#but they love him still and he's happy to loop back in and try again the next match

[insanebookreader]

𝐔𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐈𝐭 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬, 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐑𝐞𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 - 𝐀𝐔!

Pairing: S2 Philosophy professor x Non- BAU Fem!reader (no use of y/n)

Synopsis: He didn’t originally plan on staying for so long– though he wasn’t sure he minded anymore. It was a quiet, small town with an even smaller population– the perfect escape. But when he starts reliving the same day over and over again, what was supposed to be a break from reality becomes an endless loop that tests his sanity. Everyone forgets. Even her. Only he remembers. Trial after trial, mistake after mistake, he searches for a way out. But what happens when he finds a love he never thought possible–one that follows him, chooses him, even when it doesn’t even remember him?

Key: ★❥🖤✧ (okay basically everything)

Content warnings: TW!: Mentions of attempted suicide, depression, psychological slight insanity(?), hard angst but there is a happy ending. Mentions of height difference, cheating (but past), reader has hair😭, PIV and there's implication that it's without protection but not explicility said..DON'T FOLLOW IN THEIR FOOTSTEPS. Mentions of injured kitten? Also she always willingly goes with him even though he's a stranger? Again, don't follow in her footsteps. Spencer faints from happiness? In one of the loops he love bombs(?) Descriptive scene of drowning. Broken-heart syndrome mentioned. Spencer's POV

A/N: "Fate is a tricky lady, when you try to figure her out, you just get more confused." This is a quote from 'When We First Met"- I was watching it when I was finishing up this fic and it literally like..hit me. I was like oh em gee this so fits, I had to tell you guys. The cat's name was originally "Eureua" but I changed it to "Mini-Meow" last minute when I saw an instagram reel. ALSO I AM SO SORRY, this was meant to come out...weeks ago. Weeks. But it's HERE. After so long. Much thinking into it. Much of my pussy, tears, and whatever else. Thanks to my close friend for being my BETA reader. <3 BUT YAY. IT'S HERE.

There is heavy research, weaved in themes, easter eggs, etc into this and I'm a little proud. There's two heavy.."themes?" Reasonings? That cause this and have him get out. I won't say because I don't want to spoil but I hope you get them. Might do a post A/N.

ALSO YES, there is no other interactions besides reader and Spencer because it IS MEANT TO FEEL ISOLATING! That is his world. Everything is intentional.

much love, enjoy <3 (and this is my baby, I worked so hard- please be gentle.)

Word Count: 12.6k (DAMN)

Friday Harbor in San Juan Island, Washington. It was supposed to be a break from the weight of his everyday reality. Sort of. Originally, he was filling in for a professor on sabbatical– temporary, a favor. But somehow, over time, he fell in love with the mellowness and serenity of the small, endearing town. The stillness of it. The clarity. He’d finally gotten settled. Somewhat known, but not recognized. Acquainted, but not obligated. It was refreshing. A few months had passed since he ended his semester at the local university. Just a few weeks since he decided to stay. Since he decided to call this place home. He was starting to form a daily routine, the kind that quietly fit without friction– and then… it happened. 

He cracked an eye open and turned toward the nightstand, toward the soft blue glow of the digital clock beside his bed. He shut his eyes again. Letting his head fall back down onto the pillow with a long, slow sigh.

January 12th, 2025. 7:00 A.M. 

It had been like this for what felt like an eternity, even though it wasn’t. He hated– no loathed it. He felt like the universe was toying with him. Was it? Had he racked up so much karma debt that this was the result? Was it this town? A glitch? A curse? The same questions, every same morning. And still– no answers. That’s what he needed. What he continuously searched for.

After he did his usual routine– shower, teeth, vest and tie, breakfast, the practiced quiet– he made his way into the living room. The space was warm, the kind of comfort you couldn’t fake. In the corner stood the mobile whiteboard on wheels. He grabbed the black whiteboard marker. Again.

Horology. He might as well be able to teach that alongside his other subjects now with how obsessively he fed his mind with it every single day– well,..same day. Closed Timelike Curves, loop quantum physics– how time and space might be fundamentally structured in a way that allowed for possible loops. Because that’s what was happening. A goddamn. Endless. Loop. 

Loop Quantum Theory, Bootstrap Paradox– the scientific name for time loop. He went through this every (same) morning. Scientific overview and further investigation, some deep diving into fictional time loop theories even though he hated the fact it was fiction. Really, he just needed something– anything to grasp. To explain, analyze, debunk. He had discovered far early in his life that that is what he was best at and loved– facts, logic, reason.

By the time he came up for air, it was nearly 10 A.M. – time for his usual run to the coffee shop that was conveniently down the street, get his overly-sugared cup– and step into the bookstore that was next door to the quiet aforementioned coffee shop.

“Hi! Welcome to ‘Helena’s Book Home,’ if you need any assistance, feel free to let me know!” He knew that same exact practiced sentence by heart about now. It wasn’t the sound of your voice that annoyed him, no, never– it was the fact that he could recite your exact words in his sleep. 

He decided, you know what, why not try something different today? (He always did, but usually not until later in the day.)

So, he stepped toward you, nodding with a soft, approachable smile as he slid his hands into the front pockets of his slacks. “Actually, could you lead me to where 'Strangers On A Train’ by Patricia Highsmith would be?” Okay, well..he actually knew exactly where it was. He’d been here multiple (and he meant multiple) times, even before this whole Bootstrap Paradox, time loop, whatever-it-was started.

But he didn’t mind the philanthropic smile that graced your lips as you gazed up at him, nodding willingly. “A fellow connoisseur of psychological thriller, I see. How interesting. Follow me.” You knew Highsmith? That’s what he thought to himself. Almost on autopilot, his footsteps echoed behind yours against the dark oakwood flooring.

You turned to him swiftly once you arrived at the mystery/thriller section tucked in the back of the store, grabbing the book without looking before holding it out to him with a smile, like you knew the shelves by heart. “If I told you the amount of times I’ve read this, you’d be astonished. Why haven’t I seen you here before?”

