#but then again of course. everything’s connected

[moonlight-lillies]

So hi me again can you make a yandere baby saja fic please, and give the menace a name he deserves one.

baby saja x reader -> fall in love with me again. thank you for your submission! i like connecting all my fics so baby saja will be il jeongseong in all of my fics! CW: stalker behavior, lowkey angst, il jeongseong = baby saja, drabble (if this does well i will for sure make it a series! :] )

he died as il jeongseong, so why is jinu making him call himself ‘baby saja’?

jeongseong, or any variant of that, was one of the unfortunate souls that had given up everything in order for a shot at  a decent mortal life. but he was so blinded by his greed, he failed to think about the one thing that would’ve kept from falling to gwi-ma’s rule.

you.

you and him had been childhood sweethearts. you were sought after in your village, known for your way of carrying yourself in an almost regal way. your dowry was the highest and the only family that could pay it were the il's. it made sense, jeongseong father worked closely with the royal family and, despite not living in the palace, he always came home with more than enough to spare.

once your dowry was paid, it was just the two of you. young love, there's something about it that is just so blinding about it. the two of you were on top of the world

the fire spread so suddenly, it had taken the entire village off guard.

grabbing your things quickly, the two of you were the last out. and it showed. jeongseong had a choice, he could make sure you made it out, or he could save himself. with a quick kiss on the cheek, he slung you over his shoulder, but it was already too late. the smoke had reached your lungs already. you were already too far gone.

in his grief, he found his way to gwi-ma. he promised to jeongseong that he would be able to reunite one day, but he would never know when.

when jinu told him there was a way to get to the human world, he snatched at the opportunity. there was no way to know that he would find you in this century, but he had to try.

over the first few weeks of being back in the human world, he looked for you everywhere. hell, he even went back to the spot of your old village.

but when jinu forced the boys to perform on a random friday, he knew he found you.

he knew there was no way to ensure it, but he knew it was you. the same person he had fallen in love with so many years ago.

and that’s when it all started. first it was sneaking off in between promotions to go and look at you through your window. then it was following you to every place you went. after three weeks, jeongseong had memorized your entire daily schedule. over the following days, he had relearned everything about you.

you still favored rice balls and glass noodles to anything else, but it was a little different than how you had made it for him when you two were married. of course that was in 1609. 

he noticed that you never brought anyone home. that pleased him. he knew you and him were made for each other. no one else. no one else was worthy of your beauty and grace. only he was.

that night he found his way back into your bed. the way it used to be, the way it was meant to be, the way it will be again. the two of you fit together perfectly, your breath light against his cheek. he reached and cupped your face, so perfectly did his hand conform to the curves of your cheek. he allowed himself to slow down and admire you.

he would make you his again.

[crazziforazzi]

can you write a oneshot about that munch - wordle interview answer?

Love that idea! It's not a long one shot, but I hope you like it:

MUNCH

The door clicked shut behind her with a dull thud, and Paige didn’t even bother locking it right away. She kicked off her sneakers in two lazy thumps, one bouncing off the wall, the other landing god knows where. Her t-shirt was already halfway off as she made her way toward the couch, peeled the rest off with a lazy tug, and let it land somewhere behind her. She really didn’t care where. She flopped face-first onto the cushions in nothing but her shorts and sports bra, the sticky late-June Dallas heat making everything feel like it took ten times more effort than it should have.

She groaned dramatically, then fished her phone out from under her and immediately pulled up Azzi’s contact.

Paige: Facetime dinner in 1 hour ?

She wanted to play it cool, play it casual, but the truth was, Paige needed her tonight. Nothing dramatic had happened. Training was fine. But the whole day felt heavy in that quiet, annoying way where everything just felt off. She had been dragging herself through it, but deep down, she knew the only thing that might refill her tank was seeing Azzi’s face while they both shoveled reheated leftovers into their mouths in front of their camera.

The reply came just a couple minutes later. Azzi: I’m home in 30, call you right away?

Paige exhaled, long and soft. Azzi got it.

Paige: Please.

There was a beat. Then:

Azzi: Are you ok?

Paige: Just tired and want to see my girl.

Azzi: I’ll try to hurry, okay babe? In the meantime, play Wordle. It’ll cheer you up. No cheating!

That made Paige squint at the screen. Wordle?

She rolled onto her back with a low groan, forehead scrunched. Why the hell was Azzi sending her to play Wordle right now? Sure, they used to get a kick out of solving them together back when it was viral, but that had been years ago. Paige hadn’t even thought about it since. 

Still… she reached blindly for the iPad wedged somewhere between the couch cushions. Grumbling under her breath, she pulled up Safari and typed in "wordle." The site loaded with its usual grey-white grid.

With zero energy and even less brain power left after that intense training, Paige decided to go the basketball route. Azzi must’ve suggested Wordle for a reason. There had to be a connection. She was too tired to overthink it, so she just trusted the process and started typing.

First guess: SCORE.

Seemed right and on-brand. Only one yellow: C.

Paige frowned slightly. That wasn’t nothing, but it also wasn’t helpful.

Second guess: COACH.

Another basketball word. Subconscious doing all the work now. This time, second C went green, and H did too.

She blinked. Okay, okay. That was something. But… still felt like guessing in the dark. She tapped the back of the iPad rhythmically with her knuckles. She was hungry. Which, somehow, led her to…

Third guess: LUNCH.

Immediately, U, N, C, and H all turned green. Only the L was wrong.

Paige stared at the screen. She tilted her head, letting her tired brain catch up. Four letters in place. Just one left. She could feel it, the answer was right there. And then it hit her. 

Azzi told me to play this.

And if it wasn’t basketball-related, then it had to be the other thing Azzi always swore could "relax her." Her eyes widened. She blinked once.

"Oh my god," she muttered, already typing.

Fourth guess: MUNCH.

The green squares lit up in a row, and Paige grinned for the first time since she walked in the door. Of course that was the word. She shook her head, biting her lip as her smile widened.

"You’re such a dumbass," she mumbled to herself, the grin never disappearing. She snapped a pic of the finished Wordle and sent it off with a message:

Paige: You tryna tell me something or…?

Three dots appeared immediately.

Azzi: Just making sure you are warmed up for dinner 😏

Paige groaned again, but this time it was way more flustered than fatigued. Her eyes fluttered shut as she dropped her head back into the couch, laughing softly to herself.

Already, she felt better. She was still tired, but the good kind now. The kind that settled in her chest instead of dragging her down. The kind that felt like being home.

And somehow, impossibly, Azzi had found a way to give her that from miles away.

[theseinfernalangels]

Love Letters — Garrick Tavis

Synopsis: Recovered Correspondence between Lieutenant Garrick Tavis and Lieutenant Cosette Camden, Princess of Navarre.

 Takes place over the course of the first part of Iron Flame and is for Day 3 of Garrick Week: Distance.

The contents of this recovered correspondence are not dated, but are believed to have been sent between the timeframe of July 29th and December 3rd, 634 AU. This is not a completely recovered set of writing. Whilst included missives were found in the ruins of the Samara and Montserrat outposts, other letters are actively being sought after by scribe and rider alike for insight on personal relations within harsh military structures. Just for studying. Totally just for studying.

— A personal addendum from Jesinia Neilwart, Curator of the Scribe Quadrant of Basgiath War College

Princess,

Fuck. It’s not even been a week without you, and I can already feel myself coming apart (No — not like that. I wish.). Everything would be so much easier with you here, but at the same time, I’m glad you’re in Monserrat rather than Samara. This place is not for the faint of heart, and while you are the most capable woman I know, I can already tell that riders are eaten alive here. Especially when you’re me. I have to start from ground zero all over again to make people trust me, fight twice as hard for all the same privileges that others are handed so easily.

I can’t help but wonder if it’s the same for you. Have people started suspecting about you yet? I doubt anything would happen — you’re an active service member with incredible skills — but a part of me worries that someone will be there to snitch you out. Stand your ground, beautiful. You’re more than any of these people can claim to be, anyway.

I’ll try to keep my missives as brief as possible, although I’d try to write whole tomes for you if I had the time. I love you in ways that consume me wholly. Please stay as safe as you can.

Yours forever, 

GT

⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊

Garrick,

I can say with upmost certainty that no one here knows a thing, besides that we are together. Seriously — the amount of times I’ve been referred to as “Tavis’s Girl” rather than my own name is appalling. I don’t know many people here besides this one girl from my wing, who decided upon meeting that we are friends. I quite like her. She makes for good company.

I’ll be honest with you, my love; I’m lonely. I miss you more than I miss the sun in a hurricane. Sometimes, I wake at night reaching for you, only to be met with nothing but sheets. Disappointing, but fine.

I’m so sorry I can’t be there with you. Had I known that you’d be sent to Samara, I would have requested to be there, too. I don’t care if it’s dangerous — you cannot convince me that there is a place safer on this Continent than being by your side. Even surrounded by hundreds of infantrymen and dragons, I would still feel better if I could see you. Oh, well. I can be patient, I suppose. 

I send you all the love from my place here. Rest assured I am safe and sound, despite the constant conflict. Send Xaden my best, too — I can’t imagine he has it any easier, especially with his Violet ordeal.

Thoroughly and utterly yours,

CC

⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊

Princess,

I’m glad you’re at least making connections with people — but who am I kidding? That’s what you do best. If your jackass brother weren’t the crown prince, you’d make the fairest queen of all.

You want to know what’s funny? Second to being classified as a traitor, people know me as yours, too. I guess sticking to one another like glue for three years paid off. 

Xaden wishes you well. The lucky bastard gets a couple of days every two weeks to go see Violet. I’d say I’m jealous, but I think Chradh would choke at the thought of being mates with Seachran. Correction — he just yelled at me extensively.

I would try and tell you about my days, but I’m afraid there’s not much to talk about right now. All we do is train and fight, with some recreational fighting on the side. Gambling is a big deal here, apparently. I bet I could cheat my way into getting the weekend off to see you, but I know you prefer honesty over everything. You’ve always been better than me, you righteous little light.

I heard that there was an attack near you recently. I imagine you are perfectly fine, but quick correspondance would be much appreciated.

Still terribly lovesick,

GT

⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊

My love,

Rest assured that I am okay. That "attack" was nothing more than a drift of gryphons gone astray. They were taken out quickly, with an efficiency that…Well, I’ll be honest. It scared the shit out of me. I forget sometimes that we’re actually in the service and not students anymore. 

Physically, I am fine. Emotionally? Drained. There is only so much time some can go without seeing the one they love, and despite what you may think, I am a woman of very weak willpower. Perhaps we spent a little too much time together back in Basgiath, because I find myself watching for you around every corner and through every door. It saddened me at first, but now it’s pretty funny. No one here even looks like you, yet I still was hopeful anyway. Perhaps that is foolish. I find it comedic. I think I have to — or else I’ll find myself succumbing to the things that haunt me otherwise. 

Don’t ask. It is best to leave it at that.

Tell me everything and anything you want. I would gladly listen to hours of strategizing and arguments just to hear your voice. You wouldn’t have to cheat, either. We both know that you’re the best of the best, and anyone who thinks they can one-up you just because of a damned relic can kiss my ass.

