His chuckle is soft, and he pulls back just enough to look at you again, violet eyes glinting under the golden light of the chandeliers. He lifts your hand again, pressing a lingering kiss to the inside of your wrist as the lights of the opera house finally start to dim, signaling the start of tonight’s performance.

“I will indulge you in anything, darling.”

[lazysoulwriter]

center of his universe. - pedro pascal. ── .✦

requested! thank you. content: soft!pedro, established relationship, pre-red carpet nerves, gentle reassurance, protective energy, proud boyfriend vibes, reader attends her first premiere

---

You and Pedro have been quietly in love for months now. Private, not secret. At least, that’s how he always puts it.

Your hands held under tables. Your Polaroids framed on his nightstand, just out of the camera’s reach during interviews. Your name never spoken publicly, but always felt in the softest parts of him—his calmer voice, his gentler smile, the sparkle in his eyes when no one else knows he’s thinking about you.

But lately, things have been… shifting. The internet’s started to notice. A few side glances at parties. One (very grainy) photo of you walking behind him at the airport. A comment under one of his posts: who’s the mystery girl with the pink nails?

So when he comes home, flops dramatically on the couch, and says, “Come to the premiere with me,” your whole body stills.

You blink. “You mean like… with you. With you?”

He sits up, like he’s already bracing himself for the incoming spiral. “With me. Next to me. Holding my hand. Wearing something that’ll make me black out the second I see you.”

You swallow. “Pedro, that’s… I’ve never done that. I’ve never been on a red carpet. I don’t know how to stand, or pose, or what to do with my hands. I don’t want to ruin it for you.”

And his expression softens in that way it always does when you doubt yourself. Like it actually hurts him a little.

He reaches out and pulls you gently into his lap. Hands firm on your hips, grounding. “You’re not ruining anything. You’re making it better. I want you there, baby. I want the world to see the woman I’m in love with.”

You hide your face in his neck. “I’ll trip.”

“I’ll trip first.” “I’ll blink weird in the photos.” “Then we’ll be blinking together.” “What if I freak out and cry?” “Then I’ll hold your hand and remind you that you’re mine and you deserve to be exactly where you are.”

He tilts your face up to his, kisses your nose. “You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be there.” Then, smirking: “Besides, you’re gonna look so hot. Paparazzi lenses might actually melt.”

—

On the day of the premiere, you’re shaking in the backseat of the black SUV. Pedro’s fingers are laced with yours. Your dress is stunning—he helped pick it, obviously—and your stylist kept saying “ethereal” over and over.

But all you can think is: What if I look like I don’t belong next to him?

Pedro must sense it, because he leans in close, mouth brushing your ear. “You do belong. You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. The second we step out, people are going to fall in love with you. Just like I did.”

You glance at him, wide-eyed. “You really think so?”

“I know so.” He kisses your hand. “And if you get overwhelmed, squeeze twice. I’ll take you home. No questions asked.”

The door opens. The lights flash. The screams are loud.

But his hand is firm in yours, and his smile is calm and bright and proud. Like he’s not just introducing you to the world—he’s claiming you.

And later, when the photos are out and everyone’s talking and the internet’s buzzing, you find the moment he turned to you, eyes soft and glowing, while the cameras caught it all.

“Who’s she?” they ask. “Is this Pedro Pascal’s girlfriend?”

He doesn’t say anything on social media. But the next day, he posts the photo with your hands intertwined, your smile tucked into his shoulder. Caption: mine.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[lafortezasboy]

LET ME LOVE YOU.

ariana grande

( part two of: one last time )

— summary: it’s been a few days after the party and you and sophia have been keeping contact. with daily check in’s with her and making sure she’s okay, you have to make sure that your girlfriend doesn’t find suspicion either. sophia was impatient. when were you going to end it with her? taking matters into her own hands, she decided to do something about it.

— warnings/tags: gn!reader, nonidol!sophia, cheating, afab!reader, dom!sophia, sub!reader, oral (r and s receiving), fingering (r receiving), risky sex, use of “yn”, dirty talk, mommy kink, finger sucking, slight gagging, pet name “puppy”, not proofread

— a/n: i lowkey forgot this was an au and in the beginning i had put yoonchae and sophia in the same room, but pretend they’re in separate rooms but are still roommates. the other kats live in other apartments together as roommates ykwim. you got me? okay.

when are you going to leave her?

soon.

sophia sighed at your reply, tossing her phone on the bed as she rolled in her blankets and groaned quietly. soon? you’ve said that a dozen times ever since that party! does soon just mean a year for you? it’s like you cared for your girlfriend’s feelings more than hers… she grabbed her phone again, noticing how you didn’t send a double text. you were busy. were you too busy being your girlfriend’s instead of being hers?

“yn?” your girlfriend called after you sent the text. you snapped your head back to look at the door and you smiled lightly.

“hi, my love,” you greeted softly, standing from the couch to greet her properly. “did you buy the pizza for tonight?” you asked as you helped carry the tote bag filled to the brim with items from the grocery store.

“of course i did,” she replies with a giddy smile, biting her bottom lip slightly as she pulls the frozen pizza from one of the other bags.

“it was this brand, right?” she asks, looking up at you. you nodded with a smile.

“you got it,” you assured with a thumbs up. taking everything out of the tote bags, you began to place the food in their rightful places instead of on the counter or in the bag. you took your time sorting them out, making sure that everything was in place. you’ve been living with her for about three months now. it’s not hard to adjust to a small apartment. when you went to store the cereal boxes in the cabinets, your arm reaching up, you felt her own arms wrap around your waist. it felt…weird. it hasn’t felt this weird and uncomfortable before.

though, she didn’t sense this. her kisses began to go from your shoulder to the back of your neck. you called out her name, but her hands slipping under your shirt.

“please?” she asks you quietly, kissing your ear after she had asked.

reluctantly, you gave into her needs. you turned around and kissed her lips. they didn’t fit as perfectly, but they were kissable. she tugged you closer, backing up until you two entered the room of hers.

by the time night fell, you couldn’t sleep. you tossed and turned beside your girlfriend, hoping you didn’t wake her up. before you could even think, your feet moved and went into the kitchen. you maneuvered to the cabinets, opening them and grabbing a glass cup before pouring yourself some water.

you took your phone out, leaning against the counter as you looked at your dry lockscreen. no texts. you swiped up and opened sophia’s icon.

“read, huh?” you murmured as you read the little grey letters under your speech bubble. it’s been over six hours since she’s last seen your message. you sighed, putting your phone down. you closed your eyes, tilting your head up. soon. you picked up your phone again. as if on cue, sophia texted you.

i can’t sleep :(

maybe try to

why’d you text me so fast?

you can’t sleep either…can you?

caught in the act, you can’t deny the smile that lit up from your face as she asked you those questions.

so what if i can’t?

come over

i can help, i promise.

you don’t think your heart’s ever beat this fast. you looked at the cracked open door. you’ll be back before she wakes up. you moved quietly to the front door, slipping your shoes on and grabbing your keys. you swore you almost sped down the streets just to get to her apartment. going to her apartment without needing the gps felt so…nostalgic.

once you exited the car and headed towards the doors, sophia was already waiting there in order to bring you into her apartment.

“yoonchae’s asleep,” she mentions her roommate, looking at you with a finger to her lips.

“we have to be quiet.”

you hummed, “yes, ma’am.”

she turns away from you, a small roll of her eyes escaping before she tried to hide her smile. walking up a flight of stairs, you finally ended up back in her apartment. walking through the creaky hallway, she shoved you into her room. when you looked around, you didn’t see a difference. she didn’t change that much either. before you knew it, sophia launches herself onto you, lips immediately attacking yours. a perfect fit. those familiar lips were finally back onto yours, and it felt as heavenly as it did before.

“cmon, baby…” sophia husks out between kisses, moving to gently push you onto her bed. she looks down at you before straddling your hips. she doesn’t waste her time, lips attaching onto your neck. though, she pauses.

“you do went at it, huh?” sophia sneered out quietly, her nails tracing the fresh hickeys your girlfriend left on you earlier today. she felt possessive. you were hers. you always have been.

“do you know how to say no, yn?” she asks you. “because if you knew you were mine,” she leans back down, “you would’ve said no to her.” sophia doesn’t hesitate to bite down onto your neck. you winced, hands on her shoulder as she bites down a bit harder.

“s- soph!” you stuttered, squirming under her.

she hums softly in fake confusion, moving her kisses down as she pretends she hasn’t done anything.

“i wonder,” she whispers, as her fingers hook into your pajama pants, “do you still fit around my fingers like you used to?” sophia kisses your exposed pelvis, her left hand pulling from your pants to push your shirt up a bit to expose your stomach.

“you used to be tight, wet, sweet,” she lists out. a quiet moan escapes right after at the thought. she’s missed you.

“find out,” you challenged her, trying your best to keep a steady voice. but the feeling of her lips against your pelvis and her voice made you nervous, your voice breathy and shaking a bit. sophia hums and taps the side of your hip, gesturing you to lift your hips for her. you obliged and she swiftly took both your pants and underwear off.

“find out…” sophia repeats. “will you let m-”

“yes,” you replied quickly, “fuck yes.”

sophia laughs humorously at your eagerness and she hums before moving to gently kiss down your thighs. her right hand sneaks between your thighs, her other holding your right thigh open. her thumb circles your clit slowly and softly, making you whine and squirm.

“you can’t be that sensitive,” she assumes hotly against your skin, considering you had sex with your girlfriend earlier.

“what if- what if i am?”

sophia smirked slightly. “then i’m the one who made you this sensitive after all,” she whispers. before she could even hear what you were going to say, she dived in and began to suck at your clit. she moaned softly, eyes shutting as she tasted you.

“sweet…” she describes against you, forcing vibrations through your body.

you let out moans, trying to be quiet as yoonchae was dead asleep across the hall from them. with your left hand in her hair and your right slammed right against your mouth, she went even further. she doesn’t want you to hide your noises, even if her roommate was asleep. your moans only gradually grew a bit louder, still trying your best to keep it quiet.

“so- sophi- sophia…?” you questioned out through a sputter of moans. she only hums against you, the vibrations once again sending down your body.

“slow- slow down,” you tried to say. when you told her this, her tongue circled around your clit and she sucks a bit harder.

“ahh- so- sophie, please…” you stuttered out.

sophia pulls back after a bit and she roughly rubs her thigh against you, making you bite your lip and muffle another moan.

“you’re so demanding,” she murmurs as she pushes her lips against yours, letting you taste how you tasted.

“are you like this with her?” sophia asks you as she pulls away.

you looked up at her and nod. you were quite demanding when in bed with your girlfriend.

“well,” sophia murmurs, moving to the side and bringing her hand down, “i’m not your girlfriend.” she plunged her fingers in deeply without warning, making you moan and gasp at the same time. your back arched off of the bed.

“i’m your ex,” she said simply, curling her fingers in and out.

“and i don’t like it when you boss me around.”

your breathing quickens, and so did hers. the small sounds of your squelching cunt filling the empty rooms with moans and whatnot.

“‘m… ‘m sorry…” you slur out as your hand goes to hold her wrist between your legs, trying to slow down her quickening pace. your legs were practically shaking now.

“no, you’re not,” sophia whispered, not slowing her pace down. it only make your stomach flex and your head fog. it hurts…but it felt good.

you tried your best to muffle your moans, but it wasn’t working. anything you used to muffle your mouth made you louder. you quickly tugged at her shirt, pulling her down. sophia smirked slightly, following your lead but stopping a few centimeters away.

“yes, baby?” she asks, her fingers plunging in and curling into a spongey section inside. before you could even ask, you pulled her into a kiss, moaning loudly against her lips when she hit that spot.

sophia didn’t pull away, letting you pull her into a kiss, even if it was demanding.

“i need to- i need to cum, soph. p- plea- please…?” you asked sophia against her lips, your stuttering becoming much more separated as she kept destroying your sex. she stopped and shook her head.

“that’s not my name, baby,” she cooed out.

“m- mommy!” you exclaimed, a whine lacing your words. “le- let me cum…please? i’ve been good- i swear.”

“there’s my good baby…” sophia cooed. she went even faster before feeling your walls tighten and legs quake.

“go on. i know you’ve been good,” she whispers softly. you pulled her down for another kiss, muffling the moan that escaped when you finally released from your high. your stomach untwisted the knots, a rush of heat escaping your body and onto her fingers.

sophia pulls back from the kiss and watches as you pant heavily, chest heaving up and down as she slowly pulls out. she moves her ring finger up to her lips and sucks it clean before lowering her middle finger to your lips. complying to her silent order, you took in her middle finger and tasted your release, a small moan escaping as your tongue licked. teasingly, sophia pushed her finger in a bit deeper, making you gag slightly. she bites her bottom lip before she pulls away.

“sorry…” she murmurs, not meaning it. she wipes the saliva off before kissing you softly, straddling your stomach. the kiss was less heated than the previous ones, but still sloppy and messy and filled with passion. a lightbulb clicks in her head and she pulls away.

“are you sorry for bossing me around?” sophia asks you.

you blinked a few times and nod your head.

“i’m sorry,” you say, your voice now much more steady and clearer. “i didn’t mean it. i didn’t mean to—”

“can you show me you’re sorry?”

you paused at her words, your eyes slowly fogging with lust. sophia chuckles softly and combs her fingers down your hair.

“is that a yes?”

of course you nod immediately and sophia hums gently before having you switch their positions. as you kissed down her neck, taking her shirt off and grabbing at her breasts, soft moans spilled from her lips. those familiar moans that you’ve missed so much have finally been heard because of your actions. you left small hickeys on her neck and stomach, not wanting to give her too much foreplay. you had to get back home soon and you knew she was impatient.

when you grabbed her pants and took her panties off, you immediately moved your head in before she pulls your hair up.

“i’m still in charge, yn,” sophia whispers a bit shakily, “don’t forget.”

“yes, ma’am.”

“not my name.”

“yes, mommy,” you corrected yourself.

“that’s my good puppy,” sophia praised. her hand loosened in your hair and guided you back down to her dripping cunt. your tongue took a gentle swipe from her slit and she groaned softly. her hand immediately pulled you closer, forcing your lips onto her clit as if you were just some fuck toy. though, you didn’t mind. it’s been a while.

you sucked and circled the tip of your tongue against her clit, being gentle but rough with your sucking. she throws her head back into the soft pillow behind her, both hands finding their way to grip your hair even tighter.

“s- so good, mahal,” she whispers out breathily, praising your work on her body lovingly.

“so, so, so good…” sophia moaned out. she was much more quieter than you were.

her praise encouraged you to quicken your speed. when you did, her moans got a bit more louder than usual and your heart quickened. you can tell she was getting closer and closer to her peak. it was exciting you.

“baby,” she warns you.

“i know…”

she moans at your acknowledgment of her closeness and before you both knew it, she released. it dripped off of your face as she finished and you breathed heavily. you looked down and desperately lapped at her sweetness, taking in every drop. it tasted sweet. so sweet.

sophia let out soft moans as you cleaned her up with your tongue. her hair loosening and tightening at the same time as she tried to calm down.

“en- enough, puppy,” she whispers as she forcefully pulls your hair up. you whined softly at the tugging before letting yourself rest against her chest and between her legs.

“get the blanket, yn.”

you reached over to the side and grabbed the item, draping it over the two of you. you both were worn out and fulfilled. her fingers moved to the back of your head, seeping through your silky hair and scratches the back of your scalp.

“so,” sophia whispers, pushing her nose against your hair, “you’re breaking up with her?”

you paused before nodding your head.

“give me your phone,” she demanded you. you looked up from her chest before reaching down on the floor where your pants laid and reached for your phone. you unlocked it for her and then handed her the mobile device. she takes it gradually, tapping through your phone. you didn’t really care about what she did, knowing you could trust her will all your might. you laid sleepily on her chest, knocking out in her arms. sophia looked down at you before opening your chat with your girlfriend, going to the camera and snapping a photo of you on her chest. she bit her bottom lip to suppress a smile before sending it with a caption before blocking her number.

i think he ended up in the wrong arms tonight.

or not!