He’s not sure whether he’s hurt or agitated at the question, maybe both. Because you have seen him before. Numerous times, but then again, he couldn’t blame you. 

Careful not to let his frustration slip into his tone, he took a breath– and shook his head, offering a faint smile. “I just..don’t come into town often, I usually stay home.” Wrong. Just like this goddamn time loop. Everything was wrong. And he just had this itch– this unbearable urge– to figure it out, to–

“Oh! Well..” You pursed your lips, glancing around then down at the faded, aged watch on your wrist before meeting his gaze again. A small smile crept onto your lips– the kind that pulled one onto his own before he could stop it. “If you’d like, and if you’re free, I could..show you all the hot spots. And a few of the more hidden, niche places, too? Only if you want! I just..-”

Before you could spiral into a ramble, he cut in gently, shaking his head. “I’d like that. I’ve recently moved here, so I don’t know too much about the town.” Half-truth. He had  moved here recently. But he wasn’t oblivious– he'd explored nearly every inch of this tucked-away, quiet place. Of course, he couldn’t tell you that.

He saw your shoulders relax once you processed his words, like you’d been expecting him to oppose. You nodded as you crossed your arms over your chest– something he noticed you did often. Not for any particular reason. It was just you. He’d learned that through the many ‘trials,’ as he liked to call them. “Cool. Uhm..my shift ends at two. So...a bit of time. But, if you’re willing to wait,..I could get us a discount at ‘The Market Chef?’ I have a friend who works there. It’s a really good deli– has wine, bunch of other stuff. Then I could show you around town.”

Please. As if he’d object. It was almost ridiculous how hesitant you sounded asking him this– though, again, he had to remind himself that he was a ‘stranger’ to you.

Agreeably, he nodded, tapping the book in his hand for emphasis. “Sounds perfect. I’d be more than willing to wait for you.”

And so, now he sat in Overlook Park with a tremendous amount of papers and research in hand. It was almost noon, so he had time to kill– and what better way to do it than by trying to figure this shit out?

Look, he usually wasn’t an irritable man. He liked to think of himself as calm, collected, and rational. But anyone would be on the verge of madness after being stuck in a place that was supposed to be as close to nirvana as possible– only to realize it was samsara.

He sighed, scribbling messily across the pages in front of him, his brows drawn tightly– lips curled into a small frown that seemed permanently etched onto his face when he was alone lately. It wasn’t just the fact that he was going insane in this paradox from hell–it was the not knowing that really got him. He couldn’t figure out why. Or what. Or how. Or when. None of it. 

And Spencer Reid loved knowing. He loved logic. Understanding. Clarity. He had none of that right now. Great. That, and he had zero control over any of it. Why did life have him by the balls right now?

The Law of Cause and Effect– how Karma operates on the principle that every action, thought, and intention has a corresponding consequence. It’s a casual law, not a divine judgement. That means the person in question is fully responsible for their own actions– and the outcomes.

Makes sense, right? He taught this for a living. Philosophy. So..maybe if he kept digging. If he kept solving. Searching. He’d find the answer. That’s how he looked at life: answers.

Time loops also existed in this very field, theories suggesting that all moments in time– past, present, and future– exist simultaneously. That in a looped model, these moments could continuously repeat, which creates a timeless structure where events are replayed indefinitely. 

Oh god. Would that happen to him? Would he be in this until the end of said time?

No. He couldn’t stand the thought. 

Okay, well..he knows how time was the comparison of one open system– aka, the clock– to another open system, where energy arrives at the observer from both open systems. Basically, this logic means reality is timeless. The loop that generates human experience of time is simply the capacity of memory– how we, as humans, imagine past, present, and future states of clocks or other quantities map to an imaginary timeline.

So which answers did this provide him?

 Absolutely nothing. 

~

As he sat across from you on the wooden bench outside the deli, he noticed things he hadn’t before. Usually, he’d only see you at the bookstore, the coffee shop– quick, convenient places. He’s never actually been with you like this before.

He noticed how your lashes were so long they kissed your brow bone, how your nose scrunched with every emotion you expressed freely– annoyance, amusement, joy, even frustration. It was endearing.

He watched how you flashed a smile and small wave to the baby nearby, sitting with its mother at another outdoor table, your eyes curling into crescent moons, full of warmth. 

“You know,” He started, “Neonates often stare at people who are more beautiful. Their minds are still developing, exploring the world, practicing their visual skills, and even mirror other’s expressions. Over time, they begin to favor faces that resemble their parents or guardians– it’s a form of familiarity. It’s quite fascinating, actually. They’re already learning to recognize certain facial features. Children notice a lot– different facial or body shapes. Shiny and/or oddly shaped things catch their attention too, especially vibrant colors. That’s why kids' toys are always bold, bright colors.” He spoke quickly, gesturing with his hands as the words flowed from his mouth like a fountain of knowledge.

You looked at him with a curious tilt of your head, eyes glinting and narrowed. “Is that so? Soo..” His gaze flickered down when you pursed your lips, looking at the baby then back at him with a playful flash in your irises. “Are you calling me beautiful?”

To that, he breathlessly and shyly chuckled with a small grin, shrugging nonchalantly like his cheeks weren’t flushing. “Uhm...yeah. I guess I am.”

A small, teasing– though soft– hum left your lips as you confidently held his gaze. “You don’t even know my name.”

But he did.

“I need to know your name in order to observe the obvious? And plus, I do.” He followed up his statement with a soft call of your name, looking at you with a gentle smile as he pushed his glasses back up the curve of his nose.

The way your brows furrowed in confusion should’ve alarmed him, though he didn’t process his own predicament until the words left your lips. “How’d you know that?”

Well. Shit. It totally wasn’t because he’s been reliving January 12th for a frustratingly long time now. 

He knew you. You didn’t know him. Right.

“Your name tag. Back at the shop?” What a save.