Always, always, always,

CC

⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊

My darling,

Nothing in that beautiful mind of yours could ever be foolish. On the contrary, the same is happening to me. Riorson tried to assure me that it was fine, since some of the women here, “look like you, anyway,” but I disagree. None of them have your smile. They don’t have the freckles that only show themselves in the summer. They don’t have your inclination to take others under their wings, and they certainly don’t have your eyes. I don’t think anyone does.

Oh, yeah. They don’t have Seachran, either. I think we’d know if they did.  

I think you’ve boosted my ego tenfold, but that’s not much of a change, as far as I’m concerned. No time for being humble when I’ve got a lovely woman waiting for me and a bunch of dark wielders ready to hunt me down.

Call me a dreamer, but I can’t wait until this is over. I have so many things I want to show you. To share with you. To be with you. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, and perhaps you’ll think I’m a sap, but that’s alright. You could call me a traitor straight to my face, and I’d just appreciate how it sounds on your tongue.

Still drowning within you,

GT

⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊

My love,

 Firstly, I would never entertain the thought of calling you anything like that. You deserve only the sweetest of words from me, and that’s all you’ll get — unless you decide to be a dumbass.

Maybe you are a dreamer. Maybe it is wishful thinking. The thing about being a light-wielder, though, is that you learn to wish on stars frequently. I am a dreamer, too. Let me share a piece of my dreams with you.

When this war ends — because we will end it — all I want is you. I don’t care where we go, whether it be Aretia or someplace else. Just us and our friends for a while, taking chances and getting to take a moment to breathe air that isn’t tainted with blood. I see the sun, and that river you’ve told me so much about, and waking up to fresh sheets and warm touches. We can be soft and keep it that way,  just you and me, and then…I’m not quite sure. I have thoughts, but I don’t like being too forward. 

Fuck that. Never mind. I want a life with you. A family — a real one, where we never question if someone loves another or if their presence is wanted in the first place. I’ll give as much as you will, because I know you will without asking. That is why I want it in the first place; there is no one else I’d share the sentiment with.

So call yourself a dreamer and a sap. Just know that I am ten times more delusional than you are.

Dreaming of you,

CC

⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊

My brightest light,

You can’t just say things like that and expect me to be normal about it. No, I am not crying; it is just exceptionally hot sharing a room with three other riders.

You want my dreams? I’ll give them all to you. I want it all. All of it. The sun, the river, the sheets, the touches, the family. I will give it all to you if you do the same for me. Actually, I’d give it all to you, regardless. You deserve every fucking moment of it for everything you’ve given me. 

Will we have any idea of what we’re doing? Probably not. Neither of us have parents to consult, and I don’t quite understand children, but that doesn’t mean we won’t try. How many do you want? We’ll go from there.

Chradh says he’ll give us parenting advice. I’d sooner let him barrel-roll me into the side of the outpost.

Shit. He’s taking it personally now.

As I was saying, I want to give it all to you. The moment I have the chance, I’ll come to you and we’ll talk it out. I have something to ask of you, anyway. Tell me when it’s best for you, and I’ll fight like hell to get my forty-eight hours, and I’m not sharing. I know it’s not much, but it’s what I can manage without getting my ass kicked — even though, between you and me, I couldn’t care less if Command got mad at me. They’d have to find me to execute me, and fortunately for the both of us, I’m pretty fast.

I’ll be in your arms soon,

GT

⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊

My love,

I also have my forty-eight hours for you. I wasn’t even aware we could do that, but according to command, I’ve been out fighting so frequently that they’ve decided to give me a break of my choosing. Part of me wants to be offended and wonders if they think I’m delicate; the other part couldn’t care less. I haven’t had a break since the moment I slid from my mother’s womb on to her bedroom floor. I think I deserve it.

The end of November or beginning of December would suffice, I think. Since they won’t consider rotating stations until April, the halfway point is probably the best option — for both convenience’s sake, as well as my sanity.

I cannot wait to see you! I have not slept very well since the night before Reunification Day — the last night we had together. Where you should be laying, I have only sheets to cling to. If they smelled like you, maybe I would complain less, but no. I probably average a good four hours, but I know I’ll get at least six with you.

To put it bluntly, I need you here. Desperately. The end of November, at the earliest, please. Ask any question. Request anything of me. I don’t care. Please, just come home to me.

Don’t keep me waiting,

CC

⁺₊⋆ 𖤓 ⋆⁺₊

“I miss you.”

His words are mumbled into your hairline, his lips brushing against your skin like a midnight prayer. It may as well be; the moon, bright and swelling, paints his skin white as milk against the stone alcove you rest under. Despite his softness, his word choice has you frowning and tilting your head up.

“But I’m right here,” you reply, one brow furrowing in confusion.

Garrick just smiles. “I know,” he says. “But I still miss you. I miss you when I’m at Samara. I miss you when I’m on the battlefield. I miss you when you’re three inches away from me.” He presses a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose. “No matter where I am, I miss you.”

“Ah.” Has Garrick always been so poetic? Or is this just another change made by the distance and the four months that have separated the two of you?

You could barely go four months without him. You’re not sure if it’s romantic or pathetic. 

“Something on your mind, lovely?” Garrick asks, slipping a finger under your chin to pull your eyes to his. His eyes, wonderfully hazel, search yours carefully. It’s no secret to him that you’ve been struggling without him there beside you, and it’s not like he can say any different.

“No.” You tuck your head into his shoulder and sigh. “I just can’t wait for the next few months to be over. They’re talking about transferring some people out, so I’m hoping luck will be on our side and I’ll get sent to Samara.”

A low chuckle leaves him. “I’m not sure you’d enjoy it there. Unless you’re into watching two sweaty, shirtless men go at each other while everyone else drinks.”

That puts a mischievous smile on your face. “Does one of those sweaty, shirtless men happen to be mine? Because I’d totally be into that.”

That painfully adorable dimple flashes on Garrick’s cheek. “Pervert.”

You shove him playfully, although he doesn’t budge a bit. “Don’t act like you would pass up the opportunity to see me fight someone in just my bindings. I’m surprised you haven’t campaigned for it yet.”

“Well…” He glances around before snaking his hands around your hips and pulling, trapping you further into his embrace as you let out a little squeak of laughter. “I’m definitely not against the idea.“

You lean in and press a light kiss to the hollow of his throat. “You wouldn’t get jealous of other men seeing me without my leathers?”

Garrick scoffs, but the cocky grin is too obvious in his voice. “Wear whatever you want in front of any man. At the end of the day, you’ll end up with me, anyway.”

You snort but shake your head fondly. It’s been three years since the two of you started going out, ever since that terrifying October of your first year. For every day since then, you’ve gone back for Garrick, and he’s always come for you. You didn’t even mean to propose the jealousy scenario, but grateful satisfaction blooms in your gut. Garrick is a lot of things, but he’s certainly not insecure.

“Alright, wise guy,” you joke, poking him in the ribs and receiving a mocking pout in return. “You wanted to ask me something. Talk.”

His eyebrows raise in surprise, stretching the scar on his face a little like he didn’t expect your demand. “Someone’s eager.”

“Of course I am,” you shoot back. “I haven’t seen you in months. Haven’t heard you in months. Ask me everything so your voice sticks with me better.”

He just shakes his head, relaxing against the wall and reaching for the ends of your now-loosened hair. “You missed me, too?”

Your lips purse as you flick him in the chest, your eyes softening as he catches your hand to bring it to his mouth. “Of course I did, idiot. And I’ll miss you in forty-eight hours. Now, spill.”

His lips tense in the way you know is him holding back a dirty joke, and then he just smiles, wrapping an arm around your waist to anchor your body to his.

“…I’ve been thinking,” he says quietly, after a few heartbeats. “About us.”

Oh? You tilt your head. It doesn’t surprise you, given how often you’re thinking of him, but it’s definitely not something you think he’d need to ask about.

“These past few months…” He sighs roughly. “They’ve been painful without you. Really fucking painful. I never imagined how often I’d go to bed and not be able to sleep without your head tucked into my shoulder, or how pissed off I’d get when you’re not there to keep my head set.” 

Your gaze softens, a hand coming up to brush against his unscarred cheek lightly. “Gare…”

He brushes his thumb against your lower lip, shushing you gently. “No, listen. Let me say my piece.”

Your lips seal almost instantly.

He starts again. “You’ve always been right there, you know? Even before Threshing, before we even properly met, you were there. Defending Freya from those assholes. Defending mefrom your brother, even though you knew fully that he wanted both of us dead. I thought you were insane back then.”

A wry smile cuts across your face. “Not now?”

His fingers glide across your jaw. “I digress. And even after that…you never left. Never. Not when you knew we were hiding something. Not when I had to lie. Not even after War Games, and I knew you wanted to scream at me.”

His eyes find yours. “Somehow, despite everything, you’ve never left. Do you know how many people in my life get to say that? It’s not many.”

“Like that’s hard?” you reply quietly, tracing up his relic with your pinkie. “You never gave me a reason to leave. In fact, you’ve only ever given me reasons to stay. I’ve never had that before, either — a reason to stay where I am, perfectly content with what I have.”

“I want you to have that.” Garrick reaches down into the pocket by his thigh, but it’s out of your line of sight. “Always. A reason to stay. A life that you want that wasn’t just thrown your way for the sake of convenience. A place where you’re truly happy, like we talked about. The sun. The river. A family.”

For reasons you can’t quite comprehend, your heart starts racing, knocking your breath from your lungs. Sure, Garrick’s always been a sweet-talker when it comes to you, but this? This is nothing short of a confession. 

But he didn’t say he had a confession. He said he had a request.

You search his eyes, the hazel glow growing brighter in the starlight. “…I don’t understand what you’re trying to ask of me.”

He just smiles. Not cocky. Not cheeky. Just gently. Wanting. Earnest. 

It sets your heart ablaze.

“Lovely.” He shifts a little, adjusting his grip on your face so his thumb can trail over your cheekbone — no doubt re-memorizing the pattern of your freckles. “I can’t do it without you. Anything, really. Sleep, walk, fight the war, live. At the end of the day, I’m just a man, and I never want to have to let you go.”

The cool skin of his fingers brushes against yours as he laces your palms together, pressing something small and cold in between your hands. You watch him quizzically before you bring your hand away from his, flipping your palm towards you and choking once you catch sight of what he’s places in it.

It’s…a ring.

Relatively small, it is. A silver band, patterned in small designs that spread across the surface. The gem lays carefully within the widest spot, golden yellow and glinting in the light. Smaller, matching gems dot against the band. Citrine. They’re beautiful, just like sunlight.

No. Not just sunlight. Your light.

Your breath catches. Oh, gods. 

It’s not just a ring. It’s a ring.

Your head snaps up, meeting his eyes that are lit with pure, unadulterated adoration.

“Say you won’t let go of me, Princess?” he asks, cupping your cheek in his palm.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

You blink once. Twice. A third time, just out of habit. You open your mouth and then close it, your voice stolen away from pure disbelief.

He wants to marry you. To stay with you.

It’s enough to make you start crying like an infant.

“Fuck.” You press your face into his chest, not caring that your hot tears are soaking into his tunic with every shaky breath that leaves you. “Oh, gods.”

A hand ghosts up your spine, cradling you carefully. That’s when you feel it — the gently weight of something pressing into your spine. Cold. Heavier. 

Another ring. His. When did he slip it on?