— final a/n: in honor of beautiful chaos coming out i HAD to finish this story… ngl i put this aside when i had to write the sex part LMAOOO

[heartyluv]

Note: Please —Click Here— to read part one if you’d like! I’m finally getting around to giving them a second part, omg. I hope I did it justice. Enjoy, my beautiful baes!

Warning: A woman picks a fight with you over Caleb (she’s not a real threat, dw), you get really possessive over him, car sex, use of ‘angel’ for a nickname

Word Count: 4K

Summary: A night out quickly takes a different turn.

Cowboy!Caleb/PossessiveReader

“C’mon, angel. You got it. Push your thighs in tighter,” Caleb instructs you. “Harder. Good, like that, like I taught you.”

You bite your lip, uncertainty coiling through you as you feel the back and forth motion in your hips. You’ve been at this for what is definitely far too long, but with Caleb, you didn’t mind the time it took. Choosing not to be patient wouldn’t get you anywhere, not when you wanted to succeed so badly.

“I—I’m gonna fall again!” you squeak, your nerves calming just barely when he holds you by your hip, silently reassuring you as Applebottom begins to strut along the even terrain of the rich green grass.

“She can sense your nervousness. That’s why she’s so ready to throw you off,” he chuckles, remaining beside you before patting on the large horse’s side with three quick loving taps. “Confidence is key, alright? Show her who’s the boss.”

“You’re her boss!” you yelp right before she trots in place, her hooves pounding into the ground unforgivingly with whine-like neighing to follow. The typically sweet animal did this every time she wanted to set her boundaries and make it known that she did not want whoever was on her back.

It was understandable. You’d only wanted Caleb on top of you, too.

It’s been a few days since you’ve been staying with him on his parents’ ranch, simply because you wanted to, you could, and he offered—no, he begged you to come over. With your dad being able to take on farm work again without needing help, you told lied to him about how you’d be staying over at a friend’s house for a much deserved break.

He still doesn’t know that the man he strictly told you to keep out, was in your room the morning they returned. You had to explain to Caleb later why you frantically pulled him from your bed and threw his sweatpants at him like you were a teenager sneaking a boy out.

You were able to get away with it because not only is the guest room thankfully on the second floor, but momma called your phone and said they needed you both to come down and help haul their stuff and the hand-me-down farm clothes Grams surprisingly let them take, upstairs.

That was about a month ago and a complete win in your book, despite the near heart attack at first. And now, after the time it took for you to have this privacy, you’ve been delightfully basking in the presence of your beloved cowboy.

Since Caleb’s workaholic mother and father tended to be so busy with other business ventures, they were often out of town a lot and this week was one of those instances you both were more than willing to take advantage of.

It was safe to say that you two have been going at it like you were making up for lost time. From sex in his room, to the shower, and even with you bent over the kitchen counter that you ended up scrubbing with bleach because you felt awful about it post orgasm, Caleb has had you folded up in too many ways to count.

He even asked you to be his girlfriend, to which you declined.

Yes, he had your heart, he’s had and will continue to have your body, but you needed to make sure this wasn’t some glorified honeymoon phase. Everything was and felt perfect right now because of how excited you two were to have each other entirely without fear, limitations, and uncertainty—well, nearly.

Your dad will come around when you tell him, you’re almost positive.

But, waiting a bit would prove to you if this feeling was something that would stick without the memories and nostalgia you share being the anchor to it all.

Besides, you two still have a lot to learn about one another all over again before you outwardly labeled this beauty of a man as your boyfriend. You weren’t lying when you said you loved him, but love didn’t mean you had to rush. It meant that you had all the time in the world together to figure it out.

Right?

He understood your concerns, even if he wished you would’ve told him yes and let him fuck you in celebration. Granted, he still did, but it was with determination—to show you that there was no such thing as a fluke when it came to how he felt about you.

Besides all the mushy feelings though, it’s been immensely freeing with him. Like he promised the morning after he made love to you for the first time, in the early evenings during your stay, he’s been helping you try to learn how to ride a horse before he took you out to buy you one of your own.

No matter how much you failed, it was the reality that Caleb was your helping hand to make your heart dance in your chest.

You whole heartedly blamed your pops for your inability, but it partially on you, too. He tried to teach you when you were younger, but gave up once he realized how scared you’d always be no matter what horse he put you on or in front of you. Despite how badly he wanted you to conquer, he refused to traumatize his little girl further after all the falls and near accidents.

And Caleb was far too young and inexperienced himself at the time to try, so you simply never got the hang of it. Not even when he took you a few times to ride on Applebottom before you left for college.

You were honestly too embarrassed to try asking for any assistance the older you became and add you leaving on top of that, horse riding just became a skill you accepted that you’d never acquire.

Caleb soothed the beautiful steed, rubbing down her nose and scratched below her chin to ease her defiance.

“You wanna call it a day?” he grinned up at you, the warm setting sun making his dewy skin glow.

“Please.”

“No worries, angel. Scoot back.”

You maneuver yourself on the leather saddle to make room for the burly man, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting against him once he sat and grabbed hold of the reigns before making sure you were ready to go. After your confirmation, with a click of his tongue and a soft “go ‘head girl”, you were riding towards his large home with the slightly humid wind wiping across your dampened skin.

“I’m taking you out tonight,” he said the closer you got.

“For what?”

“Because I want us to have some fun.”

“I think we have a lot of that here, don’t you think?”

He laughs, the sound warming you on the inside. “You’re not lyin’, but I wanna take you dancing. Remember the last time we went?”

You flip through your memories like they’re pages on a book, not having any recollection.

“Exactly,” he fills in your silence. “We weren’t even ten years old and couldn’t catch a beat for shit.”

“Caleb, that does not count!” Now you’re the one laughing, hard enough to make you snort a little bit.

“It definitely does!” Slowing Applebottom down until she completely stops beside the wrap around porch, he jumps down first to then help you. When you’re standing in front of him, he cups your face in his hands and kisses your lips tenderly.

“I’m gonna set her up for the night, we’ll head in, get cleaned up, and I want to be back down in my pickup in an hour. You got that, angel?”

“Yes, sir,” you tease, making him smirk.

“Go on.” He plucks his cowboy hat off his head and hits you playfully on the ass with it on your way up the steps. “Get the shower going for us.”

You and Caleb have been on the dance floor for nearly an hour straight, and you couldn’t get enough. With every twirl and the feeling of his body pressed against you alongside all the other patrons having their own fun, you wished this night could go on forever.

In your floral pink knee length summer dress, his strong hands were on your waist as he moved you side to side to the thumping beat that vibrated the walls and floors of the classical country dance bar that’s been around long before the both of you.

Your sexy cowboy was a sight to drool over in his sage green long sleeve shirt that he had pulled up on his strong forearms to display his tattoos and dark blue jeans that showed off some of his impressive physique.

You were wearing his black Cattleman that he slyly placed atop your head in the middle of you swaying to the music. You helplessly giggled when he kissed down your neck and took you by the hand to spin you around to face him.

His skin was slightly flushed and his soft hair a small whirlwind of a mess, but if you asked Caleb what he was feeling—complete and alive were the only adjectives that could come to mind.

Your arms went around his neck with a bright smile to accompany your eagerness as you sang along to the lyrics of a song your momma still loves to blast on her cleaning days. Caleb flashed you that boyish grin that made you swoon when you grew dramatic in your efforts to match the passion of the talented singer’s voice blasting through the speakers.

Then he started to sing with you and for a moment, there was no care in the world about how crazy you both sounded. This was where you had fun and you wouldn’t let anything prevent you from enjoying it to its fullest potential.

That was your intention until a woman walked up to you both as the upbeat song ended and transitioned to something slower. You couldn’t even get close to him again before an airy voice said behind you, “You finished with her yet, C?”

C? Who the hell is she calling C?

You craned your neck to figure out who was emitting the strong aroma of too-much perfume. A pretty and short, long haired brunette looking up at Caleb with very clear fuck-me eyes, proved to be the answer to the mystery.

Her complete disregard for your presence wasn’t missed, either.

“I know your mother raised you to have some respect, Maycee,” Caleb replied sharply, not bothering to look at her.

“What? I waited ‘til the song was over,” she shrugs, moving closer to him and making this weird primal behavior surge within you when her perfectly manicured fingers tried to rest on his shoulder before he shucked her off.

“That was respectful enough, was it not? I just want to talk with you.” Her judgmental eyes look into yours that’s slowly losing the light it had second ago. “Alone.”

“We’ve got nothin’ to talk about. Coming up to me when I’m with my girl is out of line.”

“Nothing to talk about? Your girl?” she spits out in disbelief. “Seems like you’ve made the wrong choice.”

“Am I invisible?” you interrupt swiftly, the irritation coursing through your body making it impossible to keep your mouth shut any longer. The looks were hard to ignore, but the nosiness of others did nothing to put out the flame stoking in your chest.

You face her head on, ready to defend yourself with zero intimidation at her attempt to size you up.

“This has nothing to do with you.”

“The moment you spoke to him made it have every fucking thing to do with me.”

“Aww, let me guess: you think you’re special?” she scoffs with a mocking grin. “Tell her about our time together Caleb, since it’s so necessary that she stays clued in.”

Your body tenses as your jaw ticks. The noticeable reaction makes her smile as if she’s triumphant.

“I’d really rather not embarrass you or ourselves more than you’ve already done yourself, Maycee,” Caleb says through gritted teeth. “That’s not what I want or what I do, but you have a tendency of pushing your fucking luck. You’ve done enough. I suggest you know when to walk away.”

You were hard to rile up—very hard. But Caleb was one of the few people who knew how you could get if that’s where you were brought. It’s one of the reasons he’s trying to deescalate the situation as quickly as possible.

“You’re such an asshole. Her over me—seriously?” She sucks her teeth. “Call me when you come back to your senses. My mouth really misses you.”

Your eyes narrow and you check her before Caleb can try. Your tone drops to make sure that even with the quietness that’s suffocating the already stuffy space, only she can hear you clearly.

“Know that my name was tattooed on his chest while his dick was in your mouth.” You get in her face now, feeling a strong hand on your arm to hold you back.

“I want you to make sure you sit with the fact that every time he got hard, it’s because he thought of me. Even when he was inside of you.”

Maycee’s chest rises and falls, the clear shock and disbelief swirling in her irises.

“Baby, let’s just go,” Caleb calls to you, his grip pressing a little harder to make sure you’re aware that he’s trying to keep you calm.

It’s ridiculous how easily your night has been ruined, and now all the fun is washed out your veins.

Not another word is spoken when you take off his hat and press it roughly to his chest, not caring if he doesn’t catch it. You snatch yourself away from him before you storm out the bar and into the now cool night.

Your anger is misplaced, you know that. But it’s feels impossible to correct with the way it was encompassing your entire being.

Caleb doesn’t waste a moment following you, quickly unlocking his vehicle and opening the door to let you climb inside. Once behind the wheel, he maneuvers the tires over the gravel parking lot before rolling onto the smooth roads, and god is the drive uncomfortable.

“You wanna talk now?” he voices ten minutes in, sighing at your refusal to answer—again.

You told yourself you weren’t jealous of his past, that you didn’t care. And truly, you didn’t.

But the mere thought of Maycee with Caleb in any way, made your blood boil. The way she walked up to him like she was so familiar fueled you with violence.

He was yours, he belongs to you.

“Pull over,” you mumble, making his eyebrow furrow.

“I’m not letting you walk if that’s what you think you’re about to do. I don’t care—”

“Pull. Over,” you repeat slowly.

He does. What other choice does he have when the woman he loves looks ready to set fire to anything in her path that dared to give her a reason?

There’s nothing but long empty rode in front and behind you in the dark night of chirping crickets and twinkling fireflies as he puts the car in park to the side. Caleb looks over at you, the moonlight and rows of illuminated warm street lamps pouring through the windshield giving him the privilege to set eyes on his lady.

“Angel, you know she doesn’t mean anythin’ to me. I know you know.”

“I do.” You turn your body to face him.

“We only hooked up twice, pretty. I don’t want you being upset with me. Tell me what you need me—” Your hand reaching over the center console and the tug on his belt makes his words slow.

“I want you,” you breathe out, your voice shaky and the need to have him overriding anything sensible. “I want you to fuck me, Caleb. I want to erase her from you—erase all of them.”

Pretty,” he coos apologetically. “You’ve already done that. But anything you want. Just let me take us home.”

“No,” you shake your head stubbornly. “Now. I want it now.”

“Fuck…” His cock comes to life at your possessiveness.

He leans in to kiss you deeply, his tongue tangling with yours as he swallows your whimpers and identifies your cravings without more needing to be said. You stay like that for a moment, letting him savor your taste.

When he releases you, he gets out the truck so that he can slide into the black leather seat in the back. The moment he shuts the door and sits, waiting with his legs spread wide, you’re kicking off your shoes and climbing toward him like he’s your reclamation.

The lack of sufficient space isn’t enough to stop you from sitting in his lap and pulling on his hair, grinding your panty clad pussy against the rough material of his jeans. He sucks on your neck, the sweet and tangy taste on your skin only making his balls tighten with need.

You have to see your name that marks him, that gives you ownership of him. Impatiently, you pull the hem of his shirt up and over his head, tossing it to the side and tracing your fingertips along the mesmerizing ink.

“I’m yours, angel,” he whispers, his hands gripping your hips hungrily.

“Show me,” you beg. You feel down his pecs and toned abs before quickly beginning to undo his belt. The clinks echo in the enclosed space at the same time that he bunches your dress above your waist.

Wrapping your hand around his thickness and pulling him out of his confines, you pump him agonizingly slow in your palm.

“You told me this was my cock,” you say against lips, your heart hammering so fast that you’re not too sure how coherent you sound. “You said both of you were devoted to me.”

Your mouths graze, but never meet. “Give me what’s mine…”

Caleb curses under his breath when you swipe a thumb along his slit and smear his precum around, his hips bucking up with eagerness. “I’ll listen to your every w—word. Sit up on your knees, baby…Let me make it better.”

Bracing one hand on him, you follow his instruction and push out a desperate huff when he roughly tugs your panties to the side after you lift yourself.

You didn’t want a condom. In fact, you’d lose your shit if he even offered one. That’s all you’ve been using since your first time together and right now, you just wanted to feel him without any barriers.

When his bare tip slides into your leaking hole, you press your lips together with a pleased hum.

“They can never have you again,” you cry as he helps lower you down to take every pulsating veiny inch. “Hngh—Yes…I miss you like this…”

“N—Never,” he solidifies through a raspy groan, his dick twitching inside your hot and slick walls when you squeeze him.

“You hear how we sound together?” You get closer as you make your hips rise and steadily fall, the squelching of your connection filling your ears. “Only we could make music so powerful.”

The truck begins to shake the harder you go, your palms pressing against the cushioning behind him so your nails had something to scratch when he fucks into you, knocking the breath out of your pliable body.

His fingers dig in your flesh through your dress, surely bruising you, but you need him to. You need that tinge of pain as a reminder that neither of you are never going anywhere because you’ve already made your mark.

“You—hah—you feel so fucking good, Caleb…” The effortless gliding in your pussy makes white dots spot in your vision and your nipples ache beneath the meddlesome fabric.

“We’ve always been in tune.” He shakily reaches over and grabs his Cattleman, placing it on your disarrayed strands and running his thumb across your lip before his large hand caresses down your neck before grasping one of your breasts over your dress. Your lack of a bra lets him flick a nipple, making a strained whimper fall from your puffy lips.

“Don’t ever take it off again. I’m your cowboy, pretty. Own that.” He loses his train of thought for a moment, being buried so snuggly in your heat.

“Ah, fuck…fuck…M—Make me feel it…”

You nod, leaning further back against the console so the outside streetlights could shine upon where you’re connected. Your lover looks down to watch your cunt greedily spread the sticky fluids up and down his cock with unabashed desire.

“Y—you’re not C…” you mewl tiredly, rotating your hips to grind against him. “You’re my Caleb…Just mine…”

The new motion sends shivers down his spine. “You’re right…That’ll never change. It never has…”

The interior grows foggy and humid, sweat beading down your back and his temples the faster your orgasm approaches. You use your muscles to tighten your cunt around his throbbing length, and each contraction makes him feel more precum spurt out in preparation to claim you from the inside.