Your eyes then lit up with recognition as you pointed, nodding as your eyebrows raised. “Ohhh…okay. Yeah. That makes sense.” You took a sip of your drink before looking at him abruptly, leaning close with the wonder of a child. “Wait, I don’t even know your name.”

He pressed his lips together tightly, nodding before speaking smoothly, an edge of sorrow if you looked close. “Dr. Spencer Reid. But you can just call me Spencer.” He fidgeted with the paper napkin he had in hand, continuing. “You don’t, uhm,..You don’t have to address me so formally.”

You let the syllables of his name slowly fall from your lips, like you were testing how it felt and sounded from your tongue. “Spencer.” An almost wicked grin graced your lips afterwards. “Hm. I like it.”

Right on time, the waiter walked back to the table, ready to take both your orders.

It’d been some time since then– late afternoon now, the clock nearing the spiritual number of wholeness and balance. Oddly fitting, considering he felt just that in this moment. 

You two leaned against the long, red wooden railing of the bridge that stretched across  the front of the Brentwood Bay Resort & Spa, standing above the quiet waters. From the point he and you stood, you got a gorgeous view of how the sun slowly descended down the expansive, painted sky.

Another needle-like breeze swept over the two of you; January in Friday Harbor was unforgiving. He wished he’d known that before moving here– but whatever.

Thankfully (for once), given that he’s been reliving this Thursday again and again, he knew the exact weather by heart. Precipitation levels. Wind gusts and their MPH. Humidity. All of it.

Knowledge.

And because of this knowledge– something he always tightly clung to, he was prepared. Well and thickly dressed. You, unfortunately (and he guessed resentfully towards yourself), were not. A little underdressed for the cold. Though, in your defense, you hadn’t planned on ending your day like this– not here with him.

In his periphery, he caught the shudder of your shoulders and heard the faint clatter of your teeth. So, of course– like the gentleman he was– he urged you closer, already shrugging off his coat. 

You immediately shook your head with a wave of your hands, smiling at him as you stepped back. “No. It’s okay. Thank you, I’m not even-”

“I insist.” He cut in, already draping his coat over you as he looked down at your shivering form. “And yes you are. Your lips are turning purple and you’re shivering. Please. Take it.”

He saw the way your breath was visible in the cold air when you sighed, nodding as you obliged– tugging his coat closer. “Thank you, Spencer.” He enjoyed the sight of how his coat was slightly (more than slightly) big on you, his build far taller than your own.

A small faint smile crept onto his as he noticed that, clearly his throat as he pushed his glasses back up– nodding diffidently. “Course.” 

“Have you always lived here? You seem to know the town like you’re the mayor yourself.” He blurted out, looking to the side at you as he leaned against the railing– you now having your arms tightly wrapped around yourself, clutching to his coat.

Was he cold? Yes. Kind of freezing. Actually. But it didn’t matter to him– as long as you were okay.

Wait– what?

You shook your head, gazing at the now ember horizon, which casted a glow upon your smooth skin. “No. I, uh..” You followed with a breathy laugh, looking back up at him. “I actually used to live in New York. For a while. Born and raised.” 

His brows shot up in shock, turning to face you fully as bewilderment graces his features. “Wow. That’s..uhm..”

“Yeah.” You chuckled, nodding with an amused and knowing smile. “This place is a big turn around compared to New York.”

He nodded affirmingly, chuckling as well. “Yeah. Definitely. I mean,..why? What made you move here? To somewhere so..quiet. Instead of that usual hustle and bustle.”

“It was a lot. I mean,.don’t get me wrong, I love New York. But..after some time, I needed somewhere to breathe and just exist. I needed something different.” After a small silence, you shook your head– looking away timidly with a scoff. “It sounds silly.”

“No, no, no. It’s..it’s not.” He quickly interjected, entirely intrigued by the fact that you felt the way he did. “I completely understand. I actually came here– well, originally I came here on sabbatical and filled in for a professor for a semester. But I ended up falling in love with the.., well everything about this town. So I decided to stay. Because I needed exactly what you said. To breathe.”

You looked at him with a softened gaze, humming as you processed his words before nodding. “Professor.” You mirrored his own stance, turning to fully face him. “What do you teach?”

“Philosophy. I also have a degree in neuroscience.” He proudly stated, glad to share something he was proud of with you. He didn’t know why, but it felt good to try and impress you– as well as to share his achievements with you.

He saw the way a smile made its way onto your lips, a small affirmative and impressed hum following afterwards. “Brains, beauty, and kindness. Can’t say I find that in a lot of guys.”

And it stayed like that for a good hour or two more– close together like intertwined vines, a growing connection from the ongoing conversation being the blossoming dahlia’s.

After going to the port, sharing warm cocoa– where you had wiped some whipped cream off of his nose, and the alleyway that was infested with cute cats – you two had finally settled on your last destination of the nipping, dark night.

He hummed, nodding as he licked his thumb before dusting his hands off. “Now those are delicious. What are they called again?”

You scoffed, looking at him with widened eyes as you ate your own chocolate truffle. “You’re kidding. They’re Lindor! Lindor milk chocolate truffles. They’re absolutely delicious.”

He nodded as he stored the name in his infinite vault of memory— looking back forward at the view. You both currently sat at the edge of a rooftop, legs dangling over the concrete surface, earbuds in with some low music creating an even more peaceful ambience. Oh, and of course, a blanket draped over the both of you, given it was absolutely freezing out.

“You know, I usually enjoy classical music. But..I like this. Jeff Buckley, you said it was?” He questioned, ‘Lover, You Should’ve Come Over” flooding both your ears. A masterpiece. Truly.

“Mhm! He’s a genius when it comes to lyrics and his music. I mean– listen to it? And his vocals?” You spoke passionately, sighing like a lovesick teenager. “Ugh. Just pure perfection.”