“Lovely?” he prompts, dragging his lips against your forehead. “Are you—“

You cut him off by tearing yourself away from his chest, meeting his confusion-filled gaze with your own, packed with every thing, every feeling, every moment you share with him. Your eyes drop to his lips, and then trail back up shakily. Watching. Waiting.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Thoroughly and utterly. Yes. Please. Stay with me, forever. Please.”

His lips are on yours before he can even agree, sealing the promise into your mouth.

Searing. Binding. Filled with every ounce of joy and love and light and longing and want.

You’ll never have to let him go.

And, as if in response, the moon starts to glow a little brighter.

Taglist: @wonderstruckbyyou, @jessicalee22likestowrite, @freezerbride18, @ineednewdaggers, @suspicious-stain-in-spain, @kienhawon, @goldenmagnolias, @bi-incog-btch, @gracie-rosee, @lxnvmvrzx

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[ishestillapunk]

Everybody Wants A Piece Of Pedro Pascal

tags: grief, death.

a/n: it was so hard to write all this and not kick my sheets because of the whole photoshoot. he's beautiful.

I don't usually do this, well, I never done this, but today and after waking up to such a brilliant, raw and profound interview I see myself in the need of disecting piece by piece of this interview and the parts that touched a deep fiber in me.

You, of course, don't have to read this. I mean, not if you don't want to. I would say this is more mine than other thing, like, a precious stone I want to keep memory of how I felt when this article came out.

Don't you ever get that feeling that something is yours? like, not in a delulu and possesive way, but in a sort of thank you-way.

This interview—article, post. Damn, I don't know how to call it, forgive my scarce vocabulary in English—appeared like water in the desert for me. I had a long night of insomnia, very long, used to deal with it, and also with it came the lovely question that every 20 yo makes themselves at one point.

What the fuck am I doing with my damn life.

My phone buzzes when I finally decide to let go of it so I grab it again, and there it is. Our beloved pascalispunk. Oh, he looks hella good. I say looking at the pictures. Oh, it's Vanity Fair. I say and then, I think: Of course there is an interview. So I look up for it.

I read and then the first thing that moves my chest is:

Over lunch in London, Pascal is a grand raconteur who tells stories with his hands and uses funny voices and loves to swear and drink cocktails and murder a cheese plate. He doesn’t take himself too seriously. At the same time, he’ll press right up against the sad and raw and confusing parts of being alive. His insides are on his outsides. He cries easily. He laughs loudly.

Maybe it's the writing, maybe it's me that lately I've been overly sensitive. It must've been the wind. I joke in my head when I feel like I want to cry. Something I love deeply about this man that is Pedro, is that he never stops being human. You get me, right? Like, with some celebrities I get the kinda... fake feeling. Don't wanna sound rude towards others at all, but, he just gives me that genuine and true feeling. That's what I mean by human.

Personally, I never been a fan of an actor before. A celebrity, in general. It just used to ick me, like, why would I do that? I had nothing against it, it just wasn't part of my persona. But then, I remember the first time coming across a video of him. I guess, yeah. Maybe we all want a piece of Pedro.

Pascal tells me about his “give up” years, when he was a struggling actor in New York decimated by the sudden death of his beloved mother, Verónica.

I felt connected truly with Pedro when I learnt about his life. The struggle and loss. That feeling that nothing is going anywhere, you know? Like. Damn, what is it all this for? I kinda feel like humans (or some of us, dk, mind you) have to search comparisions to other people to feel okay on where they are at the moment and its something that lately has been happening to me. My search is literally:

'Directors that got succesful at an old age'

'How to publish my first book while being fucking poor'

'How do I live'

Is this non-stopping loop where everything mixes with everything and I feel too exhausted to leave my bed. Ends won't meet. Food lacks in the fridge. Mama is sad. But he has been in the same spot, and he's here to tell it.

Life hurts a bit less.

“In my 30s I was supposed to have a career,” he says. “Past 29 without a career meant that it was over, definitely.” Feeling hopeless, Pascal started researching other professions. But whenever he came close to bailing on his dream, friends and family would step in. “When Pedro would say, ‘I’m going to nursing school’ or ‘I’m going to be a theater teacher,’ it was just like ‘No, no, no, no! You’re too good!’” says his older sister, Javiera Balmaceda, now a producer at Amazon Studios. “He’s wanted to be an actor since he was four years old. The one thing we’d never allow Pedro to do was give up.”

And here it is. The first tears I shed.

I dropped out of college after a month in a course of studies that I thought it was perfect for me. Turns out, I felt like I was dying because there was no art in it and I was fucking dying. It was driving me apart of my soul, I would cry on my way to class, I would have no very very happy thoughts about life. Then, a crisis. Me hugging my mom's knees and telling her "Mama, I need art" and she sees me, the girl who only went to arts school for her whole teen years and grew up attached to her desk computer, pirated movies in the night and writing down stories that keep her awake.

And she told me. "It's okay. We'll figure it out"

I was embarrased to tell my friends what I did after that crisis. God, you went through a freaking exam, burnt your lashes studying, passed it and now you're saying you want to do cinema?

Well. Nobody said that.

What I mostly received was.

"That's awesome. You were about to waste your potential"

And something that sticks with me that a friend said.

"The world deserves to see something created by you".

If you're reading this, I want you and oblige you to take it as a signal.

 A New Yorker cartoon featured a therapist reassuring his client, “It’s not strange at all—lately, a lot of people are reporting that their faith in humanity is riding entirely on whether or not Pedro Pascal is as nice as he seems.” “Well, then,” Ramsey tells me, “I’m relieved for humanity.”

Bella. I love you, Bella.

On days when she (Veronica) didn’t have a babysitter, she’d drop him off at the movie theater. He remembers being seven and in heaven, able to squeeze in two and a half showings of Poltergeist before his mom returned for him. At home he’d reenact scenes of being sucked into the closet or slide across the kitchen floor. Balmaceda tells me, “When our parents got cable, the HBO song would come on and Pedro would run around the house yelling, ‘A movie is coming! A movie is coming!’” [...]He sat at a distance from his family as usual, preferring to be close to the screen. But then he started crying so loudly when Whoopi Goldberg’s Celie was being separated from her sister that his mother had to collect him and help him catch his breath outside. 

When he talks about his childhood memories, I become honey. It gives me the assertive feeling that he is the kind of person that talks and talks and talks, and tells and tells stories and never run off them, and never gets boring, and they are always sweet (or bittersweet but sweet in the end)

He makes me think about my childhood with another lens to look through. Less remorse. More a kind of let-go-of-it.

Drugs were everywhere. Pascal remembers being 16 and taking acid and calling his mother to check in and let her know he was going to spend the night out. “And she sighs and goes, ‘Oh.’ And that was not normal. And I was like ‘Wh-why?’ and she said, ‘Oh, no, I was just hoping that we would all go to a movie.’ I was just so drawn to that kind of maternal attention, so I said, ‘I’m coming!’” He rushed home and sat mute and paralyzed, tripping in the back seat as they drove to see John Sayles’s City of Hope.

yes, more tears over here.

“I was having a really hard time when I was 18, 19, 20,” Pascal tells me. “I was struggling really badly with insomnia. I was reading James Baldwin and watching movies like Once Were Warriors and Muriel’s Wedding. I just was like an open wound to the reality of life.” He pauses to smack the table with his hand, groaning and laughing at himself. “It sounds so fucking pretentious, but I felt at this crossroads of coming into an understanding of what an unjust world we live in. This world, and its lack of equanimity, is just too painful to bear. How do you live in it?”

This is the moment where I had to stop reading. I was literally a cascade at this point. I felt like that song Killing me softly with his song by The Fugees and the part that goes:

I felt he found my letters

Then read each one out loud

I prayed that he would finish

But he just kept right on

I felt like he just grabbed all my diaries, my letters, my notes on my laptop. Everything. And just read them out loud.

And I felt less lonely for a moment, less detached from reality. More grounded to this moment that is, maybe, a wake up call.

That there is still time.

His grief had no place in Los Angeles, with its isolating highways and traffic and sprawl. So he went home to New York City, where he’d made some headway as an actor after college, only to find that his early luck had run out. He lived in a seventh-floor apartment of an East Village walk-up. Every night he’d have a cigarette on his fire escape and watch the moon rise between the Twin Towers.

Suicide grief is something I've never had the opportunity—well, more like favour of spilling my guts out for once—to talk with anyone. I went through it alone, mostly. I always think that there is no place as lonely as oneselves head (is oneselve's a word? am I dealing already with the precious side effects of twenty years of insomnia?). Reading Pedro talking about grief is ligthening.

I use to make myself a question, every now and then:

'When does it stop?'

Maybe never. And it's okay.

"Listen, I want to protect the people I love. But it goes beyond that. Bullies make me fucking sick.”

Just wanted to highlight this. Everyone should have this kind of values.

In the car, Pascal gasps and points out the window. “Look at that cemetery, isn’t it gorgeous?” he says. He doesn’t want to be buried—just throw him in the ocean. “Fish food, fish food, fish food,” he says. “And yet, I find sometimes cemeteries are so beautiful.” So, yes, now we’re back to talking about death.

In the car to Downey’s house, Pascal points at the word “FAITH,” which someone has spray-painted on a wall. He scrunches up his face in mock disgust. He’s agnostic, practically an atheist—and yet. “I still feel like I’m being mothered sometimes. I feel her witness all around me. I don’t feel like any of this right now would be happening if it weren’t for her.” There was something magical about María Verónica Pascal Ureta. Her firstborn son misses everything about her. Her beauty. Her smell. How funny she was, and how funny she found farts. “She couldn’t get past a fart of any kind without it absolutely destabilizing her into hysterics,” says Pascal. “She thought they were the most brilliant, hilarious, wonderful thing in the world.” She was also “very deep-feeling, very complex, very, very out of reach in a way,” he adds.

I tell you that I did nothing more than laugh and cry with all this part. Is that kind of make peace with death vibe that he sometimes gives me and I just take as a life advice.

I can't get mad at something that is long gone.

That I don't know the answers to.

That is as invisible as the air, and painful as a healed fracture.

And that I have to live, for those who aren't here anymore.

So... I will finish with this:

Of all the performances in Pascal’s now formidable career, Balmaceda singles out the monologue she saw him deliver as a sophomore in high school. It was a piece Pascal had written about a bike path near their house in Corona del Mar, a neighborhood he couldn’t wait to escape. Onstage, he described how, at first, he’d cross this narrow path that went over a bridge on foot, then progressed to riding over it gingerly on his bike, then with just one hand on his handlebars, and then, finally, being able to cross over with his hands in the air.

I can't wait to escape this place. A home that keeps me warm but silences me. Hugs that don't feel comfortable or familiar anymore. A room that is too little for the dreams that move this soul. A roof that isn't strong enough to hold me from touching what it's-maybe-waiting for me.

Somewhere.