“That’sss right…oh, baby, keep going… just like that…W—Wanna fill you up so badly…” He pulls your panties over more to gain complete access, his thumb lazily circling your taunt bundle of nerves and sending shockwaves through you.

“Make you so fuckin’ full of me, pretty—I know you want it.”

He sucks air in through his teeth when your peak hits you so hard and unexpectedly that it has you trying to crawl away from him at the simultaneous moment that his cum rushes inside your shuddering walls.

Your moans are on the precipice of pornographic, but for him, it’s the embodiment of sublimity.

You serenade him with your gentle sounds and wavering tone, letting yourself succumb to the deliriousness like you’ve done many times now. Caleb holds you down to make sure you’re filled to the brim, rubbing along your trembling inner thighs. He keeps you spread open so he can watch how the copious amount of cum has no choice but to spill out of your hole and down cock before reaching his balls and staining his clothes.

“‘M so sorry for what happened,” he speaks softly after giving you the space to catch your breath.

“It’s not your fault,” you mumble, holding his hat so that it’ll stay on your head as you sit up before taking it off. Fear consumes him for a brief moment when you place it on his.

“Remember when I told you no?” Your head tilts, taking his hand and placing it on your cheek to nestle into. “About being your girlfriend?”

“I do.”

“Tonight has shown me that…I think I’m in wayyy too deep to be trying to play it safe.”

He smiles. “A mutual sentiment.”

“Will you do me the honor,” you flash a genuine one as well, adjusting the crooked hat and brushing his hair away from his eyebrows. “and let me be your one and only cowgirl?”

“You never even have to ask, angel. C’mere.”

After you share yet another kiss, he presses a sweeter one to the tip your nose.

“Your dad is going to whoop my ass.”

You laugh, the vibrations making you remember that Caleb is still inside of you.

“He’ll be okay. Momma will hold him back.”

“Thanks, baby,” he rolls his eyes with playful sarcasm. “That means a lot.”

“Whatever he does, I’ll be there to kiss it better.”

“Yeah?” he smirks.

“Mhmmm.”

You don’t know what you were even going to try and say or do next because any and all calmness and sentimentally is gone when you see red and blue light flash along with two curt blares of a police siren.

“Shit!” you panic, flicking Caleb’s forehead when he starts to muffle his laugh.

“Ow!” he whisper shouts.

“Move your ass!”

“I can’t until you do!”

Then a knock at the driver’s window sounds. You would forever be in debt to tinted windows now.

“Play dead,” you suggest lowly.

“You’re a terrible problem solver.”

“Well, I’m not seeing you come up with any bright ideas!”

When what you know is the final polite knock sounds with four hits instead of the initial two, Caleb closes his eyes and lays his head back, the hat falling over his eyes and forehead.

“You’re right,” he says, his words muffled. “Play dead.”

“You’re all worried about my dad when me and this police officer is getting ready to kick your ass.”

“Can’t. I’m already dead.”

“Caleb!”

“Mr. Xia?” calls a male voice.

“Who the hell..?”

“Oh,” he huffs in relief. “It’s just Xavier.”

“From high school!?” you ask, completely stunned.

He nods. “He moved back a year after you left. Nothing to worry about. We’re cool.”

“You’re shirtless and still in me!”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t be embarrassed.”

You pluck his forehead once more. “I can’t stand you!”

He rubs his forehead, then pulls you into him. “I’m in love with you too, angel. But flick me again and I’ll fuck you again with him right outside.”

“Just do something!” you pout, your face getting heated at the thought.

Glad to have made you flustered, he smiles. “Anything for you.”

A/N: I felt like creating a scenario like this felt kinda realistic for them because I definitely believe people would fight over a man like Caleb—especially if he sexes you as good as he looks LOLLLL!!!! I didn’t think it would’ve just been sunshine and rainbows initially in a small town where Caleb has been around the block…I could’ve just done a big time skip to their happily ever after, but where’s the fun in that?!?! But I think I’ve unintentionally started another series, DAMNIT! JAYLA, PLS PUT THE PHONE DOWN!!!!

🍎 Tags: @sucre-princesse @brailsthesmolgurl @klossnite @grlyeetswrld @beesin03 @dramaticalsachan @moonchildjae00 @caien @stargirlygirl @multisstuff @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @lazygelpen @meadowinthesky @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @ur-l0cal-crypt1d @inutrasha94 @cowaungabungabby @gravity-pilot @nyanahogini @rosiesluv @goochfiddler99 @torturedbabyapple @kiyadeleine @carcelswaifu @blushofeve @whattnanii @ashirelle @sylvieisoffline @saturnquartz @dewmarionette @horanghaeegr @iconoclastoc

♾️ Tags: @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple @sensual-study @sweetcalebb @asiaticapple @raemanova @awquaz @callads7 @floatinginaer @crimsonsylus @aquarianbeat

Creds to @/saradika, @/saradika-graphics, and @/bbyg4rlhelps for the dividers!

[nayiana0]

"Off Limits" 2

choi san. just your brother’s best friend. off-limits. untouchable. but the tension between you two just doesn’t just disappear—it builds, until one late night... he snaps.. and it gets messy. and your brother seonghwa?? he’s not putting up with it.

wc : 7.7k

tags : explicit content, shower sex, teasing, overstimulation, softdom!san, cursing possessive behavior, san is thirsty & down bad, brothers bestfriend, protective!seonghwa, possessive!san, aftercare, secret hookup

genre : smut

a/n : okay sooo i didn’t expect the last part to get that much love lol but i’ve decided to start wrapping this up, and this chapter felt like the right place to slow things down a bit. softer energy, some sibling tension, quiet guilt, all that good emotional mess. not as messy as usual but still very them if that makes sense.

READ PART 1 !! - Part 1

taglist : @gabruix @keyiswatching @rosydipity @nopension @chartrucewhore

It’s late afternoon now. 

The sun’s starting to mellow, but the heat is still pressing — thick and heavy, clinging to your skin like it’s trying to make a home there.

You're bored. Still sore. A little restless.

And curious. Very curious.

You stretch, wincing a little at the ache still blooming through your thighs, but the pull of voices — laughter, metal clinking, low murmuring — draws you toward the front of the house.

You pad down the stairs, bare feet on the cool wood floor, and when you open the front door, it hits you like a wall.

Heat. Dry and dizzying, like stepping into someone’s oven.

You squint against the brightness, shielding your eyes as you follow the sound. The garage door is wide open.

And that’s when you see them.

Seonghwa’s on his back under the car, legs sticking out as he wrestles with something metal. 

And San?

San is leaning back against the big red metal tool chest — the one Seonghwa always brags about — drink in hand, head tipped back just slightly, eyes half-lidded from the sun. 

He’s shirtless, skin slick with sweat, a thin sheen glowing across his chest and down his abs. 

His black sweats are hanging dangerously low, clinging in all the right places.

Your body reacts before your mind does — heat curling low in your stomach like a spark against dry grass. 

Flashbacks flicker: his hands on your hips, the way his voice rasped against your ear last night on the couch, those low groans buried in your neck—

You blink, snapping back into the present.

Get a grip.

You step onto the driveway.

But before you can even say a word, San is already moving. 

He meets you halfway, crowding into your space, fingers brushing the hair out of your face like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before.

“You okay?” he murmurs, thumb sliding gently along your jaw. “You still sore?”

You nod, then shake your head. “No—I mean, yeah. I’m good. I’m fine.”

Without another word, he leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead before wrapping his arms around you in a warm, comforting hug. 

You melt into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours.

From under the car, Seonghwa’s voice barks out.

“I see your feet, dude. Why are you so close to my sister?”

You roll your eyes. “Seonghwa, I’m literally standing. He’s just—god, never mind.”

Seonghwa’s head doesn’t appear, but his voice softens a little. “Y/N, you good?”

“Yes! Why does everyone keep asking that?” You throw up your hands. “What the hell are you two even working on?”

Seonghwa finally rolls out from under the car, grease on his hands and his shirt dark with sweat.

“Alternator. Trying to swap it out before the heat fries the rest of the engine.”

San adds, “Battery’s draining way too fast. It’s not catching the charge. If we don’t fix it, the whole thing’s gonna—”

“—shit out in traffic,” Seonghwa finishes.

You blink.

“Oh… okay. Cool. Mechanic language. Love that for me.”

San grins and bumps your shoulder with his. “We have to wash the car after, though. You wanna help?”

Before you can answer, Seonghwa immediately shoves himself up, almost smacking his head on the hood.

“No. Nope. She’s not helping.”

“Why not?” you frown.

“Because I know exactly what’s going through this dude’s head,” Seonghwa glares at San. “And you’re still sore.”

“I’m fine!” you snap. “I’m not even sore anymore. Can I please help?”

Seonghwa sighs dramatically. “Fine. Whatever. Get the hose.”

Victory.

You trot off toward the side of the house to unroll the green hose while San gathers a bucket and sponges. 

He tosses in a bottle of soap with no label, the kind of thing Seonghwa probably swears by.

Seonghwa backs the car out of the garage, positioning it into the little cement space in front of the house, wheels crunching over gravel.

You turn the valve, water gushing out.

San’s beside you now, pouring soap into the bucket just as the hose fills it. 

You crouch down to help stir the soap in, fingers just brushing the surface—

And a sharp blast of water hits your back full force, soaking your shirt straight through. 

You yelp, stumbling forward as icy droplets race down your spine.

“San!!” you scream.

He’s holding the hose, eyes shining with amusement.

“Why the fuck would you do that?! My hair!”

“You looked hot.” He shrugs, mouth twitching into a grin. “You needed to cool off. Hydration is key, baby.”

You grab a sponge and hurl it at him. It bounces off his chest uselessly.

He laughs.

You dip another sponge into the soapy bucket and start scrubbing the car, scowling — but then San joins you, arms flexing, eyes sneaking toward you every few seconds.

“You look really sexy doing that” he murmurs, low enough for only you to hear.

“Shut up,” you mutter, cheeks hot.

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear. “No, seriously. I’m about to buy a dirty car every week just to see you bend over like that.”

You slap him with the wet sponge.

“Shut. Up. And scrub.”

Seonghwa's voice floats from the other side of the car. “What’s going on over there?”

“We’re cleaning!” you both say in unison.

Silence.

Seonghwa speaks again, slower this time. “You keep going quiet whenever I get close. And I swear I heard one of you whispering.”

Another pause. You can practically hear the suspicion brewing.

Then Seonghwa again: “Are you two hooking up?”

Your entire body freezes.

“What? No!” you laugh, forced and awkward. “Ew, Seonghwa. Why would you say that?”

“‘Ew?’” San echoes, voice dropping half an octave.

Seonghwa rolls his eyes. “I know you’re hiding something. You think I’m an idiot?”

“We’re not doing anything,” you say quickly.

“Then why’d you two suddenly get so close?” Seonghwa wipes sweat from his brow.

You smirk. “Aw, Seonghwa. You scared I’m gonna steal your best friend?”

“That’s not funny,” he mutters.

“Oh, come on,” you tease. “Jealous much?”

Seonghwa scoffs from the other side of the car. “Jealous? Of what? Watching you two flirt like you’re in some cheap Netflix teen drama?”

San lets out a low laugh. “Damn, Seonghwa. You been saving that one?”

“I’m serious,” Seonghwa says, walking around the front of the car now, expression tight. 

“You two weren’t even speaking a month ago. Now you’re—” he gestures vaguely at the two of you, “—all close and whispery and weird.”

You raise a brow. “Whispery?”

“Don’t act dumb. You’re doing that thing with your eyes. And he’s doing that thing with his face.”

“What face?” San asks, smiling way too wide.

“That one!” Seonghwa snaps, pointing. “The smug one you make when you think you’re getting away with something.”

You glance at San. He absolutely is making that face. You stifle a laugh.

“We’re literally just washing the car,” you say.

Seonghwa narrows his eyes. “Then why do you look guilty?”

“I’m wet and cold, not guilty.”

“You were blushing.”

You shrug. “It’s sunny.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m happy.”

Seonghwa looks at San. “And you haven’t said a word except to make it worse.”

San holds up his hands innocently. “Look, man, I’m just following instructions. She said ‘we’re cleaning,’ so I’m cleaning.”

Seonghwa turns slowly back to you. “You’re lying.”

You cross your arms. “You actually are paranoid.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“You’re projecting.”

San whistles. “This is getting intense. Should I get popcorn?”

Seonghwa throws a glare at San. “Dude. Shut the fuck up. You’re not helping.”

San grins, leaning casually against the hood of the car. “Wasn’t trying to.”

Seonghwa turns back to you, eyes narrowing. “Okay, if nothing’s going on, then why do you both look like you just committed a crime and are about to commit another one?”

You blink. “Because we’re washing your car and it’s hot out?”

He doesn’t let up. “He keeps looking at you like he’s two seconds away from doing something I’ll have to fight him over.”

You tilt your head, unimpressed. “That’s just how his face looks.”

San smirks. “You like my face.”

You shoot him a sharp look. “Not. Helping.”

Seonghwa points between you. “See?! That! Right there! You two are doing that thing again. The weird eye telepathy. Cut it out.”

You raise a brow. “Seonghwa, relax. You’re spiraling.”

Seonghwa folds his arms, not backing down. “I’m observing,” he insists.  “And what I’m observing is way too suspicious for a couple of innocent car washers.”

You smirk, stepping closer to San. “Maybe we just make a good team.”

San’s grin turns sly eyes flicking between you and Seonghwa, “Dynamic duo, right here.” 

“But seriously, Seonghwa, you might wanna chill before you get yourself worked up.”

Seonghwa shoots you a warning look. “Keep this up, and I’m making you both do extra chores.”

You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “What, like washing your car again? Sounds like a fair deal.”

San chuckles, flicking the water droplets off his fingers as he leans casually against the car. “Yeah, I’m down if it means more time with this view.”

He glances at you — slowly, pointedly — gaze dragging from your wet legs to your face, and grins. “Could wash cars like this every day.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks betray you, burning pink.

Seonghwa’s eyes narrow, voice sharp. “You — go inside. Now.”

You stop, caught off guard by the sudden command.

“Seonghwa, come on, we’re just—”

You glance at San, and he glances at you with a little smirk. “Guess I’ll see you later. Maybe next time, less soap, more privacy?”

“San,” Seonghwa snaps.

San just grins, holding up his hands. “I’m just saying.”

You exhale sharply, annoyed now — cheeks flushed from embarrassment, from being treated like a kid in front of San. “We aren’t doing anything.”

“Sure,” Seonghwa says coldly. “And I’m just overreacting, right? Just the paranoid older brother again.”

You blink at him, frustration boiling over.

“I’m trying to look out for you,” he continues. “But if you want to keep acting reckless—”

“Oh my god,” you cut in, finally snapping, “you’re so fucking annoying, Seonghwa.”

His mouth opens — stunned, momentarily speechless.

You don’t wait for him to recover. You toss the sponge down, shoulders tense. “Seriously. You don’t get to control everything just because you’re older.”

And then, quieter, more to yourself: “It’s exhausting.”

San watches you walk away, a flicker of something more serious crossing his face as the screen door closes behind you.

—

The front door slams behind you. Your wet clothes cling to your skin, soap still dripping down your arms.

You're flushed — from anger, from the sun, from everything that just went down.

You don’t even know why you're shaking.

You storm into the kitchen. Grab a towel. Press it to your face like it’ll make the embarrassment go away.

But then—you hear it.

The door creaks open again.

Footsteps.

You don’t have to look. You know it’s him.

San.

“Y/N?”

You exhale through your nose, towel still pressed to your face. “What?”

His voice is soft. Almost careful. “You okay?”

You drop the towel. Turn to face him. His hair is still damp, sticking to his forehead. Chest bare, still glistening.

That same casual calm he always wears — but his eyes?

Worried.

You cross your arms, suddenly cold in your wet clothes. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

San doesn’t answer right away. Just steps closer. His brows pull slightly together like he’s reading you — like he’s searching for a lie under your words.

“You basically stormed off.”

“I’m dramatic.”

He hums. “You don’t usually get that pissed unless something really hits.”

You roll your eyes. “Seonghwa was being annoying. That’s all.”

San nods slowly, still watching you. “You wanna talk about it?”