He looked at you from the corner of his eye, a faint smile forming on the corners of his lips– to which, he didn’t even know was happening. Not until he saw your quizzical expression and tilt of your head. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”

Immediately, his cheeks flushing, he averted his gaze and cleared his throat. “Nothing..just. I-..you got so passionate about his music. It was..it was cute.”

You stared at him with stars in your eyes, just like the very ones you both were gazing at– only the ones that swam in the pools of your eyes were far more breathtaking. 

He didn’t process the sweet and chaste kiss you left on his cheek until he felt your lips pull away– the warmth from them gone the second they were even there. 

“Thank you, Spencer.” He questioned why you were thanking him? He knew why, with the whole cute comment thing– but he felt he should be the one thanking you for giving him his own blanket which was the warmth that spread across his skin from the innocent, loving kiss. 

~

He blinked. Once, twice, thrice– then the blurry ceiling above came into clear view. Again, on routine– he turned toward the digital clock on the bedside table.

7:00 A.M. January 12th, 2025. 

For a pregnant moment, he just stared at it– wondering, is this seriously my life right now?

He groaned frustratedly, pulling at his hair before throwing the duvet off from him with a huff– getting up from his bed that he now saw as shackles. 

Shower. Teeth. T-shirt and jeans. Breakfast. Forget the practiced quiet– his mind was the embodiment of what a fork in a garbage disposal sounds like right now.

As he, like always, paced the living room with his marker in hand– he abruptly stopped. A scoff leaving his lips, like he just discovered the cure for cancer.

“That’s it. I’m in a coma! My mind simply is fabricating a false reality. Hold on..” He practically sprinted to the tower of books piled up in the corner of the room, pulling out the ‘The Neurology of Consciousness: Cognitive Neuroscience and Neuropathology’ book from the middle- not paying mind to how all the others toppled in a clumsy mess.

He hastily flipped through the pages for the next 5 hours. 5 whole hours of overwhelming his already storm of a  mind with a plethora of topics. He already knew most of this, given he has a great amount of knowledge in neuroscience and almost everything. But it didn’t hurt to review. To try and find answers in the cracks of the stubborn wall he kept hitting.

He was set on the idea that this reality he was reliving was Comatose hallucinations. There’s many factors as to why this may be happening, he’s possibly in the ICU which would be considered a strange, unfamiliar environment– the medications he possibly was being given. 

Since even though he may be in a state of deep unconsciousness, his mind isn’t fully inactive– a knock at the door.

The hell? He looked down to the watch on his wrist– it was almost 12:30. Not only that but who could be at the door?

Another knock. He sighed, shutting his textbook after glancing at the page number before setting it down. His skin grazed the door knob after unlocking the door, opening the d– wait, why were you at his doorstep? In the number of times he’s lived this day– you’ve never come to his doorstep or to him? But he’s also never not gone to town in the morning.

You quickly looked up from having been concerningly staring down at the small, gray injured kitten in hand– eyes wide and apologetic. “Hi, I’m so sorry to interrupt your day, sir. But I..” You sighed, soothing the meowing kitten with a clutch of it to your chest.

“I was on my way to work when my boss called me to say there’s been a small flood and not to come in. I was walking back and..I saw this small kitten injured and I just knew I had to find someone quickly. Your house was the closest.” You quickly got out, looking back and forth between him and the ash gray kitty wildly.

Well that explains why you weren’t at work right now. And provided him with another piece of information to store into his mind about you – alongside everything else he learned about you yesterday– you were tender and caring, looking out for those around you, including a little injured furball. 

He cleared his throat as he fixed his glasses, nodding as he stepped back and opened the door wider for you to walk in. “Yeah..yeah, of course. Uhm..shouldn’t we go to the vet or something?”

As he shut the door behind you, you shook your head– sighing and turning to him. “The vet is like..2 hours away or something. Plus, we’d have to go to the emergency vet anyway and that’s not happening.” You held the kitten close to you, having it wrapped in your now bloodied scarf.

“We’ll have to treat it a bit first then get this poor baby there later. Do you have a small cloth and possibly pet antibiotic cream or ointment?” To your question, he nodded– having you follow behind him to the bathroom down the hall.

Once you finished gently cleaning, drying, and putting some cream on the kitten’s wound– you gently started to wrap its little leg in the white bandaging. He watched how you wrapped it with such consideration and care, so delicately like you gave life to the kitten yourself. But he figured that was just your kind-hearted nature shining through. 

He saw how after aiding the poor kitty, you held it to your chest– whispering some soothing words even though it couldn’t understand you, following your words with a love-filled kiss on its head.

Reminding him of your kiss on his own cheek from ‘yesterday.’

‘Uhm…I’m Spencer, by the way.” He held out his own hand to shake, surprising himself since he didn’t like doing so. But he narrowed it down to the fact that one: he grew a weird liking for you, and two: he felt he basically knew you.

Your eyes widened before you nodded, smiling kindly as you met his hand with your own, introducing yourself. “I’m sorry for not starting off with that. I probably should’ve, you know? Probably felt spooky letting a stranger into your house. It’s nice to meet you.”

He withdrew his own hand with a small laugh, nodding as he slowly reached over to scratch the kitten behind its ear. “And you willingly walked into a stranger’s home. So I guess we’re even.”

You nodded with a small chuckle, gazing back down at the kitten that was now sound asleep in your grasp. “I guess we are.” 

“So. Is the little guy– or girl..is it okay?” He asked with a tone of genuine worry, leaning back against the sink counter. 

“Yup. He’s all good. And you were right the first time, he’s a little dude.” You met his gaze again, your eyes crinkling at the corners from your growing smile. “Thank you, stranger. For helping me with him.” 

He shook his head, smiling with a scratch of his nape as he looked at the sleeping kitten then back at you. “I didn’t really do anything. I just provided the supplies.”

You shrugged, tipping your head to the side with your gaze holding his own, a warm, sunset-like feel to it. “Still. I appreciate it. That and you not murdering me.” You held up your now bloodied scarf with one hand, making sure not to wake the small malkin in the other. “I gotta run. Get this washed at home before it sets in.”