Kudos to Karen Valby for such a great article.

if someone read this whole thing, uhm, thank you!

keep loving Peps. 💜

[velorvm]

sweet ru… if you don’t mind… mydei’s general disposition towards fingers…

manu, my lovely, i love seeing u, hiii <33

mydei, to me, is someone who is sparse with his physical touch, especially if it's tender and caring. he's more used to battles and sparring rather than the softness of a simple glide of a fingertip against skin. yet, once he gains the confidence to just press his fingerpads against your skin, the first time nothing more than a mere touch, the need for more begins to grow rapidly. he almost doesn't know what to with himself as he tries to find reasons for his fingers to caress your skin and to watch you react to his touch, a reaction so unlike anything he is used to. his love for the touch is simple, he wants to hold your hand in his, wants to feel the pulse of life thrumming underneath the pads of his fingers, wants to be able to feel you as you reciprocate and squeeze his hand. he may never grow into someone who's big with physical touch, but you, his body will always yearn to connect with yours, in any shape or form, even in the smallest caress of your cheek with his knuckles. in a similar vein, he never knows what to do when your fingers begin to touch him, feeling goosebumps spread and the nape of his neck heat up ever so slightly. yet, he never pushes you away. your touch is filled with warmth and care and love and he can't help but yearn for more. his words contradict the way his body leans into your palm, the way it melts underneath your touch. at some point, he allows you to touch his weak point, a sign of trust, a sign of love. and everything feels much more intense when your fingertips hover over his pulse points as you continue to look after him and to take care of him. in both cases, there will always the added intimacy and trust if the touch occurs without his gauntlet, almost like he's willing to declaw himself just to be able to touch you, just for you to touch him.

to me, mydei feels more like someone who'd rather use his mouth to unravel you, to devour you. but he knows how to use his fingers, usually using them as support while he works his tongue on you. he knows how the body reacts in certain situations and he uses that to help you reach the utmost of heights with ease. each move careful and strategic, unhurried, almost like he's got all the time of the world. he presses and caresses you exactly where you need him to, taking his sweet time moving his fingertips through you, to feel every pulse and every twitch. in some way, i don't think he would be much into handjobs, but once you give him one, he feels overwhelmed as you wrap your fingers around him ever so carefully. it's the mix of vulnerability and trust and your care and love which gets him incredibly excited but also about to burst with all these emotions he's harboring for you. yet, all he can do is take every touch of yours with low grunts as he tries to hold himself back from cumming immediately when he sees how much attention you give him, how much love.

would he suck your fingers? well, at first he wouldn't understand why he had to do it, but once he saw your reaction to it, he begins to lean towards it a tiny bit more. he's incredibly meticulous, taking care of each of your fingers. sucking and licking, languidly and in long strokes. maybe even a little bit of biting if he feels territorial in the moment. will keep eye contact with you through it all and watch your every reaction as he covers every single spot he can reach with his tongue. and his tongue is good, it makes you feel very sensitive and doesn't leave more than a tiny shimmering trail behind. of course he loves your taste, so he will take his time to enjoy everything he can get. if you're the one sucking his fingers, once again, he gets overwhelmed. just feeling all kinds of things as he watches you take care of him. he lets you do your work as he strains in his pants, surpressing a moan when his imagination runs wild, thinking of the warmth you could give him, the love you could give him. maybe, if you're using the right tactics, you can get him to cum untouched, just by laping and nibbling at his fingers and making big eyes at him while doing so. the wetness and the fact that you're tasting him is making his head spin, especially if it's the hand the gauntles used to be on. the added vulnerability just gets to him intensely. so, all he can do is just take it while the heat rushes through his body at an incredible speed.

(fingies)

[phantomcomet]

Been wanting to replay Fallen Order and am now having obikin au thoughts.

Anakin is still a padawan when Order 66 happens. Like Cal, he's on a ship with Obi-Wan when the order goes out. They fight their way to an escape pod before Obi-Wan is injured. Anakin tries to go back for him and Obi-Wan launches the pod, hoping Anakin will survive.

(Alt thought, they're both at the Temple as it falls. Same dealio with Obi-Wan sacrificing himself to get Anakin out.)

Anakin spends the next ten years thinking Obi-Wan is dead. He hides and fights when he can, before eventually getting exposed and being hunted by the Inquisitors. He more or less stumbles his way into the Rebellion at that point.

Mostly, I just want the reunion scene when they find each other again after all that time. The moment of shock, of seeing a ghost they've living with for a decade, finally in the flesh. Anakin throwing himself at Obi-Wan and Obi-Wan's hands shaking as he slowly cups the back of his head. For everything that Obi-Wan has lost, his master, his friends, his entire way of life, he has not lost this. That for once the Force has been so kind as to give him something Back. That his padawan is alive and with him once again is a blessing and a miracle.

The moment is of course ruined by Anakin, who has held a grudge for ten years, getting furious over the fact that Obi-Wan launched his ass into space to protect him, when they should have fought side by side.

Other thought- Obi-Wan following closer to Cere's plotline. He touches the darkside at one point and cuts himself off from the Force. Anakin, like Trilla, ends up becoming an Inquisitor. The absolute angst from Obi-Wan, blaming himself for being unable to save Anakin, for nearly falling himself. Anakin blaming Obi-Wan for not saving him, but also desperate to have that connection back, all the while tracking him across the Galaxy.

There's a lot of clashes, of Obi-Wan desperately trying to reach him, to find the light he believes still exists, but being so terrified of touching the dark again that he won't reopen the bond. How can he save Anakin when he can't even trust himself not to be sucked into the dark?

Anyway, there's a scene later one where Obi-Wan gets caught. Anakin is to kill him to prove his loyalty to Sidious, to cut down his former master and swear himself to the Empire. Obi-Wan looks at him with resignation and acceptance, because isn't this what he deserves? To be cut down by the padawan he failed?

With nothing left to lose, he reaches for his bond with Anakin. Anakin is waiting for him. Obi-Wan is trying to stop him, but he wants him to know that he loved him, still loves him even now, and that he forgives him for what he's about to do, and that he's so sorry he wasn't able to save him, protect him, to be the master he needed.

And then Anakin turns and cuts down Sidous with absolutely no fanare. Immediate pandemonium follows and Obi-Wan and Anakin skedaddle. Emotional reunion scene after, with Anakin injured and clingy and Obi-Wan holding him close, realizing that there might still be hope after all.

(They end up joining the rebellion in this one too, since there's still an entire empire to dismantle, emperor or no.)

[daydaydayrk420]

Steve Rogers x Male Reader.

Male Reader is Thor's son and just like Thor and Steve he's a couple hundred years old but doesn't look it.

He's a new avenger and Steve is in love with him (little does he know that the Male Reader is also in love with him) so Steve starts leaving him love letters under his bedroom door thinking their anonymous but the reader knows Steve's handwriting so after the fourth letter he confronts Steve about it and they both end up confessing their feelings and they share a kiss. The next night the avengers are having a movie night and Steve wants to sit next to the Male Reader but accidentally sits on his lap, he immediately stands up apologizing multiple times but the male reader says it's fine and that he can sit back down so he does and they start watching the movie with everyone else but halfway through they start making out that night they decide to go to bed (no smut they just go cuddle) and you can pick how the story ends.

By the way Thor is accepting because on Asgard sexuality isn't some big deal like humans make it (some people are gay, some straight and so on and so on), and the other avengers are accepting as well.

People on the team might not expect it but the Male Reader is definitely the more dominant one in the relationship (just in general again please no smut only fluff for this story) please and thank you.

Beige papers

Steve Rogers X male reader

⚠️cute Steve, making out⚠️

🚨 minors and girls do not interact 🚨

📜An Asgardian comes to earth to replace his father in the avengers. Spending time with the mortals only allows him to find the one and only.📜

Y/n Thorson. Or as he prefers to just say y/n son of Thor because it sounds much better.

He's been aware of his father being in a team of mortals named the avengers.

He often visited them. He enjoyed their company. It was a nice change from the rich Asgardian life.

But, there is one mortal in the team that... doesn't age like a mortal.

Steve Rogers.

Soon y/n found out that Steve has been injected with some sort of liquid that has made the blond man bigger, stronger and ageless.

A perfect match for a god.

That's what y/n keeps on thinking about every time he lays his eyes on the America's idolised man.

Steve has been thunder struck the moment he's laid his eyes on the son of Thor.

Everything about the man fascinated him.

You'd think Steve would be into men somewhat smaller than him. Men that he could take care of. But no.

He wants a man taller than him, bigger than him but not over muscular. He wants a man whose hands could cover his own and hold them to his heart while he stares into Steve's eyes and talks sweet nothings. A man whose eyes will melt him the moment he locks eye contact. A man with a rich voice that can soothe a soul. A rich laugh that makes the butterflies in Steve's stomach dance. A man who can match his ageless face.

He wants a man who will take care of him instead and be with him for longer than humanly possible.

He wants y/n.

Thor has been so involved with his mortal girlfriend that y/n was basically requested to replace his stand in the team.

Which the Thor's son immediately agreed. It would only allow him to be around Steve more often.

And it would be a lie if Steve said he wasn't happy with y/n being on the team.

Now it's been about a month since y/n joined the avengers. He now has a room of how own. He's gotten close with Steve. And the rest of the team of course but the connection he had with captain America was different.

He so wanted to court that man. So badly.

He would burn the world for him just to hold him.

Little does he know that his nights are about to change.

Y/n comes to his room after a good mission. He immediately heads for the bathroom to shower off the dirt and possible blood.

After what was probably the longest shower known to man, y/n finally comes out of his room.

He hums to himself as he walks to his dresser. He became very fond of human clothing. It's very comfortable. Especially these sweatpants stark bought him as a welcome to the earth gift.

He puts on his shirt and turns around to find an envelope on the floor in front of his door.

Curiosity spikes through his mind.

Once he picked it up he focused on the details.

The envelope was pale yellow. Almost beige. It was wax sealed with a cute little heart as the image.

He gently opens the envelope and pulls out the letter.

The handwriting was too neat to belong to a mortal of this generation.

Was this...from Steve?

Y/n makes his way to the bed and sits down. He gets comfortable and starts reading.

I was thunderstruck on the day I met you.

The sheer size and beauty of you has made my knees weak to the point of shaking.

The sweetness of your voice made my head spin as if I was going through a sugar rush.

I was truly bewildered by your existence by itself. I thought to myself "How could a beauty like that walk the earth?" But I soon found out you weren't meant to walk amongst us.

It suddenly all made sense.

Your eyes, your nose, your hair, your voice, your laugh, your smile, your body. Your beauty. It wasn't meant for us. It wasn't meant for mortals.

I will forever cherish that I was blessed by your beauty and I will hope that one day I'll wake up with it by my side.

By the time y/n finished reading he was a blushing mess. He knew it was about him even though there were no names mentioned. Steve's words play was enough for him to figure it out.

His heart is hammering in his throat. His face is heated with blush and his lips are uncontrollably stretching into a sheepish smile.

No Asgardian has ever made him feel this way let alone a mortal. But... His father is with a mortal woman. He should be fine with this right? Of course! It's Thor. As if he cared who his favourite and only son loves. As long as he's happy.

Should he confront the mortal? No... No he'll let it play out.

And so days move on.

Y/n has been around Steve more often. He joins him on the morning runs, in the gym, invites him for simple coffee 'dates'.

But no new letter.

Y/n sits in his bedroom disappointed. It's been a week.

Will Steve ever push a new letter through that gap underneath the door? He imagines what the words on that letter would be. Would it be something sweet? Something poetic? Something romantic?

The sound of paper dragging on the floor interrupts Thorson's mind.