You stare at him. For once, he doesn’t have that smug smirk. He just looks... present. Like he really wants to know. Like it matters.

But you notice something on his face, so you lean in a little closer, eyes narrowing. 

“Wait, wait, wait—what’s that on your face?”

He follows your gaze, then slowly touches the spot on his jaw where the red mark is blooming, his expression flickering between amusement and something softer.

“What, this?” he says, trying for casual. “Just a friendly .. uh .. love tap.”

“See? Nothing to worry about,” he says lightly, but you catch the slight hesitation in his voice.

“Did he hit you?!”

San shrugs, but you can tell he’s trying not to let on that it’s bothering him more than he wants to admit.

“San.”

He lifts a brow. “What? It’s not like he punched me. Just… a warning. You know. Friendly bonding.”

You stare. “That looks a lot less like bonding and a lot more like he nearly beat the shit out of you.”

He scoffs, rubbing the mark with the back of his hand. “I’m fine.”

“Did he actually hit you?”

San exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. “Okay. Maybe he got a little worked up. But it’s not a big deal—he just wanted to make a point.”

“And the point was?”

He smirks, but there’s less bite to it now. “That he doesn’t like me flirting with you.”

You blink at him. “And that surprises you?”

“No,” he admits, lips quirking. “..I just didn’t think he’d actually leave a mark.”

You shake your head, moving closer without thinking, fingers reaching up to gently touch the mark yourself. 

He stills under the contact, the silence settling heavier between you.

“San,” you say softly. “You don’t have to pretend it doesn’t bother you.”

His eyes meet yours, and for once, he doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t joke.

“I’m okay,” he says. Quieter. “Promise.”

You watch him carefully, the usual cockiness softened by something almost protective in his eyes. 

The room feels quieter somehow, the noise from outside fading away.

Something in your chest lets go.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

He smiles — not the usual crooked, smug one you’ve grown used to — but something softer. Honest.

“Just trying to figure out what you’re thinking.”

Silence again. But not uncomfortable.

He draws a slow breath, then says, 

“I know we started this all... fast. And messy,” he starts. “But I didn’t just do this to mess around. I’m not just here for a good time. I like being around you. I like you.”

You feel your eyes sting — from relief, maybe. From surprise. From the way that warmth spreads through you, slowly, like sunlight.

He watches you. “Is that okay?”

You nod, slowly. “Yeah. That’s okay.”

His lips tug up into a small smile.

A beat.

You can’t believe you said it. It left your mouth before your brain could even stop it.

“Do you wanna shower with me?”

San blinks. “Huh?”

It hangs in the air.

Your face flames. “I just—I mean—you don’t have to, I just thought…”

He laughs under his breath. Low. Surprised.

But not in a bad way.

He steps closer. Real close.

“Are you trying to make me lose control right here, right now?” he murmurs, voice like velvet.

You swallow. “You started it.”

“I started it?” He smirks. “Baby, you’re the one who invited me into the shower.”

You shrug, trying to play it off. “Well… it’s been a long day. I’m wet anyway. Might as well…”

His eyes darken slightly. “Careful with how you say that.”

You laugh, turning away to hide your face—but he catches your wrist gently.

“Hey,” he says. “I’d love to.”

You glance back up. “Really?”

His smile softens. “Really. But not if you’re just doing it to prove something. Or to distract yourself from earlier.”

You pause.

And then you nod. Honest. Bare.

“I just… wanna be close to you.”

That’s all it takes.

He leans in and kisses you, slow and sure, his fingers slipping around your waist as he walks you backwards toward the bathroom. Every step is warm. Heavy. Wanting.

The bathroom door clicks shut behind you.

Steam curls through the air, the water already running. The sound of it pattering gently against the tiles fills the silence between your mouths.

You tug your hoodie off slowly. He watches you. Every inch revealed, his gaze grows darker.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

You roll your eyes, half-flustered. “You’ve seen me like this already.”

“Not like this.” His voice dips. “Not when it’s just us. No noise. No hiding.”

His chest is toned, still glistening faintly from the heat outside — but here, in this soft light, he looks real. Less smug. More yours.

You take a step closer. So does he.

Your fingers graze his ribs. His hands rest at your hips. And for a second, the world quiets.

“You sure?” he whispers, forehead pressed to yours.

You nod.

Together, you step into the shower.

The water hits you first — hot, calming, the spray soaking your hair and running down your shoulders. 

San’s right behind you, arms wrapping around your waist as he pulls you back against his chest.

You sigh into it. Into him.

His hands move slow. Reverent.

Washing over your arms. Tracing your collarbones. Palming your hips like you’ll disappear if he doesn’t keep holding you.

He leans down to kiss your shoulder. Then your neck. Then behind your ear.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs. “You know that?”

You close your eyes.

Every kiss he leaves feels like a promise.

One on your jaw. One at the curve of your spine. One at the small of your back.

“Every time I look at you,” he breathes, “I wanna memorize you all over again.”

You turn in his arms — slowly — and his hands slide down to the backs of your thighs, lifting you before you can even brace yourself.

A small gasp escapes you as he pins you gently to the shower wall.

“You okay?” he whispers, lips brushing yours.

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He presses his forehead to yours again. “Tell me if anything hurts.”

Your fingers thread into his damp hair.

“I will,” you promise.

And he kisses you like you’re the only thing keeping him alive.

Water droplets cling to your lashes as he pushes into you, gentle yet firm. 

The sensation is overwhelming, a delicious pressure that makes you arch your back and grip the tiles behind you for support.

"Are you okay?" he asks again, his voice strained with restraint.

You nod, a soft whimper escaping your mouth. "It's just... it's a lot."

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours for reassurance. "Too much?"

"No," you say, almost desperately. "I just want... I need you to go .. harder."

His eyes widen slightly in surprise, but he doesn't miss a beat. "You're sure? Aren't you still sore from last night?"

You give him a look that says you can handle it, that you need it. "I'm sure."

His grip on your thighs tightens, and he starts to move faster, his thrusts deep and deliberate. 

The sound of the shower echoes in the small bathroom, mixing with your gasps and his grunts.

"This what you want?" he asks, his voice a low growl.

You nod, the heat in your eyes unmistakable. "Y-yes," you murmur, your voice barely audible over the patter of water.

With a gentle yet firm hand, he tilts your chin up, capturing your mouth in a passionate kiss as he starts to move with more urgency. 

His hips drive into yours, the rhythm of his movements setting a tempo that resonates deep within you.

You can feel your muscles tightening, the delicious ache spreading through your body as he hits just the right spot.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. 

His hands roam over your curves, gripping and caressing as if he’s trying to claim every inch of your skin. 

The water streams down your faces, mingling with the sweat that’s starting to form on your forehead.

You moan, your body responding to his touch, his possession. “More,” you breathe out, your voice needy.

His movements become more insistent, his hips snapping into you with a force that makes the shower wall shudder

Your legs wrap around his waist, your heels digging into his lower back as you try to pull him closer, deeper.

"Oh, fuck, yes," you cry out, your voice echoing off the tiles. "I'm... I'm there."

He chuckles darkly, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. "Already?"

"Yes," you gasp, your voice tight with pleasure. "I'm... I'm gonna..."

He kisses you harder, swallowing your words as you both feel the tension coil tighter. "Then cum for me, baby," he whispers, "Let go."

You nod frantically, your eyes squeezed shut as the orgasm builds. 

He kisses you again, his tongue delving into your mouth as if to swallow your cries of pleasure.

"I-I'm.. cumming," you manage to say between gasps, your body trembling as the orgasm crashes over you.

"Good," he grunts, his pace unrelenting. "Cum for me."

“I am," you whimper, your nails digging into his shoulders. 

He doesn't ease up, though, his eyes locked on yours, reading every little twitch of pleasure and pain.

"Please..," you whisper, the words barely making it past your clenched teeth.

He pauses, his eyes searching yours, a hint of concern flashing through them. "You can't take it?"

You bite your lip, shaking your head slightly. "I... don’t think I can ..."

"We're not even close to finishing, baby." He leans in, his breath hot against your ear. "But if you want to beg, I'm all ears."

You whimper, the delicious mix of pleasure and pain making your toes curl.

You bite down on your lip, trying to muffle your moans. But the feeling is too intense, your body too eager for release. 

“You’re being loud,” he whispers against your ear.

“I... I can't help it,” you admit, your voice strained.

He chuckles low, the sound sending a thrill down your spine. "I know, baby," he murmurs, his strokes growing more deliberate. 

"But remember, your brother is probably in the house right now."

You moan louder despite his warning.

"He's gonna hear us, Y/N." he says, his voice low and playful.

You can't help but moan louder, the sound echoing in the tiled room.

"Let him," you pant, your hips pushing back into him. "Let him know you're fucking his sister."

He stares at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before it morphs into pure hunger. 

"You're so fucking dirty," he says, his voice a mix of amazement and lust.

You smirk, feeling a thrill at his reaction. "Is that what you like?"

He doesn't answer, his eyes hooded and focused on the spot where your bodies meet. 

His breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly. 

You can feel his cock pulsing inside you, the tip hitting your sweet spot with every thrust.

"Say it again," he commands, his voice gruff with need.

You smirk up at him, feeling a thrill of power at his reaction. "I want him to know you're fucking me," you repeat.

For a moment, he just looks at you, his eyes dark with passion. Then, without a word, he starts to laugh. 

It's a low, deep chuckle that fills the steamy bathroom, a sound that sends your heart racing even faster.

"You're crazy," he says, shaking his head slightly. But his grin says he's anything but complaining.

You just smirk, your legs still wrapped around his waist. "Only for you," you murmur, nuzzling into his neck.

He groans, his hips stuttering before he stills completely, his cock pulsing as he fills you with his warmth.

"Jesus, baby," he whispers, his breath hot against your skin.

"Mm," you murmur, your eyes closing in pleasure as you feel him throb inside you. "I need more."

He chuckles, his breath warm against your neck. "Why’re you so greedy today?" 

He pulls out slowly, making you whine with the sudden emptiness. "I've got you."

You lean into him, feeling his heartbeat thunder against your chest as you both catch your breath. "Please just one more..?" you murmur, your voice still thick with desire.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching yours for a moment before he shakes his head. "No, Y/N," he says, his voice gruff. "We cant."

You pout, feeling the need for more of him, but understanding his concern. "But I can't get enough of you," you murmur.

"I’m right here," he says, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "But we've got to get out of this bathroom.."

He gently helps you stand, your legs still shaking slightly as you both reach for the towels. 

Wrapping one around yourself, you watch as he does the same, his eyes never leaving yours.

You both stand there for a moment, steam swirling around you, suspended in the silence. 

The water’s still running, but neither of you moves to turn it off just yet.

San’s eyes linger on your face like he’s memorizing you. Again.

You’re wrapped in a towel, damp hair clinging to your skin, and he still looks at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Your legs wobble a little as you shift your weight, and he catches you — one hand steady on your hip, the other brushing your cheek with his knuckles.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “Still a little shaky.”

You breathe a laugh. “Whose fault is that?”

He grins, but it’s softer this time. Gentler.

“Let’s get you into bed,” he says.

You blink. “Shouldn’t we put our clothes on and go back outside?”

He shrugs one shoulder, a playful glint in his eye. “Seonghwa can wait. You need to rest.”

You tilt your head, curious. “Since when are you this thoughtful?”

“Since I started falling for you,” he says, so casually it nearly knocks the air from your lungs.

Your chest tightens. “San…”

But he just smiles, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “Come on.”

You let him lead you out of the bathroom, fingers still tangled in his, and the moment you both go upstairs and step into your bedroom, the air feels heavier. Quiet. Safe.

He grabs an oversized hoodie — and gently helps you into it. His touch lingers longer than it needs to. Warm. Like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you.

Then he guides you toward the bed.

You sit, still flushed, still warm from the shower. San pulls the blanket over your legs, then drops down beside you, back against the headboard, towel still low around his waist.

Your hand finds his on instinct.

He squeezes gently. “You okay?”

You nod slowly, watching your fingers toy with his. “Yeah. I just… I meant it, you know.”

He glances over. “Meant what?”

“When I said I can’t get enough of you.”

His face shifts. Something softer beneath all that usual confidence.

He leans in, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “You’re not the only one, baby.”

Your stomach flips.

And for a second — just a second — the worry disappears. The guilt. The risk. Seonghwa. All of it.

Just you and San.

Tangled in silence. Breathing each other in.

But the peace doesn’t last long.

From downstairs, faintly, you both hear it:

“Y/N? San?” Seonghwa’s voice echoes up the stairs.

Your eyes widen.

San groans, letting his head fall back against the wall. “He has the worst timing in the world.”

You suppress a laugh. “You should go.”

He looks at you, reluctant. “Do I have to?”

“Unless you want to explain why you’re still in my room… half-naked…”

He raises a brow. “I could think of a few convincing reasons.”

You snort, shoving his shoulder gently.

He kisses your hand once more, then stands, grabbing the clothes he’d left in a heap earlier. 

He pulls his shirt over his head, still damp, but it does nothing to hide the flush on his skin or the softness in his eyes.

At the door, he glances back at you.

“I’ll come back later,” he says, voice low.

You nod.

“I know.”

He smiles — and disappears down the hall.

You’re left alone, wrapped in your hoodie, hair damp against your back, heart full and aching in equal measure.

And even though Seonghwa might be one floor away…

Your thoughts?

Still with San.

–

That night, you’re curled up in bed, hoodie on, knees to your chest, scrolling aimlessly on your phone when there’s a knock at your door. 

You barely get the chance to respond before it cracks open and Seonghwa peeks his head in.

“Hey,” he says, voice uncharacteristically calm. “You… mad at me?”

You glance up, eyebrows raised. “What do you think?”

He walks in anyway, hands stuffed in the pockets of his sweats like he’s trying to downplay his guilt.

“Look,” he starts, crossing the room and stopping at the edge of your bed. . “I shouldn’t have snapped at you… about, you know, being so close with San. I guess I just got worried.”

You don’t say anything. Just blink at him.

He shifts on his feet awkwardly. “I mean, you two are always together, and sometimes I feel like I don’t know where I fit in anymore.”

You glare.

“But—like, in a normal way,” he hurriedly adds, holding up his hands. “I didn’t mean to come off like I don’t trust you. It’s just…weird, you know?”

You roll your eyes. “We weren’t acting weird.”

He gives you a look.

You sigh. “Okay. A little weird.”

“Thank you.” He mutters. Then, his eyes flick over your shoulder, and his face changes. “Wait. What is that?”

You frown. “What?”

He leans forward a little, squinting at the base of your neck. “Y/N… is that a bruise?”

You freeze.

“Did someone hit you?” he asks, voice suddenly sharper. “What the fuck is that?”

Your eyes go wide. “What? No! No, no one hit me.”

Seonghwa narrows his eyes and steps closer. You try to pull the hoodie tighter around yourself, but you’re too slow. 

His hand comes up before you can stop him and he gently pulls the hoodie up, revealing more of your shoulder.

“Seonghwa!” You half-laugh, half-shriek, twisting away from him. “What the hell are you doing?!”

He stares. “Wait… was that another one on your hip???”

“Stop undressing me with your hands, you freak!” you smack his shoulder, laughing now because his expression is pure horror.

Seonghwa backs up, hands in the air. 

“No, because seriously—what is that? Are you getting beat up? Is something hitting you when I’m not around? Because I will throw hands—”

You cut him off, fast. “I slipped!”

He pauses. “You slipped?”

“Yes! When I came back into the house earlier after you told me to come back inside, remember? The floor was wet and I slipped on the hardwood. It’s not a big deal.”

Seonghwa looks you up and down suspiciously. “That’s… a lot of .. weird marks for one slip.”

You shrug, trying to look nonchalant. “I fall hard, okay?”

He stares a second longer, then sighs. “Damn. You should’ve dried off first.”

You roll your eyes, grinning. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, Dad.”

He scoffs. “Whatever. Just… next time, be more careful, alright? I don’t want to see you walking around with mystery.. bruises and weird excuses.”

You nod, the smile still lingering. “I got it.”

Seonghwa moves to the door, pausing before he leaves. “And… for real. I’m sorry for earlier. I was out of line.”

You hesitate, then nod slowly. “I know. Its okay.”