“Oh, uhm..” He leaned off the counter edge, pushing his large, dorky glasses back up. “I have a washer and dryer. You can just wash it here.”

With a small shake of your head, you kindly declined with a shy air to you. “I appreciate it but I wouldn’t want to intrude. More than I already have.”

He didn’t know what it was about you– well, besides the fact he’s learnt so much about you in the past day and has seen you over and over– that just..tethered him to you.

“Are-..are you sure? I mean, uhm. I just..well, I know I’m a stranger but..I don't know. We just saved a kitten together? So..” Okay. As the words left his lips, he realized how desperate he sounded. Maybe a tad bit creepy. He quickly fumbled, eyes wide and alert. “Wait– that sounded really w-”

“It’s okay.” You smiled up at him, though narrowing your gaze with a lighthearted, suspicious glint to it. “On the off chance that you’re not some Ted Bundy 2.0..I’ll stay. Only because my dryer is broken currently. And I didn’t have anything else planned for today. So.”

He felt his muscles relax, a tender smile forming on his lips. “Yeah. Cool..uhm.” He opened the bathroom door, leading you to where the washer and dryer were.

~

You two were now chatting it up in the kitchen, laughter filling the air– which mixed with the scent of the food on the stove, you were perched up on the counter while he cooked up some casual, easy to make dinner. The small kitten– that you two agreed to name ‘Mini-Meow’ – nuzzled in between your criss-crossed legs, purring and peacefully snuggled up. 

“Seventeen, drunk off our asses, and walking to the 7-Eleven down the street from my house.” You spoke with disbelief, shaking your head. “It was so stupid. I don’t how we made it out perfectly fine..but we did.”

He scoffed humorously,  shaking his head with a grin as he looked at you from the corner of his eye. “Yeah. Thankfully. What were you thinking?”

You snorted, “That’s the thing, we weren’t.” You continued to caress the grey ball of fur’s head with the pads of your fingers, looking down at it with a small grin.

“You know, kittens are the best thing ever.” You said, like it was the equivalent to saying two plus two equals four.

He laughed at that, nodding in agreement as he put the lid over the pot before turning to you, leaning against the kitchen counter opposite you with his hands on the edge. “I’m a cat person, too. They can actually jump up to six times their height– they’re extremely athletic.” He started doing that thing with his hands as he spoke, eyes glinting as he enthusiastically rambled on, bringing a smile to your lips.

“They also have night vision, 32 muscles in their ears along with astonishing hearing– which can rotate 180 degrees. On October 18th, 1963— a cat was actually launched to space by French scientists. The cat’s name was Félicette.” He pronounced with an alarmingly good French accent. “And there’s actually been a cat mayor. His name was Mr. Stubbs, he came to paw-litical..” 

He breathed a laugh at his own small joke, grinning stupidly before licking his lips and continuing. “..power in 1997 of Talkeetna, Alaska when he was elected honorary mayor. He was an orange tabby cat. He was mayor for 20 years.”

You just stared at him in bewilderment for a long moment, completely shocked though increasingly impressed. “And you just..” You smiled amusedly, gaze narrowing suspiciously. “..Know all of that off the top of your head?”

He shrugged with a giddy nod and grin, fixing his glasses as he gazed at you proudly. “Mhm. I uhm..I actually have an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187, I can also read 20,000 words per minute.”

Your jaw dropped as you gazed at him wildly, the cat also lifting its head suddenly. “So..I’m talking to a genius.”

As he went back to paying attention to the food on the stove, he sheepishly nodded, wanting to be modest but also holding some inner cockiness. “I guess.”

“You guess?” You set the kitty down on the ground as you hopped down from the counter, stepping up beside him.

“You’re literally a genius. That’s so badass.”

His brows furrowed as he looked to the side at you, his glasses fogged from the steam that rose from what he was cooking, which made you giggle, eyes squinting as you widely grinned at the silly sight.

“You think it’s ‘badass?’”

“Mhm! Totally badass. Intelligence is the greatest power, you know. I learned that in high school government class.” You peeked at the food he was making before looking back up at him.

“Huh. Badass.” He liked that. You thinking of him as something impressive and worth praising, encouraging what others usually scoffed at in annoyance.

As you two ate side by side at the island, shoulder to shoulder– he couldn’t help but forget about how his days would be a rather tortuous, dreaded feat for him. Instead, all that came to mind was the vault of moments he had with you that just kept compiling.

He wished for more. What could he do to make these moments permanent? To make it forever. To make you and him forever.

“Spencer?” Your voice and wave of a hand in front of his face snapped him from his trance, drawing his attention back to you. 

“Hm?” He blinked, shaking his head to rid of the fog that clouded his mind.

You set your glass down after drinking from it, smiling at him kindly. “I was asking where you’re from originally since you said you moved here recently.”

“Oh. Uhm..” He looked down to his almost untouched food, grabbing his fork. “I’m from Las Vegas. Left when I was eighteen, lived in Virginia for quite a bit and..” He shrugged, looking back at you. “Now I’m here.”

“Huh.” You said, expression slightly surprised. “You don’t peg me as the type to be from Sin City.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot. Have you ever been?”

“Mhm. I have. Once. But..” You sighed, scratching your head. “It was with my ex-boyfriend. And..not only was he super controlling on the trip with what I was wearing, going, all of that. But it was also the trip where I found him cheating on me with some random girl in our hotel bed. So..safe to say I don’t have the best relationship with Las Vegas.” You laughed bitterly. “Yeah. He’s actually one of the reasons I moved here from New York.”

He was baffled. Completely. Somebody cheated on you? Why? What could imaginably be the reason for someone to do that to someone who withholds the beauty of both the moon and the sun? Both inside and out.

After a moment of collecting his own, he softly spoke with a shake of his head. “He’s a total imbecile. I’m sorry for that.”