He jumps off the bed and rushes to pick up the small envelope on the floor. Should he open the door? Confront Steve? No. Too soon. But he can hear the man breathing on the other side of the door.

Y/n doesn't waste another minute and opens the envelope. He frowns when he sees how short this one is.

You are the only lightning I do not fear.

Yes. It's short. But it still made y/n smile. Is Steve actually scared of lighting or is it just wordplay? The Thorson can't help but smile at the image of Steve being scared of a thunderstorm.

Even the idea of it makes y/n want to protect Steve.

He adds it to the previous letter hidden in his favourite book.

He wonders how many more letters he'll get? Will they all be this short? Was only the first one this long?

Days pass again.

Y/n is in his room as usual and he's becoming more and more impatient to wait for another letter.

He rushes to the door. He wants to go and confront the captain. But he's stopped in his tracks by a familiar looking envelope sliding through the gap of the door.

The Thorson doesn't hesitate and grabs the envelope. Steve's right there. He can just open the door and - no. Not yet.

Instead he walks to his bed and sits down. He opens the letter.

This letter isn't even a letter.

It's just a drawing of a human heart. But it's drawn in little live hearts.

This only proves that it's Steve. Because no one else in the building knows how to draw. Even if it's just love hearts formed into a human heart.

Y/n adds it to the rest of the letters and decides to go to bed.

Three days passed.

And y/n is three words away to confronting the captain.

But, he waits. For one more letter. Only one and he's done with waiting.

And so he stands in front of his bedroom door. He's watching the gap that's separating the door and the floor. He's waiting for a shadow to signal Steve's arrival.

And just like that. Steve's shadowing seeps through the gap.

Thorson immediately opens the door and pulls Steve inside.

The captain is utterly caught of guard as he looks at the god. His hand clutches the letter to his chest. The realisation of getting caught makes his face heat up.

"Y/n-" "Shh" Steve's interrupted by y/n's fingers on his lips.

"Steve, I've collected every letter you have delivered. But it pains me that you want them to be anonymous. I need you to be open with me and speak these wonders eye to eye. I want to court you the right way. But you make it so difficult to hold myself back."

Steve's face is as red as Natasha's hair. His breathing is shaky as he's processing every word the son of Thor says.

"You...you knew they were from me?" The captain whispers. Y/n nods and takes a hold of Steve's hips.

"No one writes or draws as beautifully as you."

Steve holds his breath. He wants to grab the man and kiss him with passion..but he doesn't. He holds back.

"Y/n.." he whispered as if he was afraid of using his own voice.

"May I kiss you?" Y/n whispered as well.

"God yes." The captain whispered and leaned in.

Thorson meets him halfway and grabs his cheek. Their lips capture in a silent dance of love.

"Steve..." Y/n breathed out once he pulled away. He rested his forehead against the captain's.

"Will you be mine?" He whispered. His voice betrays him as it shakes with anxiety.

"Yes. Absolute yes." The captain whispered and kissed the god again.

The night after that is a movie night. The team all agreed on a movie and either one brought a smack.

Steve comes into the living room with his bowl of popcorn and looks for a spot. He notices the seat next to y/n is empty so he walks over.

He sits down. But ... He accidentally sat on y/n's lap instead. He immediately gets up again and starts apologising.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to - sorry, sorry." Steve's face flushes red.

Y/n only chuckled. "It's alright. Come here." He smiled and pulled the captain back in his lap.

That only caused Steve to blush even more. But he got comfortable nonetheless.

Throughout the movie Steve got even more comfortable in y/n's lap. He eventually turned sideways so he could rest his head on the other man's shoulder.

Thor's son smiles and looks at his now boyfriend. He wraps his arms around him and rests his head atop his.

The captain smiles to himself. He's so comfortable.

Y/n looks at Steve face. He admires how focused the captain is on the TV. Y/n himself never really grew to movies. They seemed so over exaggerated.

He'd rather stare at Steve's face.

Which is what he's doing now. Steve's unaware tho, the TV really grabbed his attention right now.

But the son of Thor keeps staring at him. In fact, he's staring so much he didn't realize that his hand moved on its own and cupped Steve's chin.

Steve looks at y/n with surprise but soon relaxes info the touch.

But his relaxed state doesn't last long as he's pulled into a kiss.

If y/n is being honest he's not fully in control of his body right now. He's just... moving and letting his mind choose what to do.

But they both soon relax into the kiss. Thankfully the movie is loud. So no one can hear them kissing unless they're right next to each other.

The kiss gets heated. Steve turns his body to face y/n more and grabs onto his hair. The moment their tongues touch they both moan.

They make out for a little while but the moment y/n 's hands start to roam, Steve pulls away before it gets heated.

Y/n looks at Steve concerned thinking he messed up. But Steve rests his forehead against y/n's and he immediately relaxed.

"Let's go to bed. I'm tired." The captain suggested.

Y/n nods and gets up while holding Steve up. He shifts him a bit so he's carrying him like a bride before he excuses himself and Steve and bids everyone good night.

The captain blushes deep red. He's not sure if he likes that the team is witnessing how y/n is carrying him but... It's... Nice that he's not the 'big strong man' anymore.

Once they make it to Steve's bedroom, y/n gently lays him down. Steve asks him to join which the god immediately accepts and climbs in as well.

As y/n gets comfortable the captain immediately presses himself against him. One of Steve's legs is thrown over y/n's thighs, and one hand is drawing shapes onto y/n's belly.

Y/n closes his eyes and hums with contentment. His hands run Steve's shoulders in return.

"Good night, my love," y/n murmured and kissed the captions forehead.

"Good night." Steve said with a tired smile. He rests his head on y/n's chest and let's the soft lullaby of y/n's heart soothe him to sleep.

Y/n can't wait to make this mortal his forever.

[rpwprpwprpwprw]

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

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

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

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

——- QUOTES!!!!!!

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

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

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

“Tell me what I got to prove

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

word count: 14.3 k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and just like that, it was over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

no one asked anything else.

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

not to cry.

just to breathe.

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

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

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

but the way steph had said his name…

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

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

she checked her phone—reflex. no messages.

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

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

she did miss having him around.

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

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

i miss having you around.

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

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

the warmth never hit her chest. it just sank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i miss having you around.

still there. still blinking.

she didn’t delete it.

but she didn’t send it either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

6 unread messages. none from him.

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

and there it was.

the text she swore she didn’t send.

i miss having you around.

right beneath it:

read 4:17 am.

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

but no.

he’d read it.

and that was it.

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

just silence.

the kind that wrapped around her like cold water.

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

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

it was just a text.

just a ghost.

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

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

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

she didn’t check her phone again.

not right away.

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

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

like text him again.

maybe something casual. ironic. a recovery joke.

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

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

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

still…

she thought about it.

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

what if he wants her to chase him?

what if he’s just being cautious?

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

what if.

what if.

what if.

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

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

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

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

how pathetic. how raw.

and he hadn’t said a thing.

the knock came just after seven.

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

(y/n) didn’t move from the couch.

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

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

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

a beat.

then: “...oh.”

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

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

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

“kinda.”

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

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

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

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

(y/n) didn’t answer at first.

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

then, finally: “i texted him.”

amara didn’t blink. “namjoon?”

(y/n) nodded.

“when?”

“last night.”

“what’d you say?”

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

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

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

“...and?”

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

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

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

(y/n) blinked. “i don’t know.”

“yes, you do.”

“i didn’t expect anything, i just—”

amara gave her a look.

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

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

a beat.

“again.”

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

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

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

“sure feels like it.”

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

(y/n)’s throat tightened.

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

that was when the tears finally came.

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

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

and maybe they had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(y/n) wiped under her eyes. “always.”

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

“holding onto what?”

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

“you remember Still Moss?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“that beanie was iconic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“okay,” she said. “i’ll go.”

amara raised her brow. “with me?”

“obviously with you.”

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

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

-----

she stared at her closet like it had offended her.

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

because this was his band.

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

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

and now she was going without him.

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

what was she doing?

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

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

i miss having you around.

read. still no reply.

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

who was she kidding?

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

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

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

still.

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

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

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

she stood up.

grabbed the mesh top.

and started getting ready.

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

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

no sign of amara yet.

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

and then her phone buzzed.

a text.

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

(y/n) stared at the message.

read it again.

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

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

she looked up at the venue entrance.

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

she hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

to namjoon.

to the past.

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

no fucking way.

she took a breath.

pushed her phone back into her bag.

and stepped into the venue.

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

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

a flicker of excitement.

this was her night.

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

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

it helped.

for a second, it helped.

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

Still Moss would go on soon.

she could feel it.

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

want.

not for him. not for the past.

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

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

but she stayed.

she didn’t flinch.

the lights overhead flickered once. twice.

and then they dimmed.

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

she smiled.

just a little.

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

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

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

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

the room answered with a scream.

(y/n) screamed with them.

and for those first few songs, she let go.

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

she was alive.

she was alive.

and that’s exactly when it happened.

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

she turned her head.

and there he was.

namjoon.

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

her pulse stuttered.

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

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

but she could feel it.

his stare.

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

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

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

she didn’t dare look back.

but she knew.

he was still watching.

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

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

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

and god, she almost believed it.

almost.

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

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

and she danced.

not for him.

but in spite of him.

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

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

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

her breath hitched.

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

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

and then—

a hand.

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

she froze.

looked up.

and there he was.

namjoon.

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

his hand was warm.

his grip steady.

and his face—

god, his face.

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

she didn’t know what to say.

she couldn’t say anything.

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

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

she didn’t answer.

she couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

by anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but they weren’t okay now.

they hadn’t been in a long time.

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

namjoon’s mouth parted slightly.

she didn’t wait for him to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

he froze.

the silence between them was immediate, electric.

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

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

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

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

her mouth opened. then closed.

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

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

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

they stared at each other.

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

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

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

and fuck, she hated how familiar he still felt.

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

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

hers did the same.

and it was like time held its breath.

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

but they didn’t kiss.

neither of them moved.

and the restraint hurt worse than any breakup ever could.

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

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

she blinked, throat thick. “what?”

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

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

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

because she should say no.

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

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

god, it wanted to say yes.

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

they didn’t have to speak to feel it.

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

and she hated how natural it felt.

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

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

they stepped inside.

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

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

the fight.

the guilt.

the aching, unbearable want.

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

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

“i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the silence between them? it wasn’t empty.

it was full. heavy. breaking at the seams.

they weren’t done.

not even close.

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

she blinked. slow. disbelieving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

her breath hitched.

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

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

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

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

and just like that—the thread snapped.

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

there was no going back now.

not after this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he didn’t answer. didn’t have to.

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

they were already past the point of no return.

and neither of them gave a damn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

something in him snapped at that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then he got to her underwear.

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

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

and then—rip.

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

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

and then he was between her legs.

not teasing. not easing in.

devouring.

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

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

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

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

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

he didn’t stop.

if anything, he smiled against her cunt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

he licked his lips once.

his chin was glistening. soaked in her.

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

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

and then she dragged him down.

no hesitation. no time to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t you fucking dare.”

he slammed into her in one deep, brutal thrust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then he really let go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then she shattered.

again.

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

he couldn’t hold it anymore.

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

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

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

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

but then—he kissed her again.

soft this time.

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

and then—he slid back in.

slow.

gentle.

soothing the ache he’d left behind.