Seonghwa snorts. “I mean… I’m not totally wrong, but I’ll take it.”

You chuck a pillow at him.

He catches it with one hand, grinning, then flings it right back — it hits you in the face.

“Seonghwa!!”

“I told you,” he laughs, already halfway out the door. “You're dumb and slow!”

“Asshole!”

“I heard that!”

The door shuts behind him.

You’re left in your room again, cheeks sore from smiling, hoodie still pulled up a little too high from the struggle, and heart beating a little too fast — not from Seonghwa…

But from what you’re really hiding.

And now there’s another bruise you didn’t think you’d have to cover: the ache of lying to someone you love.

–

It’s quiet now.

The hallway lights flicked off. 

Seonghwa’s door shut with that signature click. 

Your room is dim, lit only by the soft blue glow from your phone screen as you lay in bed under the covers, eyes heavy but mind racing.

You should sleep.

You want to sleep.

But your heart won’t settle.

Not after that day. Not after San. Not after Seonghwa’s way-too-close call.

Then—tap.

You freeze.

Another tap. Soft. Familiar.

Your eyes flick to your window.

You sit up, tugging the curtain just slightly.

There he is.

San.

On the roof outside your window, crouched down, hoodie up, his lips curved in that smug little smile that somehow makes your chest ache and flutter all at once.

You shake your head, motioning for him to come in.

The window creaks open quietly, and he slips inside with practiced ease, careful not to make a sound.

“Really!?” you whisper as he lands on your carpet. “Seonghwa just went to sleep. And why are you coming through the window??”

“Front door felt too risky,” he murmurs, voice low, laced with that sleepy rasp. “And I couldn’t go to sleep without seeing you.”

Your breath hitches, just a little.

He’s already pulling off his hoodie and shoes, like this is something he’s done a hundred times before.

You slide over in bed to make room for him, heart thudding in your chest.

San climbs in without hesitation, the bed dipping under his weight as he tugs the covers back over the both of you. 

His bare arm slides around your waist, warm and solid, pulling you into him.

You sigh into the comfort of it all, head resting against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.

“Long day,” he murmurs into your hair.

You nod. “Yeah.”

He strokes your back, slow and soft, like he’s memorizing the curve of your spine.

A moment passes. Still. Safe.

Then—

“I missed you,” he whispers.

You pull back just enough to look up at him.

“You were literally just with me.”

“I know,” he says, brushing your hair away from your face. “But I still missed you.”

The words melt into your skin like warmth, soaking into every place that felt cold before.

You don’t even think before saying, “I missed you too.”

His eyes soften. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You rest your head against his shoulder again, and for a moment, the world is quiet. No Seonghwa. No sneaking. No pretending.

Just him. And you.

“San?” you whisper after a minute.

“Mm?”

“Do you think this is… bad? Us, I mean. Keeping it from Seonghwa?”

He’s quiet for a moment, like he’s choosing his words carefully.

“I think…” he exhales, “it’s complicated. But I don’t think you are bad. And I don’t think this”—he pulls you in tighter—“is bad.”

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

You believe him. Or… you want to.

He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Try to sleep, princess.”

You smile. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why? You love it.”

You roll your eyes, nuzzling closer into his chest. “Shut up and hold me.”

He does.

​​His hand finds your hoodie strings, gently tugging at them, twisting them around his fingers as his other arm stays locked around your waist. 

His voice is soft when he speaks again, like he’s been thinking about it for a while.

“Okay. We should tell him.”

You blink. “Seonghwa?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

You shift slightly to look up at him. “When?”

He doesn't hesitate. “Tomorrow morning.”

Your eyebrows raise. “That quick?”

“Yeah.” He’s still playing with your hoodie strings, focused on the little knot he’s tying in them. “I’ll just sleep over. We’ll wake up, go downstairs, and tell him. Straight up.”

You bite your lip. That easy? That quick?

“Okay,” you say, after a pause. “But… don’t be too like…” You search for the word. “Don’t be smug about it. Be normal.”

He tilts his head, amused. “Smug? What do you mean ‘smug’?”

“You know what I mean,” you say, dead serious. “You do that thing. That smirky, cocky thing with your eyebrows and your stupid mouth—”

“My stupid mouth?”

“Yes.” You poke his chest. “Like when you said ‘I’ll be right back, ‘princess’ and flirted with me outside.. You almost got us killed.”

He’s laughing now, shaking his head, his hand still idly tugging your hoodie string like a nervous tic. “You’re being dramatic.”

You lean in closer, voice low. “No, San. I’m not. Seonghwa will actually beat your ass this time.

“Like not in a cute way. He’s gonna full-on older brother rage blackout if you go in there acting like you just won a prize.”

His smile falters just slightly, but the edge softens into something serious.

“I got it,” he murmurs. “I’ll be respectful.”

“You swear?”

He leans down, presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Swear.”

You stare at him for a second. “Okay. Then… yeah. Let’s do it. Tomorrow.”

His fingers lace with yours under the covers, warm and a little sweaty.

“You sure?”

You nod.

“I’m scared,” you whisper with a tiny laugh.

“Me too,” he admits. “But I’d rather him hate me for being honest… than for sneaking around with his sister.”

You exhale slowly, heart thudding again.

“God,” you say, “he’s gonna kill you.”

San grins. “Probably.”

You nudge his shoulder, burying your face in his neck again. “I’ll miss you.”

He chuckles. “I’ll haunt you.”

You smile.

Wrapped in the quiet. In his arms. Hoodie strings still twisted around his fingers.

Tomorrow’s coming fast.

But for tonight—you let yourself rest in this moment.

Warm. Honest. Real.

—

The smell of eggs and toast fills the kitchen. The morning sun spills lazily through the blinds, casting warm lines across the tiled floor. 

Seonghwa’s at the stove again, flipping something in the pan with casual focus. 

He’s talking — something about the car’s suspension or the alignment, his voice cutting through the silence like it's any normal day.

But it’s not.

You’re sitting at the table with your legs tucked up under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. 

San’s next to you, close enough that your knees are touching beneath the table. You keep your eyes on your juice, the tension heavy in your chest.

He hasn’t said anything yet.

And you know it’s coming.

“Yeah,” Seonghwa says, pulling the pan off the heat. “Think I just need to replace that whole left-side control arm. Might as well—what?” 

He glances over his shoulder, noticing San watching him. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

San clears his throat. Sits up straighter.

“I gotta tell you something. Like. Serious”

Seonghwa furrows his brow. “What? You’re finally gonna admit you’re fucking annoying?”

San grins. “Worse.”

Seonghwa rolls his eyes, setting the pan down. “When are you ever serious, man?”

But something in his tone shifts when he looks between you two.

“What is it?” he asks, slower this time.

You hold your breath and take a long sip of your juice.

San’s voice is calm. Steady. “I’m fucking your sister.”

PFTTTT—

You choke, juice spraying back into your glass as you slap a hand over your mouth.

“Oh my god, San—”

Seonghwa doesn’t react at first. Not right away. He just stares at him.

“What?” he says, quiet.

San shrugs, like he’s talking about the weather. “You heard me.”

“Say it again.”

Seonghwa’s hand goes to the juice pitcher. 

He lifts it slowly and sets it down hard on the table. Juice sloshes over the side, dripping across the wood.

You swallow hard.

Seonghwa’s voice stays eerily calm. 

“I knew something was up last night,” he mutters. “I said it. I said—‘are you two hooking up?’—and you both lied to my face.”

San raises a brow, unbothered. “Well technically, you asked a question. we just let your imagination do the rest.”

SPLASH.

Seonghwa launches the juice directly into San’s face. 

A full, aggressive pour. Citrus floods his curls, streams down his jaw, and pools into his collar.

“What the fuck, man?” San coughs, laughing.

Seonghwa's already standing, storming around the table, grabbing San by the collar and yanking him to his feet. 

“You think this is a fucking joke?” he growls, face inches from his best friend’s, knuckles white around his hoodie.

San just grins, tongue dragging over his cheek, tasting the juice. He winks at you.

Your stomach drops.

“San—” you whisper, disappointed. This is exactly what you told him not to do.

You quickly rise, rushing over. “Seonghwa, stop! Calm down—please, just calm—”

“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down!” Seonghwa barks, eyes blazing. “You lied to me. You lied to my face. And you—” he looks at San, his tone venomous, “—you really thought this was gonna be funny?”

“Seonghwa—” you start, but he’s already stepping back, shaking his head.

“I need air,” he snaps, already heading toward the door. “You two can clean up this bullshit.”

The door slams.

You exhale shakily, turning back to San.

He’s still laughing. Juice dripping from his nose, hoodie soaked, face red with barely restrained amusement.

You stare at him, arms crossed. “That was a bad idea.”

He wipes his eyes. “Y/N—baby come on—it was kinda funny.”

You don’t smile. “I told you not to act like that.”

He straightens a little, finally noticing your tone. “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I am. But hey… at least he knows now, right?”

You stare at him.

“Come here,” he says, voice softening.

You sigh and grab a towel from the counter, walking over and gently dabbing his face. 

You wipe the sticky juice from his cheeks, his neck, brushing his hair off his forehead as he leans into your touch.

“You smell like oranges,” you mumble.

He grins. “Kiss me.”

You blink. “No. I’m not kissing orange juice off of you.”

“Come on,” he laughs. “Do it. Just do it—”

He tugs your wrist. You trip forward, falling straight into his lap.

You gasp, your hands landing on his chest. “San—!”

“Kiss me,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Or I’m not letting you go.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re literally so annoying.”

He shrugs. “And yet… here you are.”

You roll your eyes, then finally kiss him. Soft, sticky, citrus-sweet.

Then you shove off him and dart away, heading for the stairs.

“Hey—!” he calls after you, laughing. “That’s not fair!”

You don’t look back. “Maybe next time you’ll listen to me!”

His laughter follows you up the steps.

—

That night, dinner is quiet — too quiet. the only sound is the clink of forks against ceramic, echoing louder than it should. 

Well, that and the faint, passive-aggressive clench of Seonghwa’s jaw.

He hasn’t said a word in fifteen minutes. Not one.

You’re sitting across from him, quietly chewing your food and trying not to look directly at his face.

His expression says everything: cold, closed-off, and aggressively avoiding eye contact. He’s stabbing his pasta like it personally wronged him.

Next to you, San is chewing like he’s got not a single care in the world. 

Laid-back. Legs spread. Elbow draped casually over the back of your chair. His fork twirls lazily through his food, and he hums a little under his breath. Hums.

The tension is suffocating.

You try to break it. “This is really good, Seonghwa.”

Seonghwa doesn’t even blink.

“Like… the sauce? Kind of amazing.”

No response. Just a sigh. A very loud sigh.

San smirks, glancing across the table. “You’re really not gonna talk to us? You’re just gonna sit there pretending we don’t exist?”

Seonghwa finally looks up, slowly.

Deadpan. “That’s the goal.”

You press your lips together, swallowing a laugh.

San tilts his head, feigning innocence. “What? You don’t believe me?”

Seonghwa raises an eyebrow. “Believe what? That you’re a moron?”

San shrugs dramatically. “No. That I’m fucking your sister.”

Seonghwa drops his fork with a loud clank. “Dude.”

“What??” San’s grinning now, full smug-mode activated. “I’m just saying, if you’re having doubts—”

And before you can stop him—

San leans over.

And kisses you.

Right in front of Seonghwa.

Not a quick peck. Oh no. He goes in with soft pressure, hand slipping to your jaw, angling your face toward him. It's slow. Purposeful. Completely, utterly unnecessary.

You pull back a little too late, wide-eyed, lips tingling. “San—”

Seonghwa just stares. Horrified.

Then, in a flat, revolted voice: “Okay. Okay. You don’t have to prove it. Just—stop.”

He wipes his mouth with a napkin and pushes his plate away.

“Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

San leans back in his chair, totally unfazed. “You didn’t believe me! I was clarifying!”

“Clarifying?!” Seonghwa throws his hands up. “That was not clarification, that was—graphic evidence! At the dinner table!”

You duck your head into your hands, shoulders shaking.

“Seonghwa,” you mumble through your fingers. “Please stop yelling at the pasta.”

Seonghwa mutters something under his breath. Then stands up.

“I’m eating in my room.”

He grabs his plate and storms off down the hall and up the stairs.

San’s still smirking. He reaches for your garlic bread.

“That went better than expected.”

You smack his hand. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” he says, biting into the bread, “you’re still sitting next to me.”

You groan and flop back in your seat, staring at the ceiling.

This is your life now.

And somehow... you kind of love it.

—

Masterlist

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

💥 Small Writing Habits That Genuinely Changed How I Write 💥

listen. i’m not here to sell you a productivity system or convince you that waking up at 5am will make you a novelist. i am deeply Not That Girl. HOWEVER, here are 5 chaotic little writing habits that quietly rearranged my brain chemistry:

✏️ typing BEFORE i know what happens i used to think i had to outline everything before writing. wrong. i get more done when i let the scene surprise me. just start with vibes and a line of dialogue. the rest shows up once you start moving.

🗣️ saying the scene out loud like a play no joke. talking my scenes out like a script?? life-changing. the pacing, the emotion, the rhythm of it all makes more sense when i act like i’m gossiping about my blorbos in a voice memo.

⌛ 20-minute timers (not for productivity, just to start) i tell myself “just 20 minutes.” sometimes i stop. sometimes i blink and it’s 2 hours later and someone’s been emotionally eviscerated in chapter 12. this one’s black magic. use wisely.

🕯️ re-reading my WIP like a book no editing, no judging, just reading through with snacks like it’s already published. changes how i see the pacing and emotional arcs. also reminds me it doesn’t completely suck.

🧂 leaving in the messy parts i used to delete scenes that felt “off.” now i just write a little comment like “THIS IS BAD BUT KEEP GOING.” turns out momentum matters more than vibes. shocking, i know.

anyway. tiny habits. huge mental rewiring. 10/10. highly recommend.

[callikari]

DESIGNER HEARTS ✶ for you, only 。。

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐈𝐒 、 kissed in silk sheets and city lights.

𝐎𝟖𝟕𝟒𝑤𝑐──── rich!enhypen 𝗑 𝑓!𝑟ea ˃ ᵕ ˂ fluff 。 kissing mentions of stress

REBLOG FOR ₍ᐢ. .ᐢ₎ A KISS !

HEESEUNG

you find him in his office. dim lights, sleeves rolled up, tie loose, shirt wrinkled from hours of stress. there’s a frown on his face and numbers all over his desk.

“still working?” you ask softly.

heeseung hums without looking, too absorbed in the chaos of his third failed merger.

you walk up behind him, arms sneaking around his shoulders. he finally leans back with a sigh, your warmth enough to make him forget.

you brush his hair away from his eyes and tilt his chin up.

“this deal isn’t worth your sanity,” you whisper.

he doesn’t argue. just closes his eyes and lets you kiss his tired forehead.

you tug lightly at his loosened tie, “come to bed.”

“just ten more minutes,” he mumbles, but when you give it another gentle tug—he’s already standing.

JONGSEONG

he gets quiet when he’s nervous.

you don’t see it often—he’s too polished, too poised—but tonight he’s oddly quiet on the drive over.

you glance at him from the passenger seat, noticing the way his hand clenches around the wheel.

“you okay?”

he nods, jaw tight.

“it’s just dinner with investors,” you say, trying to ease the tension.

“they’re… kind of important.”

you wait until the car stops at a red light. then, without warning, you lean over and fix his tie for him, smoothing the silk with slow fingers.

he watches you. wide-eyed. heart clearly pounding.

you tug the fabric just a bit.

“they’ll be lucky just to sit at your table,” you say.

he kisses you right there, in the car, with headlights shining through the windshield and his hands gripping your waist like you’re the only grounding force he knows.

JAEYUN

jake gets cold easily. and tonight, he forgot his coat. again.

“how do you own four houses and no sense?” you say as you toss your oversized fur-lined jacket over his shoulders.

he laughs, the sound bright and tipsy from the rooftop champagne.

“you’re cute when you’re mean,” he mumbles.

you just roll your eyes, fingers reaching out to tighten the collar around him.

“i swear, if you get sick…”

he leans forward, his tie brushing your arm.

you grab it instinctively, gently pulling him close. his lips part as you kiss the corner of his mouth.

he looks dazed. completely out of it.