“Eh, it’s..” You sucked in a deep breath before sighing as you swatted your hand. “Whatever. Anyway, enough about me. I want to know about you. You have this mysterious air about you.”

He nearly shriveled under the attention. He was never too good at talking about himself. It’s not like he liked to anyway. “Uhm..” He looked away as he thought, you taking some bites of your food, letting out a small hum of satisfaction. 

“I like science and philosophy jokes.” 

You raised a brow with an intrigued look, swallowing your food before speaking. “Oh yeah? Hit me.”

He then straightened up, clearing his throat before speaking, already grinning like a kid at disneyland. “How many existentialists does it take to screw a lightbulb?"

You hummed, head tilted and expression expectant. “How many?”

He let out a snort, putting two fingers up. “2. One to change the light bulb and one to observe how it symbolizes an incandescent beacon of subjectivity in a netherworld of cosmic nothingness."

The only sound in his sun-bathed, humble home was the refrigerator running (lol) and the distant sound of the dryer with your scarf in it. Could he even hear the air?

One mississippi, two mississippi–

The silence was broken with a snickered, loud laugh from you as you looked at him with a wide grin– one that made your eyes crinkle– and a shake of your head.

“You’re..something, Spencer Reid. I like it. One day you have to teach me all about it so I can fully grasp the nature of that joke.” 

“You’re..not mocking me?”

“What?” Your voice almost incredulous. “Mocking you? Why would I do that? I mean- I may have not.. completely understood your..joke.. but I still liked it. 10/10.”

Skip.

And then one more. Two skips of his heart. How could something as simple as you laughing at his joke make him feel so seen? Well, maybe that was an exaggeration. But still. It’s hard not to feel that when everywhere else he felt so alienated. Hell, even in a room full of scholars just like himself, he felt like he was the butt of the joke.

Instead of feeling his stomach twist uncomfortably with anxiety and regret, he felt it warm with relief and admiration. 

And instead of feeling his heart clench and climb to his throat like a newfound home, he felt it quicken and jump in excitement. Like it was trying to leap out of his chest to meet your own heart that he hoped was doing the same. 

~

Your scarf had long been washed and dried. The dinner long gone, stomachs satisfied, and dishes washed. Though you still breathed the same air as him, still helped him with filling the four walls of his home with laughter and mild chaos, and still filled his nostrils with the scent of your faint perfume that was mixed with the underlying scent of just you. 

Because you were still here. 

With him.

You groaned in exasperation and frustration, throwing your cards down with a huff as you glowered at him. You just lost another round of poker to him.

“You have to be cheating! Are you peeking? Did you rig it?”

He laughed with a shake of his head and shrugged, grabbing the chips from the pot to where he had his whole pile of chips already forming. “Nope. Just better than you.”

You rolled your eyes with a huff before shaking your head. “It’s because your ass is from Las Vegas. I’m not leaving until I win a game.” You said as you started grabbing all the cards and shuffling them.

He snorted at that, even rolling his own eyes at your statement. Which he took as a joke. After shuffling the cards and dealing them out to the both of you evenly, you got up and pointed at him with a knowing expression. “No cheating. I’m going to the bathroom.”

Once you were down the hall, he immediately flipped your fanned deck up and peeked before nodding to himself and putting it back down. Since you were gone for a moment, he had to sit with his thoughts for a few minutes. 

He didn’t want to admit it to himself but his thoughts heavily circled around just everything you. How– just like the moon upon the ocean– you had a magnetic pull, he the ocean. And how– just like the daystar– your light would peek through the cracks of even the gloomiest of days. You brought a stillness to everything. More specifically his mind. You brought a lingering silence and tranquility that he often craved– what he precisely yearned for from this town. You made and let him just be.

He doesn’t remember the last time he was able to do that.

Eventually you padded your way back into the living room and sat back down on the floor across from him, grabbing your cards from the table before looking at him slowly with a brow raise.

“You cheated.” 

“What? No, I-” You were already placing your cards on the bottom of the deck and grabbing five new fresh ones from the top. Which made him visibly deflate with a huff, looking to the side with a slight pout.

“Ha! See. You being upset about me getting different cards proves it.” You gloated, wearing a smug smirk as you held your chin high.

“Why are you acting like you won already?” That immediately wiped the expression from your face as you did the same as he did– deflating with a pout. But you also glared at him from the corner of your eye.

“Just..freaking start already.” You said in a sour tone as you both placed your starting bets in the pot. Which was a chip that you both agreed was the value of ‘ten dollars.’

As the next game of poker started, he kept his gaze on you with a narrowed, analytical though easy gaze while you kept your own callous and untelling.

“I’ll raise you..” He slid five chips of 20 into the pot before meeting your gaze with his own, a cocky grin plastered on his lips– to which you stared at him with your jaw dropped and deadpan.

“You suck. You actually suck.” You sighed, sliding the same amount before looking to your own hand, studying it then looking at the community cards. 

Ten minutes later. Again. Cards were heard being thrown against the table with a frustrated huff, to which he laughed in amusement.

“Ugh. This is actually bullshit. I’m never winning a game. You keep cheating and one day I’ll prove it!” You finished off with a huff, crossing your arms as you glared at him.

He continued to laugh as he fixed his glasses, bringing all the chips from the middle pot to his side. The ratio of his chips compared to yours was…..embarrassing. 

“You still have yet to beat me.” His voice was completely smug and he saw the way it pissed you off even more.

With a long exaggerated sigh and roll of your eyes, you stood from the ground– stretching your limbs with a glance at the clock. “As much as I’d love to stay here and..continue getting my ass kicked by you, it’s getting late. And I love my sleep. So.”

He had been hoping that those words wouldn’t come. But he knew it couldn’t work his way, so he nodded with a forced smile as he stood as well.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. I..I had fun.”

You nodded with a small grin as you started to grab your things, making sure to get everything. “I did, too. The food was delicious by the way. So thank you.”