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

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

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

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

and he kissed her again.

not fast. not hard.

just full of everything they’d said without words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and for a moment, they did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

neither of them spoke for a long while.

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

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

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

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

but there wasn’t any.

not in her eyes. not in her touch.

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

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

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

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

and god—she could feel herself starting to unravel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“me either,” he said.

and yet… the silence said everything else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

just something closer.

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

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

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

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

like this had been enough.

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

he turned slowly, met her eyes.

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

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

his throat worked. like the word caught there.

and then, finally—he nodded.

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

because maybe she still did.

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

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

just truth. in its rawest, sleepiest form.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he kissed her then.

slow. deep. different.

like he heard her.

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

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

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

and they stayed.

no promises.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“me too,” he murmured. “so much.”

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

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

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

it was safe.

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

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

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

again.

and this time, they meant it.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

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

[ruebossanova]

professor o'connell: the mini series - 3

college prof!billie x student!reader

word count: 3.1k

warnings: older!billie x younger!reader, slowslowslow burn, eventual smut, college life, hella tension, quiet/shy reader

summary: the rain outside brought them close under a single umbrella again, a moment of unspoken tension broken only by billie's sudden distance. a brief, almost clinical text from billie followed, leaving liora to wonder what had shifted. their next music room session was more reserved, with billie revealing her teaching motivation. a brief, accidental touch of hands reignited the fragile connection, but billie quickly pulled away, emphasizing boundaries, leaving liora to navigate the lingering silence and the unspoken question of what had changed.

masterlist

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

monday felt sharper than usual.

the sky outside was pale and flat, clouds stretched thin like paper, and the classroom lights buzzed faintly above the hum of conversation. liora sat in her usual seat, back straight, notebook open, pen idle between her fingers.

she hadn't spoken to billie since the rain. since the umbrella. since the soft brush of fingers against her temple like it was nothing. except it wasn't.

billie walked in just as the clock hit the hour, dressed in black jeans and a rust-colored tee under an open flannel, sleeves rolled to her elbows. her hair was half up, strands tucked behind one ear, eyes shadowed in a way that didn't look tired, just distant.

liora watched her from under her lashes.

billie didn't look back.

"okay," she said, setting her laptop down. "new assignment. this one's gonna be weird."

someone in the front groaned. billie smirked, just a little.

"you're working in pairs. or trios, if you're scared of intimacy."

that got a few laughs. liora's heart jumped.

"the goal's simple: take a piece of music — any genre, any decade, i don't care — and write something with it. inspired by it, woven through it, around it. a spoken word piece. lyrics. a duet. even just a mood board with voiceover. whatever feels honest."

liora scribbled down the instructions. her hand trembled slightly.

"you'll perform or present in three weeks," billie continued. "live, in class. i know, terrifying. you'll survive."

billie started reading out names from a list on her phone. liora's name didn't come until the very end.

"rai, you were paired with dua jenkins, but she dropped the course this morning," billie said, eyes skimming the list. "so you'll either get reassigned or—"

she paused. looked up.

and something shifted.

"—i'll help you brainstorm until you do."

liora blinked.

billie moved on to the next names without further comment, but the words sat heavy in the air.

until you do.

like a promise. or a threat. or something worse — hope.

by the time class ended, liora hadn't heard anything else. not really. just her own pulse and the faint memory of rain in her ears.

as everyone filed out, she lingered again, just a little. but billie didn't ask her to stay.

she just looked up once, right before liora walked out, and said softly, "wednesday. after class. music room four."

liora nodded.

and left.

her whole body humming.

the hallway was dim when liora arrived.

music building four was older than the rest — narrower halls, soundproofed doors, yellowing floors that creaked just enough to make everything feel more secret. the overhead lights flickered in the corners, and the carpet smelled like varnish and dust.

liora stood outside the door for a second before knocking.

a soft voice from inside: "yeah."

she pushed it open.

the room was small, lit only by a single floor lamp in the corner, its light warm and low. thick rugs covered most of the space, muffling footsteps. a beat-up upright piano sat against one wall, and billie sat on the floor next to it, cross-legged, a notebook in her lap and a half-empty iced coffee beside her.

she looked up, and for a second, she just stared.

not surprised. not cold.

just looked at her. like she was trying to place her in a song.

"hey," she said. quiet.

liora nodded and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. the click echoed too loudly. she sat down a few feet away, legs tucked underneath her.

"you're on time," billie said, almost teasing.

"i was early," liora said before she could stop herself. "i walked around the building first."

billie's mouth tugged slightly. not quite a smile. "why?"

liora picked at a thread on her sleeve. "nerves, i think."

billie's gaze dropped to her hands for a second. "don't be nervous. this is just… ideas. that's all."

"it doesn't feel like just anything."

another pause. longer this time. billie leaned back on her palms, eyes soft.

"you always talk like that?" she asked.

"like what?"

"like the words are heavier than you."

liora looked down. "sorry."

"don't be. it's rare."

the silence between them stretched.

billie reached behind her and pulled her notebook closer. flipped to a page.

"so," she said, changing gears. "any song stuck in your head lately?"

liora hesitated. then: "'mirrorball.' by taylor swift."

billie's eyebrows lifted slightly. "interesting."

"what?"

"nothing," she said. "just… that song's all vulnerability and no armor. wasn't expecting it from you."

liora tucked her hair behind her ear, self-conscious. "should i pick something else?"

"no," billie said gently. "i like it."

she stood, moved to the piano, and tapped out the opening chords—soft, simple, imperfect.

liora watched her hands move. long fingers, unpainted nails. quiet control.

"you play by ear?" liora asked.

"mostly."

"i could never do that."

billie glanced at her. "you could. you just haven't tried hard enough."

liora felt the words land somewhere deeper than they should've.

billie kept playing. same phrase, over and over. it filled the room with a low, longing echo.

then she stopped. turned on the bench. rested her elbow on the keys.

"what does that song mean to you?" she asked.

liora swallowed. "it sounds like being looked at. and still feeling invisible."

billie's eyes lingered.

"write that down," she said softly.

liora blinked. "what?"

"that sentence. 'looked at and still feeling invisible.' write it down before you forget."

liora reached into her bag and pulled out her journal. flipped to a blank page.

her hand trembled slightly as she wrote.

billie watched her.

"good," she said. quiet again. "it's honest."

liora didn't look up. she couldn't.

because the space between them was too full. of music. of words. of everything they weren't saying.

they stayed another forty minutes.

talking about songs, writing down fragments, humming melodies under their breath. at one point, billie leaned so close that liora could smell the faint warmth of coffee on her breath. at another, liora forgot what she was saying because she was watching billie's hands — long fingers tapping rhythm against her notebook, absentminded, like music just lived under her skin.

by the time they stood to leave, the room felt smaller. quieter. like something had shifted, but neither of them wanted to look at it too closely.

liora followed her out into the hallway. it was darker now. cooler. the windows near the stairwell rattled softly, and outside—

rain.

not a drizzle. not a storm. that steady, soaking kind of rain that turned the pavement to mirrors and made everything smell like wet leaves and metal.

billie stopped at the door. sighed.

"of course."

she reached into her bag, pulled out a small black umbrella — barely big enough for one.

"guess we're getting cozy," she said, not quite teasing.

liora's pulse skipped.

"you don't have to—" she started, but billie was already unfolding the umbrella and opening the door with her other hand.

"come on, rai."

and something about the way she said her name — rai, not liora — low and familiar, like a nickname she'd always had but never heard aloud, made liora move without thinking.

they stepped out together. close. too close. the umbrella barely covered them. their arms brushed. their hands almost touched. their footsteps were the only sound besides the hush of rain all around them.

billie didn't say anything at first. neither did liora.

the world around them blurred — buildings, trees, the dim glow of a streetlamp through fog. everything softened, except the air between them.

then billie said, "you're a little stormy, you know."

liora blinked. "what?"

billie looked straight ahead. "you carry things. quietly. but loud."

liora didn't answer. she couldn't.

a few more steps. a few more seconds of shoulder to shoulder, breath to breath.

they reached the door to liora's dorm. the light above it buzzed faintly, flickering in and out like it didn't want to interrupt.

billie turned to her. close now, the umbrella still above them.

a drop of rain slid from her hairline down to her cheek. liora reached out �� without thinking, barely breathing — and wiped it away with the side of her finger.

billie didn't move. just watched her.

"you're wet," she said, stupidly.

billie huffed a breath of a laugh. "so are you."

they stood there, suspended in a moment too fragile to name.

then billie stepped back. lowered the umbrella.

"get some sleep, rai."

she said it gently, but there was something tight in it. something held back.

then she turned. walked into the rain without looking back.

liora didn't move for a long time. not until the sky cracked with lightning in the distance. not until the space beside her went cold again.

the rain had stopped sometime after midnight, but liora hadn't noticed. she lay in bed with her eyes open, headphones in, the same song looping for hours — soft strings, minimal lyrics, too much space between the notes.

her roommate snored faintly from the other side of the room. outside, the world was still damp, sidewalks glossy under lamplight. everything smelled like wet concrete and the inside of a coat that had been worn too long.

she couldn't stop thinking about billie.

about the umbrella.

about the way her hand had lifted — instinctive, gentle — to wipe a drop of rain from billie's cheek.

about the way billie hadn't flinched. hadn't smiled. hadn't looked away.

and then she had.

walked off like it hadn't happened.

like it didn't mean anything.

liora turned onto her side, pulled the blanket over her head, and whispered the words she hadn't said out loud:

"you felt it too."

except maybe she hadn't. maybe liora had imagined the weight behind the glances, the softness in her voice, the quiet way she said rai like she was letting her guard down.

maybe liora had misread the moment.

by morning, her chest felt hollow.

she dressed without thinking — jeans, hoodie, no makeup. her braid was loose, uneven. she didn't care.

the classroom smelled like old coffee and dry marker. the lights buzzed again. students filtered in, sleepy and slow. liora sat down in her usual seat. second from the front. notebook closed. pen resting flat against the desk.

the door opened.

billie walked in.

no umbrella this time. no music in her ears. she looked the same, mostly — loose cardigan, vintage tee, high-waisted trousers, boots with worn laces — but her expression was unreadable. she didn't glance at liora. didn't pause. just moved to the desk and opened her laptop like it was any other day.

liora watched her.

billie didn't look up.

not once.

not even when she said, "okay, let's start."

something in liora's stomach tightened.

class moved on like nothing had happened.

billie taught the same way — hands steady, voice low and sure. she talked about dissonance in harmony, how contrast in tone could mirror contrast in narrative. she played a clip from a nina simone performance and wrote fracture = tension on the board in uneven print.

she didn't call on liora. didn't say her name. didn't even look in her direction.

liora stopped taking notes after the first ten minutes.

her pen hovered. her throat ached.

the room felt colder than usual.

when the clock hit the hour, billie closed her laptop with a soft click and said, "that's it for today."

students rustled to their feet. bags zipped. someone dropped a water bottle, and it clattered across the tile.

liora didn't move.

she waited. waited for billie to say something. to glance her way. to nod or lift a hand or—anything.

but billie just packed her things and walked out.

not fast. not cold.

just… deliberate.

and liora sat there, staring at the door like it had betrayed her.

something had shifted.

and it wasn't just the weather.

liora spent the afternoon in the library, though she didn't read a single page.

her notebook sat open beside a stack of untouched textbooks, half-filled with words she couldn't finish. fragments. lines that started strong and fizzled. metaphors that felt thin. everything sounded fake when she read it back.

her phone sat face-down next to her laptop, screen dark.

she tried not to touch it.

failed.

at 3:47, she flipped it over, opened messages, and stared at the empty thread longer than she meant to.

thank you for earlier

she typed it. deleted it. typed it again. added a period. removed it.

finally, she hit send.

and instantly regretted it.

it felt too small. too exposed. too late.

she tucked her phone under her leg like hiding it would undo the message.

forty-two minutes passed.

nothing.

by then she had changed study locations twice. her brain refused to stay still. she'd reread the same sentence in a textbook about five times before realizing she had no idea what it said.

finally, at 4:29, her phone buzzed.

billie: anytime

that was it.

no punctuation. no emoji. not even her name.

just: anytime.

liora stared at it like it might mean something else if she tilted the screen.

it didn't.

it felt polite. casual. nothing.

but it didn't read casual. not to her.

she reread it. once. twice. ten times.

maybe it was kindness. maybe it was distance. maybe billie had meant it as a brush-off — soft and neutral.

or maybe she didn't know what to say.

either way, it sank like a stone in liora's stomach.

her roommate came in around five, dropped her bag on the floor, and said, "you good?"

liora nodded. "just tired."