“…what were you saying?”

you smirk. “nothing important.”

SUNGHOON

he doesn’t like galas.

he told you that on your second date—he finds them boring and repetitive and full of fake smiles.

but he went tonight.

for you.

and now he’s glued to your side, champagne glass untouched, eyes scanning the ballroom like he’s counting how many people he hates.

“you’re allowed to leave early,” you whisper.

he shakes his head. “you look too good tonight. i’m not leaving you in this room with these men.”

you raise a brow.

he raises both hands in mock surrender, “i’m just saying.”

your fingers find the knot of his tie, smoothing it as you lean in.

“then let’s sneak out together.”

he smirks.

“god, i love you,” he mutters as he lets you tug him through the back door of a gala he paid for

SUNOO

sunoo’s getting ready for an interview.

not just any interview—the cover of forbes.

you find him pacing the penthouse, tie hanging loose around his neck, repeating possible answers under his breath.

you sit on the bed and watch.

“what if i mess it up?” he says, tugging at his collar.

you smile softly, standing up to walk over.

you grab his tie before he can speak again and start fixing it. carefully, lovingly, your fingers smoothing out his nervousness.

“you’re sunoo,” you say. “you don’t mess up.”

he watches you the entire time. cheeks pink. lips twitching up into a smile.

“you make me feel like a main character,” he says.

you finish tying the knot and kiss his nose.

“you are the main character.”

JUNGWON

jungwon comes home late. again.

his jacket’s draped over one arm, tie undone, hair a little messy. he looks exhausted.

you’re curled up on the couch, blanket over your legs and tea going cold.

“long day?” you ask as he leans down to kiss your forehead.

“you have no idea.”

he sits beside you, head falling onto your shoulder.

you play with his tie lazily, looping it around your finger.

“you need to take a break, won,” you murmur.

“i can’t. not yet.”

you cup his face gently and pull him in by his tie, kissing him slow. tired. familiar.

when you pull away, he’s quiet.

“…okay. maybe tomorrow.”

you nod, resting your head against his.

“tomorrow’s good.”

RIKI

riki's been waiting for you outside the venue in the car for an hour.

he’s half-asleep when you finally slide into the seat beside him.

“you’re late,” he says, pretending to be annoyed.

you just grin, “you missed me that much?”

he rolls his eyes.

“you’re insufferable,” he mumbles.

you grab his tie, tug him over the center console and kiss him hard enough to make him yelp.

his fingers find your waist in a second.

when you pull back, he’s pink all the way to his ears.

“you’re dangerous,” he breathes.

you giggle, already buckling your seatbelt.

“drive, rich boy.”

vi :: sorry for the lack of updates .. next week i will be going on a trip so i'll try my best with posts !

taglist is open

© CALLIKARI 

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

no doubt!jakeyn are my fav cuties. Could you please write a little something about the first time Jake had to leave for tour after they started dating? bonus points if it’s right after he said I love you for the first time just to throw the brick a little harder.

Pls👉🏼👈🏼

HIIIII heheh thank uuuu jakeyn nation rise up fr <3 and omg this one is PAIN . but i do love how realistic this is!!! switched it up a bit so it's more so enha leaving for only a monthish—like when they had to tour in japan (only bc it makes more sense following the nodoubt!universe timeline LOL) hope you like it <333 also this one made me wanna cry. wow i need a jake so bad guys . & here's a little throwback to when jake tells yn he loves her for the first time :')))

──── EVERY TIME ZONE ✈️ 💌 ☁️ ↳ requested // part of the no doubt series !

You’re trying so hard to be good about it. 

Trying to smile, trying to joke—trying to hold onto that soft, golden feeling that wraps around you both when you’re with one another. 

Even if your boyfriend is currently standing in front of you at the airport. Hoodie up, suitcase in hand, eyes locked on yours like he’s not entirely sure how to walk away. 

Jake reaches for your hand again, intertwining your fingers. Even though it’s the fifth time he’s done it in the last ten minutes. 

“I’m chill. I’m cool. Normal.” His voice is low, like he’s trying to convince himself more than you, hands squeezing yours a little too tight. 

You raise a brow, glancing down, “I think my fingers are about to fall off, Jake.” 

He blinks. Looks down at your hands. Doesn’t loosen his grip. 

“Okay, well. Maybe a little less cool.” 

You giggle—but it breaks halfway through. 

Jake’s smile falters. 

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he says gently, his arms moving up your arms, rubbing up and down instinctively.

You nod. 

Because you believe him. That’s not the hard part. 

The hard part is that you just got him. 

Not just as yours—he’s always been yours. But in this deeper way. 

In the way his words from just a few nights ago still echo in your chest.

I love you. 

In the way he softly whispered it to you for the first time. 

And now he’s leaving. 

You press your lips together, trying to fight off the emotions, “I feel like…I feel like I barely got to live in it.” 

Jake tilts his head, stepping closer, his hands still moving up and down your arms absentmindedly, “Live in what?” 

“This,” you whisper, “Us. You loving me.” 

Jake’s expression crumples. In the softest, most devastating way. 

“Hey. Don’t say that.” 

You look up at him. He’s so close—you can feel the warmth of his breath. His hand lifts to your cheek, thumb brushing gently, softly along your skin like he’s memorizing you. 

And your heart aches. 

He swallows, then makes sure he’s really looking at you—

“I loved you yesterday.” His voice is thick, breath catching onto his words. “I love you today. I’ll love you every second I’m away, and I’ll love you the second I land back here a month from now. And every second after that, too.” 

You bite your lip, blinking fast. “You promise?” 

Jake nods, pulling you into his chest, arms curling around your shoulders as he tucks you into him perfectly. 

“I’d choose you in every city. Every time zone. Every night, every morning, every second.” 

You press your cheek to his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear. Matching yours.

“I’m gonna miss you so much,” you whisper, voice cracking slightly. 

“I already miss you,” he murmurs into your hair. “But this part’s temporary. You and me? We’re not.” 

You nod, eyes squeezing shut. 

And then Jake does what he does best, what he always does—he kisses you like it’s a promise. A map back home. 

And when he finally walks away—he doesn’t look back. 

Because he knows he doesn’t have to. 

You’re his home. 

And he’s already on his way back. 

no doubt m. list

tag list pt 1!: @bluxjun @ki2rins @why-did-i-just-do-this @favoritten @lovialymisc @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @lov4hoon @taeheexx @niyzu @chunkzdeluluwife @jakeflvrz @fangirl125reader @0429jw @dreamy-carat @yuons @thestarinstarbucks @miszes @llearlert @ppeachyttae @hoomin10 @teddybeartaetae @tanisha2060 @therealmrsbahng @beomgyu-bears @ikeulove @jiyeons-closet @youngheejay @wxnderingthoughts @fuevrois @soobundle1009 @isoobie @enhypenova @zoemeltigloos @lizdevorak @deluluscenarios @bloomiize @hasuyv @ijustwannareadstuff20 @heekolazz @dreamiestay @jakeyyyjakexoxo

[ivoryand-gold]

Spoilers for The Apothecary Diaries 2x23 “The Shi Clan”

I’ve seen a few people confused by or mad at Shisui’s motivations for scarring Jinshi. While I understand that protectiveness as someone who also loves Jinshi as a character, imho it is in alignment with who we know Shisui to be and makes perfect sense to me narratively.

The first reasoning, Shisui has been conspiring against her mother for a long time. From the abortifacients to all she confesses to Jinshi in this episode, she hasn’t merely been her mother’s doll for a long time. There’s still a guilt she likely feels for betraying her, even if she saw no other way. She sees the hatred and jealousy that founts from her mother like venom, and she refuses to become her, but also she never denounces her as her mother. Like when she talks about the ghost stories episode and how Suirei’s grandmother Taihou may have tried to kill her from the grave because she’s her mother’s daughter. Plus, despite her plotting, she has fawned for 17-18 years and that doesn’t all just go away in an instant because her mother is dead. Shisui still has love for Shenmei whether she deserves it or not, and can likely live with the rest of her choices by at least granting one of her mother’s wishes.

Secondly, Shisui always tried to take care of her family in her own way. She’s always been loving, and became “the doll Loulan” as her first attempt to fix things. If she was an obedient enough daughter, then maybe she’d be able to heal what had been so thoroughly broken within her mother. She sacrifices her sense of self both to survive—but we know that’s not her only/main priority given her repeated abuse when she disguised herself as a maid to see Suirei— and to protect and heal her family. It’s only when this doesn’t work that she moves on to plotting.

Shisui took care of her family, everyone got a version of what they wanted in the end. Obviously the main thing Shishou wanted was Shenmei’s forgiveness and love, but that was never going to happen. Both Jinshi and Shenmei had the chance to take the feifa from Shisui, and because of who they were, those cards fell where they did. Shenmei died as a consequence of her own actions, which Shisui didn’t want to happen but knew would. She always did what she could though, and gave her family what felt like very fitting parting gifts to me:

For Shishou, her final gift was seeing their plan through and making sure not only someone, but Jinshi knew her father served their country to the end. She also spoke up for her father to Shenmei in her dying moments, something Shishou had failed to do for himself the last 20 years.

For Shenmei, her final gift was violence, a final act of destruction towards something beautiful. Her wrath and pettiness given a small revenge. Immortality, even, to live on through Jinshi’s scar and become this “once in a generation evil” who wounded the once in a generation beauty her mother was so jealous of. Both continuing and ending the cycle of their families, with Jinshi’s consent.

For Suirei, her final gift was a smile— the promise that she was happy. A seed of contentment for Suirei to build the rest of her life on now that she’s lost her family. A second chance at life she was only given because of Shisui’s favor. That smile conveyed Shisui’s own freedom.

And in that is also Shisui’s gift to herself. She couldn’t help the circumstances she was born into, nor could she change the tides of fate to keep her family from being embroiled in scandal. But at least she could rewrite the ending. After so long hiding behind her makeup and mother and the role of Loulan, Shisui could finally have a voice. She could take up space. She could be a savior.

She could be the villain of a generation.

She could dance.

[alivebutdeadinside-6-6-6]

I started C3 a few weeks ago, so I’m a bit out of the loop with all the details, but the internet exists so, spoilers happened.

I will admit to being happy that Vax was allowed to return, have more time with friends and family, but… the more I thought about it, the more it just… Doesn’t seem to fit?

From my understanding (as someone who hasn’t yet finished C3) Vax is still doing duties as a champion and acting as a warden for the Shadowfell along with Morrighan which takes him away from the others for long lengths of time. So, is he gone for months? Weeks? Years? Days? At a time before randomly showing up in Whitestone or Zephrah? And how long does he stay? How long CAN he stay before things get out of whack because he was taking a ‘vacation’ from his work?

I don’t know.

While all the opinions listed above are valid and I agree with, the main issue for me is that, it feels redundant that Vax gets to stay since he’s going to be absent for most of the time anyway. Also, while I’m not sure if he would age like a half-elf or now has timeless body, he would watch all his friends (barring Keyleth unless someone manages to kill her.) die. Because physically, he hasn’t aged. And, when the Matron returns to her realm, does Vax just automatically go with her? (Again, haven’t finished C3, don’t know if that was mentioned at all.)

I feel that it would have made more sense (again, from someone who hasn’t finished C3) if Vax returned to the Shadowfell after the Divine Gate was broken. Because Morrighan can handle the duties of champion from the Material Plane while Vax handled the duties of overlooking the Matron’s realm, from the realm. Because that’s what he’s been doing for the last 30 years.

Like, I can understand him breaking through whatever barrier set between him and the Material Plane to try and save Keyleth. And I can get behind the Matron giving him time to be with Vox Machina after being freed from the Key, it just… Him staying permanently doesn’t really make sense from a narrative standpoint either.

This next part is just pure speculation.

I feel like Vax got his happy ending despite everything, because when you think about it, every PC character from C1 & C2 got a happy ending, but Vax. (Yes, I will hear arguments about Mollymauk, but to me, he got free from Lucien in the end and found some kind of rest/peace (I also haven’t read Eyes of Nine yet so could be completely wrong in that standpoint.)) To me, it just kind of feels like Matt gave Vax a happy ending, because everyone else got one. And it just…. Doesn’t feel right.

At this point I'm largely 'it was what it was' vis a vis campaign 3.

But occasionally I'll think about how the climax of campaign 1 is Scanlan having to sacrifice his one chance to save Vax's life in order to stop Vecna from escaping, how the cast has multiple times acknowledged how strong the story of the tragedy of Vax is. Then I'll think about they consciously made the decision to undermine that, and I get a little annoyed again.

[redvexillum]

The Neverending Road to Perfection: Zooble

So, not too long ago, I wrote a full-on character analysis of Ragatha, and my god, it was an absolute blast. Honestly, it felt like writing a love letter to Gooseworx (even if they’ll probably never see it). But hey, that didn’t stop me from pouring my heart out. And the wild thing is, digging that deep only made me fall harder for this series. It opened up this whole new level of appreciation, not just for the storytelling, but for how layered these characters actually are.

Which brings me to this: my second love letter to Gooseworx. 

This time, it's all about Zooble.

⚠️ PLEASE NOTE ⚠️

This analysis centers around Zooble and what I interpret as their experience with body-based dysphoria. I want to take a moment to acknowledge that many people who struggle with body or gender dysphoria find immense relief, peace, and joy after making changes or undergoing modifications that align with their identity, and I think that’s valid and beautiful.

However, this particular interpretation focuses solely on Zooble’s narrative within the show, as I personally read it. While gender dysphoria and body dysphoria often share overlapping emotional terrain, I’ll be approaching this analysis through the lens of body image and identity struggles as they appear in Zooble’s character arc, NOT as a commentary on trans experiences or gender identity.

This is a personal and literary reading based on how I connected with the character, not a universal statement about dysphoria as a whole.

So with all that said! Buckle up because we’re diving in!

Since this analysis will specifically touch on themes of body dysphoria, I think it’s crucial to start with Zooble’s appearance. Because, to be honest? When I first saw their character design, I didn’t like it. It just felt… wrong. Like someone took a bunch of leftover toy parts from different boxes and mashed them together with no real sense of harmony or cohesion. And it left me wondering: why were they designed that way?

But looking back now, I realize that’s the point.

The reason I didn’t like it (or why it felt so off) is because, as humans, we’re hardwired to find beauty in symmetry. Our brains are constantly searching for balance, for visual harmony. The more symmetrical a person’s face or figure is, the more our minds register it as “pleasing” or “right.” Of course, nothing and no one is perfectly symmetrical, but culturally and biologically, symmetry equals beauty. And Zooble? Zooble is the antithesis of that.

Their design challenges that default bias in us. And at first, it’s uncomfortable. Jarring, even. But the more you sit with it, the more purposeful it feels.

On my rewatch of Episode One, something jumped out at me: Zooble is the first character to point out Pomni’s new body. That detail stuck with me. Because often, the things we notice in others are reflections of what we value (or struggle with) in ourselves. The body is important to Zooble. Which makes perfect sense when you start to unpack the deeper themes later on.

From the jump, we’re introduced to Zooble’s laissez-faire, borderline nihilistic attitude. They flip people off, isolate themselves from the group, and carry this energy of “I don’t give a single fuck about any of you.” And with that cold, prickly exterior, it’s easy to just… glaze over them. As viewers, we’re trained to gravitate toward warmth, relatability, emotional openness. But Zooble doesn’t give us any of that. There’s no immediate emotional hook. So naturally, you’re left thinking: why should I care? There just isn’t enough information yet to answer that question.

And then, when Zooble says “no” to the second adventure (which, to be fair, after being literally taken apart by the gloinks the first time, I don’t blame them), it feels like we’re being told again: this character is detached, unwilling to engage. Distant.

But something does shift, just a tad, by the end of Episode Two.

We see Zooble join a small, understated funeral for Kaufmo. And for the first time, they express grief. Real, honest, visible grief. I know, I know, it’s a funeral, of course they’re supposed to be sad! But for a character who’s only shown boredom, bitterness, and mild irritation (plus a healthy dose of “screw Jax”) up to that point, seeing even a flicker of vulnerable emotion felt like a window cracking open. Not wide. Just enough to let something real seep through.