He forced a nod and faint smile, rising from his feet as well. “Of course. Uhm..let me walk you out.”

Once you got your shoes and coat on, he opened the front door for you, you both walking out.

“I had a nice time. I’ll take care of Mini-Meow, don’t worry.” He softly spoke, not yet wanting you to go. 

“I did, too. And you better. I’ll be visiting to make sure I don’t have to take full custody.” You said with an exaggerated, serious expression and pointed finger.

He was about to respond before he paused, looking around then looking back at you with his brows furrowing. “Hey, wait– are you walking home?”

You nodded with a small sigh, tucking your hands into your coat pockets. “I am. I’m not that far from here. I’d say like ten minutes.”

He immediately shook his head, shutting the door behind him and stepping closer once as he fixed his glasses. “I’ll walk you home. I don’t like the idea of you walking home alone this late.”

“Hm…okay. Thank you.” You said with a smile, you both now on your way to your home.

The walk was, like you said, ten or so minutes. It was cold and quiet, the gracings of moonlight shining on both your faces. Most of the time though, as you two talked on and on, he couldn’t help but look at you and you only.

“Well..yeah. I graduated high school at 12. Got my undergrad degree at 16. I actually gave my first lecture at 19. So.”

To which, you looked at him with a scoff, brows raised in disbelief. “You’re kidding. Holy..you really are a fucking genius. What are you? Related to Einstein?”

He shook his head with a laugh, looking down at you whilst you both walked in time together. “No. I am not but..though being a so-called ‘genius’ does have its perks. It also has it’s downs.”

With a curious and listening ear, you tilted your head in curiosity, encouraging him to continue. “Like what exactly? If you don’t mind me asking. You totally don’t have to answer that.”

“Well..” He shrugged, looking forward instead as he contemplated his words. “It’s not exactly the easiest for me to..make friends. Or relationships of any kind. I mostly just stick to logic over emotion, too. So that probably doesn’t help.”

“Hm.” You nodded slowly, staring at his side profile as he spoke before looking back forward, absorbing his words without judgement. “I think..maybe you should start listening to your heart over your mind more.”

~

It went on like that for weeks. Walks, dates, whispered moments mixed with giggles. He didn’t know when he let it happen but he had started to feel...very deep emotions for you. Things he didn’t even know he could. Sure, he’s had a girlfriend or two before but this was completely new territory for him. 

For once, his heart was starting to override his brain. And he wasn’t sure if he minded it too much anymore, especially if it meant he got to be with you.

There was that time where you both just basked in the mutual but comfortable silence of his living room, your head on his lap with his right hand running through your hair, left holding the book he read to you, his voice being the only thing to break said silence, him being able to see how your eyes fluttered shut from the corner of his eye. 

When you two walked town with ice cream, stumbling upon a group of baby ducks and their mother— you nearly exploding from cuteness overload. He had watched your reaction with a soft, loving gaze.

There was that time you had– he still didn’t know how– successfully convinced him to go roller skating with you. The night had been filled with clumsy falls, boisterous laughter, and bruised butts. He still remembers how your hand felt in his.

Oh! And that moment when you two slow danced to some 60’s music atop the same roof you two once star gazed at, him stepping on your foot a few times. He memorized the sound and feel of your steady breathing, the scent of your shampoo, how your warm body snugly fit against his.

Of course, these moments were never permanent in time as how they were in his mind and heart. 

Currently you two were laying on a blanket on a grassy hill, him pointing out the constellations. You two had just gotten back from having a nice..unexpected, dinner together.

“Okay, and you see those stars right there?” He pointed North, your heads directly near each other so you could see from one another’s view.

“Mmmm..” Your brows furrowed, trying to decipher the exact star he was referencing. “Oh! Yeah, I see it.” 

He then started to lead his finger along the stars which formed the shape of Ursa Major. “Follow my finger. Mhm, that’s Ursa Major.” He looked to the side at you, making sure you were following along– only continuing when he was sure you saw it, too.

“It’s one of the oldest constellations. Its right ascension is 9 hours, 46 minutes, and 31.7 seconds. Its declination is about 57 degrees positive from the celestial equator. It contains a nebula, a double star, and several distant galaxies that can be seen with a telescope. And the big dipper? Seven of the brightest stars in Ursa Major shape it.”

Your head turned away from said constellation, looking at him instead with a delicate smile and curious gaze. “You really just know all that off the top of your head?”

He didn’t know why but that simple sentence brought a great amount of deja vu to him.

His gaze drifted to your own with a mirrored smile, nodding proudly though obliviously. “Mhm.”

He watched as you turned onto your side to face him, each individual eyelash visible from how close you two had been. “Huh. You truly are a wonder, Spencer Reid.”

His stomach flipped with his lips parting in surprise, breath hitching with this decipherable flicker of awe and longing in his eyes.

To him, the words that fell from your lips weren’t just a simple compliment– they were a smooth, angelic melody of praise that only mattered because it was from your lips– one that he’d gladly drown in indefinitely, one that he’d bathe in to wash away his terror and tragedy, the very one he’d consume as his sustenance, one that he knew he couldn’t survive without.

There was words he so desperately was trying to pull from his throat– but for some reason he was just..frozen. 

When he finally was able to open his mouth and barely get a word out, he was cut off by the feel of your lips on his own. His eyes had widened, even more stunned than he previously was.

Before he could even react and kiss you back, you had pulled away with a breath– leaving him disappointed and with a small frown. “I’m sorry, I’ve just been really wanting to do that all night. And then you were just staring at me and not saying anything, so I–”

His lips collided with your own, tired of simply wondering what your lips tasted like and how they’d feel with his. Instead wanting to figure it out on his own.

It wasn’t long before your own lips started to move with his, one of his hands moving to brush some hair from your face and find place on the smooth skin of your cheek, thumb slowly rubbing back and forth absentmindedly. 

He could feel his heart skip a beat when he felt you smile against his lips, one of your hands tangling in his own hair as he shifted to slightly lean over you.