"you look like you're being haunted."

liora gave a weak smile. "maybe i am."

later that night, she pulled out her violin for the first time in weeks.

she didn't tune it. didn't set up the stand. just held it.

the strings were out of pitch. the bow felt wrong in her hand. but she didn't care.

she played mirrorball from memory — slow, quiet, full of hesitations.

not perfect. not even close.

but honest.

afterward, her fingers were sore.

her phone stayed silent.

and the only thing louder than the music was the question still echoing in her chest:

what had changed?

and why did it hurt so much?

the hallway outside music room four smelled like dust and leftover coffee. the overhead lights flickered in their usual way — too yellow, too dim — and the linoleum under liora's boots squeaked once when she shifted her weight.

she stood outside the door for almost a full minute before knocking.

a pause. then billie's voice, muffled but clear: "yeah."

liora opened the door slowly.

the room looked exactly the same as before — warm lamplight, worn rugs, upright piano tucked against the far wall. billie sat on the floor again, one knee pulled up, her arm draped over it, notebook balanced in her lap.

she looked up.

not surprised. not smiling. just… there.

present, but distant.

liora stepped inside. closed the door behind her.

"hi," she said softly.

"hey."

billie's voice was even. unreadable.

liora crossed the room, sank into the same spot as last time. a few feet apart. close, but not close enough.

silence stretched between them like thread. fine, taut, fragile.

billie didn't look at her notebook. just stared at the rug, tapping her pen against the corner.

"you bring anything?" she asked after a moment.

liora nodded, pulling a folded sheet of paper from her bag. "just a start."

billie reached for it.

their fingers didn't touch this time.

she read it silently. her eyes moved slowly, like she was hearing it more than reading. then she handed it back.

"i like the part about the sky cracking," she said. "it felt lived in."

"it was," liora said before thinking.

billie looked at her, just briefly. "when?"

"friday night."

another pause.

billie nodded once, like that explained everything.

then she stood, moved to the piano, and played the first few bars of mirrorball again — slower this time. hesitant. like memory.

"you've been quiet," liora said, not looking at her.

billie kept playing. her fingers didn't falter.

"you noticed."

"kind of hard not to."

another note rang out. then silence.

billie let her hand fall into her lap. "sorry."

liora looked up. "why?"

a beat passed. billie didn't answer right away.

then, quieter: "just been in my head."

liora hesitated. then: "about what?"

billie's jaw moved slightly. not a smile. not a frown.

"boundaries."

the word hung between them like smoke.

liora's heart kicked once, then stalled.

she nodded. slowly. "right."

billie looked at her. eyes soft. "not because of you."

liora didn't answer.

billie set her hands on the keys again. didn't play. just rested there.

"it's easy to forget i'm the adult in the room," she said quietly.

liora's throat tightened.

"i'm not trying to make it hard," she whispered.

"i know."

the air felt thinner. sharper. like they were walking a wire.

liora stared at the floor. "can i ask you something?"

billie didn't move. "yeah."

"what made you want to teach?"

billie's eyes lifted, surprised by the question.

she leaned back, folding her arms loosely. "honestly?"

"always."

a faint smile tugged at the corner of billie's mouth.

"because i hated school," she said. "and music was the only thing that made me feel like i wasn't wasting oxygen."

liora blinked. "so you came back to it?"

"came back. stayed close. took the long way around."

billie looked down at her lap.

"i thought if i taught it right, maybe someone else wouldn't feel as invisible as i did."

liora swallowed.

billie met her eyes.

and for a second, the room wasn't a room.

it was something else. something suspended. quiet. waiting.

then billie looked away.

"we should probably work," she said, voice lower now. "before the weird tension ruins the whole project."

liora almost laughed.

almost.

but instead, she nodded.

and they started again. they worked in near silence for fifteen minutes.

billie sketched lines in her notebook — phrases, shapes, chord progressions, arrows pointing from one emotion to another like a map that almost made sense. liora sat cross-legged, watching, sometimes adding a word, sometimes striking one out. the energy between them was fragile. effortful. like trying to fold paper that was already damp.

"this line," billie said finally, tapping the page, "feels too neat. you ever feel something that wasn't pretty?"

liora frowned. "all the time."

"then write like that."

"i thought that's what i was doing."

billie looked up. her eyes were sharper now.

"no," she said. "you're writing like you want it to make sense."

"and that's bad?"

"it's not real."

liora's mouth tightened. "it's my real."

silence.

billie sat back, resting her weight on one hand. her expression didn't change, but something in her shoulders did — a pull, a shift.

"i'm not trying to rewrite your voice," she said, quieter now.

liora swallowed the defensive heat rising in her throat. "i know. i just—i don't always know what the realest version sounds like. sometimes i have to clean it up to even look at it."

billie blinked once.

and then the tension dropped.

not all of it. just enough.

"yeah," she said. softer. "i get that."

liora looked down at the notebook between them. her fingers were curled too tightly around her pen.

"sorry," she murmured.

billie shook her head. "don't be."

they sat there a moment longer. the lamp buzzed faintly in the corner. outside, the rain had started again — softer this time, more like a hush than a warning.

liora reached for her water bottle. missed. her hand brushed billie's instead.

they both froze.

not a dramatic freeze. just… still.

billie looked down at their hands. then up at liora.

"you okay?" she asked. not as a teacher. not even as a friend.

just as billie.

liora nodded.

but she didn't pull her hand away.

neither did billie.

the moment lasted three seconds. maybe four.

then billie exhaled — slow, steady — and stood.

"we should call it for today," she said, not quite meeting her eyes.

liora nodded again. stood too. packed her things without speaking.

at the door, billie paused. one hand on the knob. her back to liora.

"you didn't do anything wrong," she said.

liora stared at the back of her head. at the slope of her shoulder. at the way her hand tensed slightly against the metal.

"okay," she said.

billie opened the door.

the hallway was dim.

the silence followed liora all the way home.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

tags; @bxllxebxtch @st0nerlesb0 @dousleepanymore @mxmsuki

[fictionalsimp09]

Fearless - Wolfstar - @taylorswiftmicrofic - 454 words - AO3

Sirius sits on his bed twiddling his thumbs, waiting for Remus to come back from his study session. He can’t do this anymore, pretending that kiss on his birthday meant nothing. Sure, they were both pretty drunk, and Sirius had never thought about boys that way before, but he can’t get him out of his head. Things have been awkward between them since then, he’s been avoiding Remus while he figures out why he liked kissing him more than anyone he has before and finally came to a conclusion today. He likes Moony more than he has ever like anyone else he has been with.  

The door opens and it can only be one person - he asked James and Peter to give him the dorm for a few hours, and they were quick to agree as soon as he mentions Remus, obviously having noticed the tension between them recently.  

Remus furrows his brows as he sees Sirius sitting in the middle of his bed. “Hi,” he says, confused.  

“We need to talk.”  

He sets his bag down then brings his desk chair over to him, not wanting to get too close. “Well?” he asks after some uncomfortable silence.  

He takes a deep a breath. “Your birthday…”  

Remus clarifies quickly, “Didn't mean anything.”  

Sirius’ heart drops. “Oh…yeah…”  

“That was what you were going to say, right?”  

Looking into his hazel eyes, Sirius decides to risk everything for the smallest possibility that he feels the same. “No. I was going to say the opposite actually.”  

“The opposite? You mean that it did…Are you messing with me?”  

“What? No, I’m not. I- that night, I’ve never felt anything like that. No one has ever made me feel like that before, safe but also excited and electrified. I haven’t been able to think of anyone else but you.” The room descends into silence, the only sounds their rapid breathing. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything, or maybe I should have said something sooner, but I was scared…”  

“You were scared? You always seem so fearless when it comes to things like this.”  

“But I’ve never been with my best friend before,” he explains. “I don’t want to ruin things.”  

Remus inhales deeply. “So, what do you want?”  

“You,” he breathes.  

Remus gets up and grabs his face between his hands, their lips connecting. Electricity courses through his body, infinitely better than their first kiss as they both know exactly what it means this time. They both… “Wait,” Sirius pulls away. “Does this mean you like me too?”  

“Sirius, I’ve been in love with you since third year.”  

“Third?” Remus’ cheeks turn scarlet, adorably so. “You’re an idiot,” Sirius murmurs fondly, and pulls him towards him again.

[we-love-lando-norris-over-here]

Just came across a pic of zak with Novak Djokovic, exchanging lando’s signed helmet and novak’s racquet. I find it so ironic that it was lando’s helmet that was chosen to be given like a show of respect and honor to this tennis legend when not months ago zak couldn’t even defend lando’s honor again that old paper bag alan jones (and name dropped novak’s name for odd reasons??). This connection really took me out. Mf can’t even be bothered to support lando but will give out his helmets as gifts😤

Zak is such a tool. No wonder his underlings are following his cue and treating lando so terribly. They learned from the worst.

Oh, I saw the photo. And of course it was Lando's helmet. Are we even surprised? Zak will hand out Lando’s gear like it’s his personal business card, but the second Lando actually needs public support, he’s a ghost. It's all handshakes and memorabilia when there’s clout involved. It’s not admiration, it’s marketing.

But believe me, Lando’s not buying into the PR fantasy anymore. I rewatched Monaco parc fermé, and there's a moment when Zak goes in for a hug and Lando keeps him at arms length before turning straight to his dad to hug him. That tells me everything I need to know. This whole “papaya family” image McLaren keeps pushing might still work on the fans, but Team Norris clearly isn’t playing along. Still, contracts exist and boxes have to be ticked. So Zak gets to act like the proud team boss when it’s good for optics, even if the reality tells a different story.

[13-torturedpoet-13]

It's silly to say, but I'm incredibly proud of the entire cast of Top Gun: Maverick. I'm a fan of every single one of them because they seem like such awesome individuals with great talent. It's so awesome to see all of them have flourishing careers because I can't think of a more deserving cast.