We know from later episodes that beneath Zooble’s hard, hell-you-can’t-sit-with-me exterior, there’s actually a kind heart in there...someone capable of forming genuine, soft, real friendships. Their dynamic with Gangle proves this, showing us that Zooble can care deeply when given the space and safety to do so.

But for many fans (including me) Episode Three was the turning point. Gooseworx had teased that it would spotlight Zooble, and holy shit, did it deliver. Suddenly, this character we had barely scratched the surface of was flooded with depth. Layers. Complexity. Pain. And something deeply, achingly human.

The decision to place Zooble in a pseudo-therapy session with Caine while the rest of the cast went off on their nightmare-fuelled adventure? Honestly, genius. Because when you’re unpacking something as internal and psychological as body dysphoria, throwing the character into a sugar-coated candy land or wild carnival setting would have drowned out the emotional weight. Instead, we get stillness. Focus. Conversation. And that setting: quiet, sterile and controlled was precisely the right space to dive into the parts of Zooble they’ve been hiding.

What struck me most was how willing Zooble was to open up. Not in a grand, sweeping declaration, but calmly. Casually. They admit they’ve talked to Caine about their issues before. That it’s not just about hating the adventures, it’s something deeper. Something ongoing. And yet… they stop themselves mid-sentence. Because they’ve already gone down this road, and Caine, being an AI, just doesn’t get it. And god, that hit hard. The frustration of opening up to someone/something who can’t understand you, not because they’re cruel or uninterested, but because they simply can’t comprehend the layers of what you’re feeling? That just fucking sucks.

And here’s the thing, Zooble tried. They really, truly tried to be vulnerable. And that shows a lot of emotional intelligence. They know something is wrong. They know they feel broken or “off” somehow, and they’re trying to talk about it. That awareness, that self-reflection, even amidst all their pain, shows how emotionally grounded they really are.

Then, after more pushing from Caine, we get the reveal.

Zooble says it.

They hate their body.

And it lands like a punch to the chest.

Now, I need to applaud the brilliance of their character design here. It’s no accident that Zooble is made up of removable, disjointed parts. They’re a walking patchwork of asymmetry, physically embodying discomfort with form and cohesion. And presently, that design finally makes sense. It mirrors exactly how they feel about themselves: a collection of mismatched pieces, never quite fitting together.

And yet (and here’s the heartbreaking irony) they’re the one character who actually can change their body. Completely. At will. They can swap parts, rearrange their entire form. In a world where everyone is stuck with their new digital identity, Zooble has freedom… and still, it’s not enough.

So the question becomes: why?

Why, even with that ability, do they still feel this way?

The reason Zooble could never find the pieces that felt right… is because they were never meant to. That’s the cruel truth. You can swap every limb, reshape every corner of your appearance, but dysphoria runs deeper than surface-level change. It’s not about how you look. It’s about how you feel when you look.

Let me explain with an example.

You cut your hair. Doesn’t feel right. So you change the way you dress. That still doesn’t fix it. Maybe you lose weight. Maybe you gain some. Maybe you go further: plastic surgery, breast augmentation, lip fillers, nose jobs, butt lifts, cheekbones, jaw reshaping. You keep changing and changing and changing. Until one day you look in the mirror… and you don’t even recognize yourself anymore.

And still...you feel wrong.

That discontent, that pain, that core-level discomfort?

It never left.

So imagine living like that forever. In a world that has literally taken away your human form and replaced it with a mismatched jumble of removable parts. That’s Zooble’s reality in the Digital Circus. This is surely hell for them. Their body isn’t just “not right," it’s a twisted reflection of how they saw themselves in real life.

Disconnected. Disassembled. Unrecognizable.

And every single morning, they wake up and see that reflected at them.

Imagine what that does to your sense of self.

This isn’t just trauma. It’s looping, inescapable torment. And no matter how many times they reach into that cursed box of spare parts, nothing fits. Because the truth is, nothing will ever feel like “you” when your concept of “you” has been so fundamentally shattered.

So, is it really any surprise that Zooble’s personality is withdrawn? That they come off as cold, distant, checked out? In a world where losing control of your emotions can lead to literal abstraction, the safest thing Zooble can do is shut it all down.

Don’t feel.

Don’t spiral.

Don’t acknowledge that your own body feels like a costume you never asked to wear.

But here's the beautiful, important part, I don’t want to get lost in the pain: Zooble is not just their dysphoria. They're more than the sum of mismatched parts.

I loved the moment when they offhandedly listed every cast member’s personality while criticizing Caine’s dumb adventure. It was subtle, but brilliant. Because it indicated that Zooble pays attention. They’re observant. Emotionally intelligent. They may not be outwardly affectionate or social, but they see everyone.

They get people.

Also, can we talk about how hilariously fitting it is that Zooble ends up being Caine’s therapist? Like...does an AI even need therapy? Probably not. But the scene works. Sure, it plays out like a gag, and on the surface, it’s funny. But the more you think about it, the more it actually makes sense.

Because once you find out in Episode 5 that Zooble used to be a tattoo artist and a bartender, which are two professions rooted in listening, in being present, in holding space for others, everything just clicks. Those are jobs that require you to read people, to know when to talk and when to shut up, to offer comfort in your own unique way. So, of course, people would naturally gravitate toward Zooble and start talking. Of course, they'd slide right into the role of listener. It’s not just a joke. It’s a subtle piece of their character puzzle.

Now, I’ll be honest. At first, I thought it was a shame that we had to split Zooble’s spotlight with Kinger. But looking back, I actually appreciate it. The later episodes do a lot of heavy lifting to flesh Zooble out, and in hindsight, it feels right that we didn’t try to condense something so complex into one neat arc. And more importantly? Caine doesn’t solve Zooble’s self-image issues.

And that is the most important thing.

Because this isn’t a one-and-done problem. Body dysphoria, self-hatred, internalized discomfort? You don’t just talk it out once and feel better. That’s not how it works. And the fact that the show doesn’t give Zooble a clean resolution, that their pain is acknowledged, but not magically resolved, is so needed. It adds realism. It gives the character depth. And it sets the stage for even more insight as the series progresses.

But before we get into the deeper episodes, let’s talk about something I absolutely loved: Zooble’s relationships, especially with Gangle.

Episode 4 kicks off with Zooble being noticeably more engaged with the group and one of the sweetest moments? They’re the one who gives Gangle a new plastic mask from their own box of spare parts. It’s such a quiet but powerful act of compassion. Honestly, I’m convinced Zooble’s love language is 100% acts of service. They won’t say “I love you,” but they will hand you the thing you need without you asking.

Their bond with Gangle is probably one of the most unexpectedly heartwarming dynamics in the show. You start to see that all the aloofness, the sass, the “I don’t care” energy? Yeah, it’s a shield. Because underneath it, Zooble is kind. They’re gentle. And fiercely protective.

Also, this part? Fucking Adorable. It’s not even part of my “deep analysis” or whatever, I just need to yell about it. Zooble looked so bashful when Gangle sincerely thanked them. It was such a pure reaction, like they didn’t know what to do with genuine appreciation. My heart ASUDAHBSD.

Anyway! focus, I couldn’t help but think back to when Zooble said they used to be a tattoo artist. There’s something so poetic about that. Changing a part of someone’s body, helping them reclaim or reframe their identity through art… and bringing joy to others in a way that Zooble might not have found for themselves. Maybe that’s what they were chasing, in some way: making others feel beautiful because they couldn’t feel that way on their own.

That moment when Jax casually mentions Zooble being surprisingly diligent at working the fryer really hit different after Episode 5. With the context that Zooble worked various jobs: bartending, tattooing, and who knows what else, it suddenly made a lot of sense. They slipped into that fry cook role so naturally. Like they were used to jobs that demanded either mindless repetition or artistic finesse. It paints a picture of someone who's had to adapt, who’s learned to show up and do the work, whether it inspired them or not.

Sure, Zooble says they were only doing it because they didn’t want Caine to punish them, which, fair. After the breakdown Caine had in Episode 3, I wouldn’t want to push his buttons, either. But that doesn’t negate the point: Zooble was the only one who could keep their head down and focus. While the others fumbled their way through trying to find meaning or motivation, Zooble just did the job. That speaks volumes about their work ethic. There's something quietly admirable about it. Someone who, despite everything, knows how to keep moving.

And remember how I mentioned earlier that Zooble is emotionally intelligent? I think this scene with Gangle really underscored that. Zooble isn’t loud about their concern. They don’t hover or ask invasive questions. But the shot of them watching Gangle after she gets hurt, processing her pain, thinking it over...it really shows they see what’s happening. They just take a different approach.

There are different kinds of people: those who want to fix things immediately, and those who take a step back, reflect, and act when the moment feels right. Zooble is definitely the latter. It’s not distance, it’s deliberation. And I think that makes their compassion feel even more real. It’s not performative. It’s thoughtful and intentional.

Now, someone could argue that Pomni was the one who saved Gangle emotionally, especially when she offered to close for her. And yeah, that moment mattered. But I don’t think Zooble’s role should be discounted. When Zooble said they were taking Ragatha home and didn’t immediately address Gangle’s feelings, it wasn’t a dismissal. It was prioritization. They finished the chaotic task, waited for calm, and then reached out.

Which brings me to this moment. I wanted to highlight just how much character development Zooble undergoes, especially in that final scene.

When we were first introduced to them, Zooble came off as cold, abrasive, and completely uninterested in bonding with anyone. They were sharp, closed-off, and unapproachable. But by the end of Episode 4, something changes...something important.

We start to see Zooble reaching out.

They gave Gangle a new mask, a small gesture, sure, but meaningful. Then they noticed when Gangle was off by herself, clearly hurting, and chose to go to her. They didn’t brush it off, didn’t avoid the discomfort. They sat with her, comforted her, and encouraged her not to give up even when the mask didn’t work. That moment, when Zooble says, “Maybe next time,” and gently affirms her was the first real, undeniable instance of Zooble extending genuine friendship.

And from there? You start to notice subtle shifts in how Zooble exists in the group.

They seem softer. More open. Less like they're just trying to endure the world and more like they're trying to live in it again. Especially around Gangle, there's a warmth that wasn't there before. It's small, maybe easy to miss, but it's there. You can see it.

And when Jax wanted to skip the anime-themed adventure, Zooble spoke up. They advocated for Gangle. Because by now, they’ve come to know her hobbies, her interests and what brings her joy. And in this suffocating digital hellscape, those little pockets of joy? They matter. And Zooble recognized that and cared about it.

There are so many quiet, precious moments between the two in Episode 5, and yes, okay, maybe I am low-key shipping them, but that’s not the main reason I’m bringing it up. What really gets me is when you compare Episode 1 Zooble to Episode 5 Zooble. The difference is striking.

You start to notice it, not just in the dialogue, but in Zooble’s body language. Despite having no mouth to smile with, no traditional expressions to rely on, the shift is unmistakable. Where they used to cross their arms tightly across their chest as a shield, you now see them more open, more relaxed. Their posture isn’t defensive anymore. They lean in. They stay close. Especially with Gangle.

They’ve become a quiet, steady presence. A supportive anchor. Always near, gently encouraging. And then it hit me:

Maybe that’s why we never saw a dramatic “fix” to Zooble’s body dysmorphia.

Because it’s not something that gets fixed in a single breakthrough moment.

Because body dysmorphia, at its core, isn’t about the physical. It’s about rejection. A deep, aching disconnection from yourself. A pain so rooted that no amount of cosmetic change can touch it. No sweet words, no external validation, no reassembly of parts will make it go away.

Healing from that kind of self-loathing has to come from within.

But here’s where The Amazing Digital Circus does something beautiful. Instead of “solving” Zooble’s pain, it shows us something more powerful: the beginning of healing. Through their connection with Gangle, we see a Zooble who smiles in their own way. A Zooble who lingers instead of walks away. A Zooble who doesn’t just tolerate others, but chooses to care.

Maybe I'm being hopelessley optimistic for Zooble. Plus I don’t want to sound corny, or push shipper goggles on anyone, but I believe what’s helping Zooble heal isn’t some epiphany or miracle moment. It’s platonic love. That quiet, steadfast kind of love where someone sees you, despite your flaws, and stays. Where Gangle, in all her softness and sincerity, likes Zooble as they are.

People always say, “You have to love yourself before anyone else can.”

But perhaps that’s not always true.

Maybe learning how to love someone else, through small acts of kindness, quiet gestures, and choosing to stay even when it’s hard teaches you how to love yourself, too.

The show doesn’t wrap up Zooble’s trauma in a neat little bow, and it shouldn’t. After all, every episode you see, they switch out thier parts. And it shows that real healing is messy. Some days will be worse than others. Some days, Zooble might hate every inch of themselves again. But the fact that they keep trying, that they keep showing up, opening up, and reaching out, is proof that...maybe healing is happening.

And considering the scope of the land being a digital purgatory, it's not exactly the safest place to heal, but there does seem to be a recurring theme in this show.

Acceptance doesn’t arrive all at once. It begins with one simple, terrifying thing:

Reaching out and forming genuine bonds.

Thanks for reading this long ass rant. I decided to do the rest of the cast in due time...Kinger is next on my list!

Read More TADC Character Analysis

[sugurusgurl]

Love, Eventually (Part 2)

☾𖤓 Synopsis. She marries Satoru Gojo for the money—enough to keep her brother alive. He marries her to shut his clan up—no love, no strings, just a deal. But living together makes it harder to remember what’s fake… and what’s starting to feel real.

☾𖤓 Pairing. Reader x Gojo Satoru ☾𖤓 Warnings. Hurt/Comfort, Fake marriage, emotional suppression, slow burn, unrequited feelings, mentions of critical illness (sick sibling), mentions of pregnancy, power imbalance.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 The car rolls to a stop in front of the Gojo compound—grand gates, manicured silence, and walls that feel more like boundaries than protection.

Satoru steps out first, smoothing his suit with lazy confidence. You follow a second later, heels clicking against the polished stone driveway, your breath steady despite the weight of what’s coming.

He barely glances at you before starting toward the entrance.

But before you reach the threshold—just as two elders and a handful of clan members appear at the top of the steps—you reach for his hand.

Without hesitation, without showiness. You simply slip your fingers between his and thread them together.

Your grip is warm. Gentle. Not possessive—just certain.

Satoru stops for half a breath. His head turns slightly, a flicker of something unreadable in his profile. But he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he adjusts his pace to match yours.

As you step into view, all eyes turn toward you. And you—chin high, eyes calm—let your thumb brush the edge of his ring finger.

“Smile,” you whisper without looking at him. “They’re already guessing what kind of woman 

would agree to marry you.”

Satoru huffs a quiet laugh under his breath, gaze forward. But something in his posture softens.

He smiles, too.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The Gojo clan’s dining hall is beautiful in a cold, calculated way—glass, gold, and white stone polished to sterile perfection. Everything has its place. Everyone has their role.

You play yours flawlessly.

You smile when spoken to. You laugh lightly at old women’s veiled insults and young men’s condescension. You touch Gojo’s arm just often enough to sell the illusion, but never too much to overplay it.

Gojo, for his part, lets you carry the act. He doesn’t offer help or rescue. He doesn't need to. You handle them better than expected.

Until—

“So,” says a silver-haired elder woman across the table, dabbing delicately at her lips with a cloth napkin. “Tell us about your family, dear. What do they think of all this?”

You don’t flinch. “They trust my judgment,” you say, even, polite. “Are they involved in jujutsu society at all?” the woman presses. “Surely someone of your... background isn’t entirely unrelated?”

You smile, still. But it tightens at the edges. “No, they’re not,” you say gently. “My family stays out of politics.”

Gojo glances at you, sensing something in the shift of your tone—soft, but firmer now. A subtle lock behind the eyes.

The elder hums, not letting up. “And your parents? I assume they raised you to navigate this world with such… poise.”

There’s a beat too long before you reply.

“I’m the one who raised me,” you say softly. It’s quiet. Perfectly delivered. But Gojo feels the weight of it like a pin-drop in a silent hall.

The elder laughs lightly, dismissing the moment. Someone else picks up the conversation. The topic shifts.

But you don’t touch your wine glass again.

Gojo catches it—the shift, the silence—but says nothing. Just leans back and lets the conversation move on.