I've been a fan of Miles since I saw him in Footloose (2011). I remember thinking that he was the cutest guy and he seemed very charismatic. From that day on, I became a fan of his and I've seen most of his work. Then, it's so awesome to see Glen having such a great career because I've been a fan since Scream Queens and he'll always be Chad Radwell to me. I thoroughly enjoy seeing him in so many movies specifically Twisters. He's not only extremely handsome, but he has the talent to be a leading man. It's also been incredible to see Monica become an Academy Award nominated actress because it means that her talent is being recognized. It also makes me excited to see everything that she'll accomplish in the future because there's no way that she won't be nominated again and possibly win. Of course, Tarzan and Jay are having a good amount of success and it makes me happy because they deserve it. I'll always think that it's endlessly cool that Tarzan became part of the Mission: Impossible franchise. Finally, I'm endlessly proud of Danny and Lewis. I love both of them with my entire heart. I'm so happy and excited that they're both part of the MCU now. Hopefully, we'll get to see them and their characters for many years to come. I mentioned them together because it's pretty well known that they're best friends and I feel as if their names will always be connected in some way. I sincerely hope that they stay best friends for the rest of their lives.

All of these wonderful individuals deserve to have the world see how talented they are. They also deserve every bit of recognition and love that they're receiving. It's so awesome to know that I've been a fan of most of them from the beginning and I'll continue supporting them for the rest of their careers. I hope that they all stay friends for the rest of their lives.

[moonglide]

Carol and Susie elemental analysis (chapter 3/4 spoilers)

To preface this, I only thought about this because of Persistant Variables over on AO3. It is an INCREDIBLE fic (it’s also finished!! So go read it!!) that cooked in a lot of aspects, but what I’m focusing on right now is that BewareTheDragon (the author), made the Ice/Order and Fire/Rude elemental pairs. (They also completed the trio with Dust/Chaos, but that’s not really relevant to this post). And I think that they were already good pairs, but in light of the new chapters, they work especially well. (Actual analysis under the cut).

Carol, of course, really, REALLY, embodies Ice/Order. There’s the obvious factors that she’s a reindeer, her whole family is Christmas/Winter themed, and that her color scheme is what it is. But there’s also how she always keeps her AC on full blast. Her hand on Kris’s shoulder is described as “icy.” She’s a very cold person in general, and so far hasn’t shown much emotion at all outside of “calm fury,” if that makes sense. And order is a big facet of her character. Everything under her control HAS to be frozen and in its proper place. In her house, Dess’s room is still. Unchanging. Exactly as she left it when she disappeared. Noelle’s show of care (the paper mache snowflakes) were bronzed and hung up to never be touched by the outside world. The grand piano just sits in the room adjacent to the kitchen, and hasn’t been touched in years.

But her house isn’t the only thing under control-she’s the mayor. She’s pretty much ALWAYS been the mayor. She always will be the mayor because she runs unopposed. Any and all crime is swiftly eliminated to protect her perfect town. Hometown is pretty static and unchanging. (Also, she’s supporting Asgore’s “you-know-what”-likely his attempts at courting Toriel-to get things back the way they were. And this isn’t technically confirmed yet, but she’s TOTALLY trying to bring Dess back. Like, 100%.)

And then there’s Susie. Fire/Rude embodies her perfectly. I mean, for starters, Rude Buster is the only Rude-elemental attack in the game, iirc. In Persistent Variables, Ralsei describes the Rude element as a “defiance against existence”-and while I wouldn’t go that far, I think it’s definitely a defiance against stasis, and the status quo. It’s not Chaos, which tears apart Order at the seams, but it’s still rebellion. It’s constant change, even against the order within herself. Susie pretty much facilitates ALL of the major character growth in Deltarune. It’s because of her that Kris is no longer an outcast loner. It’s because of her that Ralsei hopes that the prophecy can be changed, and that he thinks of himself as a less worthless than he initially thought. It’s because of her that Noelle, at least in the dark world, gains the courage to stand up to an analogue of her controlling mother. It’s because of her that Berdly (dark world only, again, but he thought it was a dream) is more receptive to accepting help from others (and not being so goddamn high and mighty (which is part of HIS own Holy/Electric elemental pair but that’s another can of worms)).

When Ralsei tries to teach her Heal Prayer (probably a holy/electric spell) she instead learns Ultimate Heal, which unlike Heal Prayer, gets better and better with each successive use. And sure, Gerson is the one to encourage her to use her healing, but she was the one to reach out to Ralsei and try to learn in the first place.

When it comes to fire, the connection’s a little less strong, but it’s still there. She’s a dragon, and Gerson says that she’s THE dragon in Dragon Blazers, which is based off the prophecy. He also says, “I see a future lit up in your eyes. Burnin’ bright. Burnin’ black. Burnin’ up everything”. And while the whole “garden is charred in an inferno of jealousy” thing probably refers to Asgore’s fire powers, chapter five will take place during the festival. Which. You know. Is a very easy place for jealousy to arise. Also, iirc, there was an interview where Toby said he originally wanted to give a character a fire spell, but ultimately decided against it. Which totally could be Susie.

And these things quickly put Susie and Carol at odds. Susie is a new girl in Carol’s perfect town that’s changing things. You can SEE when Susie sits down at the foot of Dess’s bed, Noelle is shocked. Carol has raised her to think of the past as unchanging and untouchable. But you can also see when that effect melts away and Noelle decides to sit down too. Same with the guitar. Nobody’s used the red (orange. It’s orange. But whatever.) guitar in ages, and it stayed that way until Susie grabbed hold of it. Noelle, again, is shocked-but then she thinks for a moment, and relents, and decides that Susie should play it. To breathe new life into the past. And when Carol gets home, and sees that Susie is holding the guitar, she’s affronted, because Susie is, from her perspective, defiling Carol’s attempt at preserving the past.

All this to say, especially with the other protagonist traits that Susie has, I’m convinced that if Deltarune weren’t a video game where we were forced to play as Kris, and instead literally any other form of media, Susie would totally be the main character. Especially in a non-dark world AU where it’s just small-town drama.

Idk. I probably missed something. But tell me what you guys think.

Edit: I completely forgot to talk about the prophecy!! Susie rebels against the prophecy and that’s another connection to the rude element. Ok bye.

TL;DR: Carol’s associated with Ice/Order because her whole deal is perfectly preserving the past, and Susie’s associated with Fire/Rude because her whole deal is rebellion, facilitating change, and melting the ice that Carol is making. Also, go read Persistent Variables over on AO3.

[wxsteriawishes]

zayne being a virgo

go back to masterlist

content: slight mention of death/blood

virgo sun man attributes

perfectionist, self-critical, reserved, diligent, lenient, hopeful, selfless

♍️ perfectionist ♍️ he does not take failure well. it might seem unhealthy, but he's just not used to it. everything needs to be perfect. the diagnosis, the schedule, the antidote. the chaos and clutter of his mind is confusing enough, he can't let it manifest physically. his room, his clinic, his desk, it's all organized and clean. nothing is out of place. the little things prevent him from spiraling when something goes wrong. it's his way of taking control of his life however he can.

♍️ self-critical ♍️ he holds himself to high standards and doesn't understand it when he can't meet them. he is cruel to himself. so caring with children and gentle with his patients, but so harsh to the reflection. criticizing words from others don't bother him. he is his worst judge, the most detailed critic. he never lets himself relax, always pushing to be good, better, the best. nothing's ever enough. not when there are more patients to save.

♍️ reserved ♍️ he's good with his words, specifically when it doesn't require him to let his guard down. so he just doesn't let his guard down. he doesn't often have to, and an issue never really comes up. but when he does have to be vulnerable, he can have difficulty expressing himself. it's only at first, given how quick of a learner he can be. but he may go quiet when upset, not wanting to overreact and lose control. he'll tell you he needs a moment, his voice soft. he needs someone who understands him without having to force it. the connection feels easy between you two. you love him like it's breathing and it brings him so much relief. you overwhelm him with your love, cracking at his walls, bit by bit.

♍️ diligent ♍️ he does his work. he finishes his errands. he never lets something go unattended. it's a difficult, pressuring, and frankly dreary life. but he'll do what needs to get done. it's how he proved himself in the medical field. he consistently did what needed to get done in high school, college, and med school. then in residency, before he finally made his way to akso hospital. he was trustworthy, resilient, and reliable. he never faltered, if he could help it.

♍️ lenient ♍️ lenient with others, that is. not with himself, of course. why would he do that? when he used to tutor, he never got frustrated with the slower-learning students. he never overstepped when he felt his mentors were taking their time at work. he was patient and forgiving. he didn't let anyone walk over him, but he also didn't make a scene when someone was clearly just a little insecure. it was how he racked up the favors, to so quickly advance to where he was now. it was how he got along with children so easily. never making them feel like they were any less, but also not expecting anything from them.

♍️ hopeful ♍️ he has dreams. dreams of helping others back to health. he dreams of a peaceful life, his hands maybe finally clean of the blood he's spilt. he works tirelessly to achieve these dreams, sleepless nights, silent wishes, praying to a god that won't ever answer to him again. he knows he has the potential, but what if he messes up again? what if his love for you curses him again? he has hope that he'll be able to control himself this time around. third time's the charm. . . right?

♍️ selfless ♍️ he will tear himself apart skin-to-bone to help others. zayne li is through and through a virgo, the wounded healer. he had hurt and so he stops the pain from spreading to others. he saves lives to put himself at ease. the world felt so similar to hell. innocent children die, lovers separated by illness, and he gets to survive? he constantly reminds himself of how unfair it is. his nightmares, his scarred hands, they drive his desire to be as good as he can. lest he kills someone again, he has to atone for his sins. deep down, he craves an unconditional love. a love as selfless as that which he gives to others everyday, whether he believes it or not. he hopes he's worthy of finding it.

[circumstantialsimultaneity]

how it feels to be a “homestuck is about how the existence of the societal classes of child and adult is dependent on the latter’s subjugation of the former” believer when all the other analysts just wanna talk about what it has to say about the nature of art and fandom…

[rafyki]

I think something that for me really sets aside Jack & Joker from other Thai dramas is its narrative structure. Thai dramas usually have a very simple narrative structure where things just keeps happening without a proper flow - I mean, something happens, it gets resolved, and then something new happen that keeps the story move; you know, all those little problems that aren't really all connected together (like, the main characters get together and then someone new appears that comes in between them; or it turns out that, idk, the family was homophobic all along, or that one of the characters actually had a complicated relationship with their family - things like these that are disconnected).

Maybe it's because Jack and Joker has a pretty solid and complicated plot, but something that I really love about it is the way everything that happens is connected, everything is a direct consequence of the characters' actions. It's like this since the first episode until the last one - the plot is brought forward by the characters' actions, everything they do has consequences on everything and everyone else. Like, Joke seeks Jack's forgiveness, so he wants to steal the ring for him, and he works with Tattoo and Hoy -> Tattoo steals the necklace which causes problems for everyone -> they need to steal the necklace back -> Jack meets Rose again, which causes everything else to happen, etc etc

Everything is connected. And I think it all comes back to one of the series' themes, which is that everything we do has consequence, that even if out intentions are good we can't predict what our actions will cause; that we live in a community and that we cannot think about ourselves only bc every time we do something that can end up influencing someone else's life. that we can't be selfish in a community.