You’re playing your part. That’s all that matters.

And if something about your answer lingers in his mind a moment too long—well. That’s none of his business.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

As the dinner winds down, a retainer approaches you with a subtle bow.

“The clan head would like a moment with you, miss.”

You glance toward Satoru. He’s leaned back in his chair, half-listening to a cousin's rambling. When he catches your eye, his only reaction is a lazy shrug. “Have fun,” he murmurs, not unkindly.

You nod once and follow the retainer down a long, quiet hallway—your footsteps soft against the polished floor. The ancestral walls rise around you, stately and severe. The room you’re led into is spare, formal. By the tall window stands the man you recognize from the files: Gojo Naohiro, clan head and Satoru’s father. He doesn’t turn immediately. “I appreciate you making time,” you say gently, folding your hands in front of you.

He turns then, slow and deliberate, and studies you. Not hostile. Just deeply, unmistakably evaluating. “You’re quieter than I expected.”

“I try not to speak unless I have something worth saying.” His brow lifts—just slightly. A flicker of interest. “Satoru says very little about you.” You offer a small, respectful smile. “I imagine he says very little about most things.” That earns a breath of amusement. Quiet. Surprising. “He doesn’t bring people here. Not even friends. Certainly not partners.” “I know,” you reply softly. “I didn’t expect to be the exception. I’m… just grateful he trusts me enough to stand beside him tonight.” That catches him off guard—but only just. He watches you a moment longer. “He’s unpredictable. Arrogant. Difficult even on his best days.” You nod. “He is.” 

“And you’re not intimidated by that?” There’s no hesitation. “No, sir. I think people behave like that when they expect to be misunderstood.”

Silence settles for a moment. The room feels still in a way that isn’t empty—just old. Heavy with memory. “You’ve got good manners,” he says at last. “Most women who come this close to our name either pretend to be fearless or try to impress me. You do neither.”

“I don’t want to be impressive,” you reply gently. “I just want to be enough for what he needs, for however long I’m allowed to be here.”

That seems to land deeper than you intend. He doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he nods once, curt and final. “You may go.”

You bow slightly before turning to leave. Just beyond the hall, Satoru is leaning lazily against the wall. His sunglasses are tucked into his collar now, pale eyes visible and unreadable in the low light. “What’d he say?” he asks. “That I have good manners,” you say with a soft smile. “Huh,” he mutters. “Maybe he’s finally going senile.”

You walk back toward the foyer side by side. Not speaking. And Satoru doesn’t say it out loud, but part of him is starting to understand: you make this look easy… because you’ve had practice surviving harder things.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

The penthouse is dim when you return, city lights glowing softly through the wide windows. You slip out of your shoes by the door, silent and precise, like you’re trying not to disturb a peace that doesn’t really exist here. Satoru walks in behind you, loosening his tie with a dramatic sigh. “Well,” he says, heading straight for the kitchen, “I think that went beautifully. No one threw a drink. No one fainted. My father didn’t exile you on sight.”

He opens a cabinet, pulls down a dark bottle with a clean label, and holds it up between two fingers. “I think this calls for a toast.” Your eyes flick briefly to the wine, then to him. “To what, exactly?” “To us.” He grins as he uncorks the bottle. “The world's most convincing fake couple. Award-worthy, honestly.”

He pours two glasses.

You take yours with a soft, “Thank you,” and sit on the edge of the couch, legs tucked politely to the side. Satoru drops beside you, one arm stretched lazily over the back of the couch. He clinks his glass against yours with a smirk. “To surviving the Gojo clan,” he says. “Round one.”

You sip. Silence settles in—not awkward, but not exactly comfortable either. Just… quiet. You turn your glass slowly in your hands. “Your father seems very devoted to the family’s image.” “He’s married to it.” Satoru leans back, eyes half-lidded. “Has been for decades. That’s why tonight mattered. You’re not just my 'choice'—you’re his next political move by extension.”

You nod once. “I understand.”

He looks at you over the rim of his glass. “You always understand. It's kind of eerie.” You offer him a small smile. “Would you prefer I argue more?”

“God, no.” He laughs. “You’re like… peace in human form. It's unsettling. Especially in this house.”

You don't laugh back. Just lower your glass and set it gently on the table. “It was a good night.”

Satoru watches you for a second too long, then tosses back the rest of his drink.

“Yeah,” he says, standing. “Don’t get used to it.”

He walks off toward his room without another word. You stay behind, watching the last bit of wine settle in your glass. And for just a moment—when the door clicks shut behind him—your shoulders sink. Only an inch. Only enough to feel it.

Then, just as quickly, you straighten up. You have a role to play. And you��re still playing it.

Satoru closes the door behind him with his shoulder, the soft click echoing louder than it should in the quiet. He shrugs off his suit jacket, tosses it on a chair, and stands in the middle of his bedroom without moving.

The room is as sterile as ever—clean lines, dark furniture, no clutter. No warmth. Just a space that serves a function. Much like everything else in his life.

He runs a hand through his hair, walks to the window, and stares out at the city lights stretching far beneath him. Tokyo sparkles. Bright, chaotic, alive.

Nothing about tonight should’ve gotten under his skin. You played your part. Perfectly. Too perfectly.

He takes off his tie slowly, more distracted than tired.

You hadn’t flinched once—not when his aunts gave you that disapproving once-over, not when the clan’s elders started prying. Even his father had backed off after a single meeting. That alone should’ve made him smug

But instead, something’s… off.

There was something in the way you looked at the wineglass

Quiet.

Detached.

Like you weren’t celebrating a win—just surviving another round.

And that line—“I just want to be enough for however long I’m allowed to be here.”

He’d brushed past it in the moment. Let it roll off him like everything else.

Now it sits there. Lodged in his brain like a splinter he can’t shake loose. He shouldn’t care. That was the rule. No lines crossed. No digging deeper. But you’re too careful. Too polished. Like someone who’s been hurt in silence for a long time and learned how to hide the bruise.

He pulls off his shirt and tosses it aside, reaching for a hoodie on the chair.

Pauses.

Stares at the floor for a long, thoughtful second.

Then—

“Tch. Not my problem,” he mutters under his breath

And yet, when he lies down and closes his eyes, his mind doesn’t replay the clan dinner, or his father's cold approval—  it replays a quiet voice, sitting beside him on the couch, saying: “Thank you.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.

Two days pass. The penthouse remains quiet—too quiet for two people pretending to be newly in love. You keep to your side of the space, speaking only when spoken to, never lingering in a room longer than necessary. You’re calm. Always composed. And Satoru tells himself that’s exactly what he wanted.

Still, he finds himself looking up when you pass by. Hears the soft pad of your footsteps even over the hum of the TV. He doesn’t admit it to himself—not out loud—but you’re starting to exist in his awareness in ways you shouldn't.

He’s halfway through a call with a sorcerer from Kyoto when another number flashes on his phone. A name he recognizes. He ends the first call, picks up the second

“Gojo.”

The voice is low, clipped.

“You need to keep your fiancée inside.”

Satoru straightens, eyes narrowing.

“Why?”

“Rumors are spreading. The other clans are starting to think she’s pregnant."

He scoffs. “She’s not.” “They don’t care. If they think you’re having an heir, they think you’re consolidating power. You know what that means.”

Satoru’s mouth sets into a hard line. He doesn’t respond.

“She’s vulnerable, Gojo. She’s not from any of the big families. No blood ties, no protection. If someone wants to send a message, she’s the easiest target.”

“Let them try,” Satoru says flatly.

But the man on the other end doesn’t back off.

“You’re not taking this seriously. A woman walking around with your ring on her hand is now a symbol—and someone out there wants to make sure she’s not a threat.

A pause.

“This isn’t politics anymore. It’s blood.

The call ends.

Satoru doesn’t move for a moment. He just stares ahead—eyes cold, shoulders tense, jaw locked. He doesn’t want to care. He built this whole thing with lines that shouldn’t be crossed. But now someone thinks they can touch you.

And that’s a different kind of problem

He grabs his phone again, thumb hesitating just before your contact.  He doesn’t call.

The phone clicks silent in Satoru’s hand. His eyes stay on the screen, even after it’s gone dark.

Pregnant. Target. Blood.

The words rattle in his head, cold and measured, like facts from a report he doesn’t want to read.

“Pregnant,” he mutters. “Right. Like she’d let that happen.”

The soft click of a door opening breaks the silence.

You step in, still barefoot, sleeves rolled slightly above your wrists, hair pinned loosely at the back. You pause when you see him, eyes catching the tension in his shoulders, the uncharacteristic stillness in his posture.

“Is everything all right?” you blink.

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Just slips his phone into his pocket and turns to grab a glass from the counter.

“Fine,” he says casually. “Just business.”

You study him for a moment—quietly, without pressing. “You don’t usually look like that after a business call.” Your voice is gentler than usual, aware of the tension.

Satoru pours water into the glass, not looking at you. “Maybe I’m just tired of people wasting my time.”

You don’t believe him. He can see it in your posture. You’re too observant, too calm to miss the shift. But you don’t push. You never do.

“Okay,” you say softly. “If you need anything—” “I don’t.”

His tone is sharper than he means it to be. A beat of silence follows. Not heavy. Just quiet.

You nod once, with that same unshakable grace you always carry. “All right.”

You start to turn back toward the hall. But something in him stalls. “Hey.”

You look back and his gaze meets yours, steady.

“Stay inside tomorrow.”

You blink, just once. “Why?”

“Because I said so.” Flat. Controlled.

You don’t challenge him. Just study him for a second longer… and then nod.

“Okay.”

Then you disappear down the hallway again. The silence you leave behind feels louder than the conversation.

Satoru exhales slowly, leaning back against the counter, dragging a hand through his hair. He told you nothing. Protected you, he thinks.

But the problem isn’t just outside.It’s that, for the first time since this started, he doesn’t know whether keeping you in the dark is for your safety— or his own.

[eth3real-ess3nce]

PICK A WAX SEAL - JULY 2025 FORECAST

Top left (1) , Top right (2) , Bottom left (3) , Bottom right (4)

Remember to take what resonates and leave the rest..

Enjoy!

PILE 1

This reading is meant for you whether one or more of the following apply:

♡ if you own a cat , bonus if it’s dark haired

♡ if you’re a highly sexual person (sorry .. that’s what I channeled lol 😭)

♡ you love or feel connected to sunflowers🌻

♡ you take lots of action in order to prevent aging (anti aging creams, gut health care, etc)

♡ Leo rising

♡ you recently rage quitted a service / rage cancelled a subscription 😂

♡ you recently got accidentally wet with your full clothes on

I see you filtering out negative influences during July. You have been postponing it for so long, you are not even certain why..

It is fortunate that you have observed , noticed, that you have outgrown environments or friend groups that literally clutter your emotional space.

In many of you, I see there’s so much build-up tension, as if there are issues that haven’t been spoken about. Things have been constantly getting under the rug and when this storm finally hits… oof! Talk about some heat! 😳 It’s a tough decision to finally “clear the weeds” from your path. But you will soon realize that you *really* need to get things out of your chest..

Many of you might get to feel like the ‘black sheep’ in such situation. The other party will blame you, find non existent/trivial seeming problems in you. I literally hear you say “Wow that’s such a NON problem” when you get to argue with them. They will use poor excuses in order to manipulate the objective truth. Frankly, you are an authentic soul and you shine bright so , people will get triggered, boo. Just do you.

Remember though, when you decide to finally face this, the universe will have your back, even if you will feel like you’re being treated unfairly.

PILE 2

This reading is meant for you whether one or more than the following apply:

♡ you’re into medieval fiction , or Ancient Greece / ancient cultures

♡ Pisces influence in your chart

♡ you are into cyber/y2k aesthetic

♡ loves seafood

♡ you enjoy listening to sad girl music 💔

♡ you recently tried some new type of yogurt and hated it LOL

♡ like to sleep with socks on :P

Okayyy this pile was chosen by some very sensitive souls 🥺

July is shaping up to be a deeply tender and transformative month for your heart. I’m getting the feeling of a bittersweet isolation. You’ll be visiting old parts of yourself, maybe your childhood too. You’re going to be reconnecting with the beloved ‘old’ times.

Some of you might quite literally go to a place you’d call home, maybe grandparents house or somewhere you grew up visiting.

Others will experience a love from the past coming back. Did they come to cause confusion or pour their heart out about you?………..

Be aware, if you feel that it doesn’t serve you? Kindly let go babes

I sense that many of you are writers. If you’ve been experiencing writer’s block for a while, this will be the cure.

Or if you are artistic in general, this will inspire you to create art based on this.

“Nostalgia will be the end of me” , perhaps your favourite thing to say. You love to seek familiarity and things from your childhood, or the past, it tends to feel like a warm hug to you. You feel like you’re being renewed over and over every time you visit those pieces of you.

Nostalgia has a way of painting the past with soft, golden light, smoothing over the rough edges and challenges that were truly there. It seems ideal to you. Be patient and tender with yourself. Let go, and open your heart to the possibilities blossoming in front of you. You are deserving of happiness and peace—right here, right now.

This summer is promised to you ♡

PILE 3

This reading is meant for you whether one or more than the following apply:

♡ you’re not a big talker. you like to make your point across and prefer to be left alone ! 😎

♡ you cut someone off lately

♡ Capricorn influence in your chart

♡ you’re overthinking a lot lately and experience so much worry

♡ you looove love purple/blue (some of you are into galaxy aesthetics too) and like to use it a lot in your environment

♡ you had some spaghetti very very recently . Yum

♡ you experienced a falling dream / experience it frequently

Hmm this pile is similar to pile 1, so it’s natural that you felt drawn to both! Things are a little different here, though.

In July, a gate will open and a flood of secrets will be coming out. This has to be related to your social life.

It will leave you with no choice but to walk away from this environment. If it’s about work and you can’t exactly “leave”, you’ll simply distance yourself from people who acted behind your back.

Many of you already had this negative feeling about this group of people, be it friends, co workers, etc. And you will finally get to understand the reasons behind it. After all, your instinct doesn’t lie.

I sense that many of you might think this way:

“Will I ever be happy, fulfilled?”. Please, don’t listen to your pessimism. Of course you will!

Kindly allow the universe to clear up the space for you so it can bless you with what you need later. It’s normal to feel defeated sometimes, but remember that everything occurs so you reach your highest good.

Choose the lesson always.

Choose to see the silver lining and walk with it.

Spirit wants you to know one thing, and that is:

What goes around, comes around.

PILE 4

This reading is meant for you whether one or more than the following apply:

♡ you tend to wear your hood up a lot

♡ you like doodling

♡ you some specific art with your hands , maybe you’re good at DIY crafts? Hairdresser?

♡ your room has/used to have blue LED lights

♡ you are in your teen or late teen years

♡ your favourite comfy candy/treat has caramel in it

♡ you recently told someone that you can’t wait for autumn vibes and that you despise summer 😂

Dang this pile has so many messages and most of them are oddly specific! In all of the previous piles, I delivered messages for the collective but now? Spirit is nudging me to be more specific with yall.

Okay first things first, many of you might be very fixated on a water sign (cancer,Scorpio,Pisces) right now and you’re wondering if they’re worthy of your time? Answer is no.

Instead, choose the person who you don’t seem to like as much , because when you start to spend time with them, you’ll realize how precious they are and how much they have to offer to you emotionally. (If they’re not an earth sign then they simply have grounded, stable energy and they belong on the introverted side)

I pick up that some of you are performers, actors? If that aligns with you, then this is what I have to say: go for it!!!! Whether it’s a love interest in that circle, an opportunity that has been lingering … go for it!!

Now, a broader message I can give to all of you, is this…

Passion is good, enthusiasm is good. Heck, even impulsive decisions can be good. But! It’s just NOT always the way!

Sometimes, you have to take the path that’s a little more inconvenient. You’ll give chances to things that don’t initially excite you and make your heart beat like a drum, but are promising in the long run and are genuinely beneficial for you. Whether it’s a lover, a job, a different routine. Trust me, you’ll be building foundations for something that is bigger than yourself!

“Should I listen my heart or my mind?”

This is your sign to give your mind a chance, this time. And it’s certain that your heart will follow. Good things are coming, and unexpectedly too. 🩷

Thank you for your time 💗