-

His hands were shaking with need and desperation as they traced your skin so tenderly, lips slowly dragging up the side of your neck– almost reverent – one of his hands finding home at your hip, gripping and holding it down firmly against the mattress.

The bedroom was solely illuminated by the moonlight peeking through the curtains of his window but it was enough for him to see how your head tipped back against the pillows, chest heaving with your face beautifully contorted in pleasure.

“So..” He panted against the shell of your ear, his hand by your head fisting the sheets beneath you both, inhaling your scent deeply. “So good..you feel so good.” His voice came out breathless, completely desperate, pronounced with a soft whine.

Your own hips jolted in response to his wantonness, goosebumps littering the expanse of your skin, hands threaded tightly in his hair. “Spencer,” you moaned breathlessly. 

“I know..I know.” He then lifted his head to look down into your eyes before meeting your mouth with his own again, his eyes shutting as he brought his hand from your hip to the side of your face, the other tangling in the strands of your hair.

His hips met yours over and over in a deep, achingly slow pace that made it sure for you both to feel every inch of one other. 

One of your hands dragged down his back, nails leaving red streaks as your breath mingled together, skin pressed flush against each other.

With his hand in your hair, he angled your head to have more access to your mouth, his tongue delving past your lips against your own, earning a groan straight from his chest at the taste of you.

Swallowing his groan, you breathed your words against his lips, the hand that was still in his hair gently tugging. “Faster..need more. Please.”

“Mm. Yeah?” He pulled away, watching how a sleek string of saliva connected your tongues before it broke. “I’ll give you anything you need.” His gaze drifted down to where both your bodies met, his hand from your cheek slowly and gently moving down to the small of your back, leaving a lasting, hot trail of goosebumps.

A soft, needy gasp left his own lips with his eyes fluttering shut when he compiled to your words, once more slotting his lips against your own in a deep, all-consuming kiss as your bodies met deeply.

He revelled in the way your legs tightly wrapped around his hips, his fingertips massaging your scalp gently as the room started to fill with heavy breathing and the moans that left both of your swollen lips. 

His body shuddered as a slow, tantalizing shiver coursed through his body from the way you sucked his bottom lip into your mouth, his fingertips pressing into the skin of your back as his movements gradually started to grow frantic.

Your own mouth fell open in a gasp against his, pleasure leaving you incapable of doing anything but turn into a growing mess beneath him. 

“Like that..don’t stop..god, don’t stop,” you fought to get out, which was nearly impossible with how your body was practically vibrating with burning, overwhelming  need. 

He was only able to weakly nod in response, completely overtaken by the feel of you around him, the mewls and soft sighs that fanned across his skin from your own lips, and just the way you sounded. So desperate, breathless, and utterly sinful.

But it was just also the fact that he finally had you. He had you in his arms, as close as physically possible, there with him. You were so beautiful he felt it was absurd you didn’t have people bowing at your knees as you walked.

He felt himself grow verklempt with gratitude and infatuation. He felt so privileged that it was him you were with.

To his own thoughts and feeling of your body wrapped in his, he couldn’t help the string of moans that left his lips- which mixed with your own as he held you tightly to his skin, his breathing ragged. “I..-”

The words 'I love you' hung on the tip of his tongue, which surprised him greatly. He never thought of himself as someone to get emotional during sex. He hadn’t even fully known he loved you yet.

He quickly caught himself, knowing he couldn’t say that to you since you barely knew him. So he opted for a breathless plea against your neck. “I..I need you. So badly.”

Your back started to arch off the mattress with your own body coiling up, nodding quickly with your arms holding him close like a lifeline.

“Me too..Spencer, I..,” You gasped, throat bobbing as you thickly gulped.

A low, guttural moan pulled from the back of his throat as his hips stuttered, feeling his stomach start to tighten as his movements only grew more feverant. “Could listen to the way you say my name all day..”

He noticed the way your thighs tightened around him, hips lifting with sweet, needy noises leaving your plump lips that made you sound like you hadn’t ever properly been touched. He knew you were getting close.

His hand trailed from your back to your hip bone, his touch featherlike and slow. “I know. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” He whispered between kisses against your collarbone.

Your hips jolted with a gaped moan as his fingers grazed over your clit, the tips of them moving in tight, slow circles in time with his hips.

The sound and sight of you in itself sent a sensual, slow shiver down his spine, which made him tremble and nearly come undone right then and there. 

He moved his free hand to your chin, tipping your head up so your eyes can meet his as he continued to get you closer and closer, his pace and fingers unrelenting. “I got you. You’re doing so good.”

And thanks to his eidetic memory, the feeling of your walls clenching around him as you approached your orgasm, your calls of his name would forever be burned into his mind.

Your chest rose and fell in short, heavy breaths as your head tipped back with your eyes shutting, breaking his gaze as you did so. “Oh..oh my god. I’m gonna..” 

A deep groan escaped his lips as he had to keep himself from spilling himself inside of you, his nose tracing the angle of your jawline, nodding quickly. “I got you. Come for me. You’re doing so good.”

His words were what caused the string in your lower stomach to snap– the sting from your nails clawing at his back and gripping of your thighs around his hips was enough for him to know you were coming and it only brought him closer to his own orgasm, his breath catching in his throat as his hips stuttered and vision went black, spilling his release into you with a moan of your name.

“Shit..,” He breathed against your neck, his body collapsing atop yours after a few seconds. “That was..”

You nodded as you moved some hair away from his face that was sticking to his skin with one hand, doing the same to yourself with the other. “Amazing.”

He smiled against your skin, planting a sweet, gentle kiss– taking a few minutes to catch his breath and just bask in the afterglow before slipping himself out of you and standing from the bed. “I’ll be right back.”

But before he could get away, you tugged him back down into a heated but sweet, blazing kiss before letting him go, flashing that wicked grin at him.

With a cheeky, shit-eating grin he stepped out and just like he said, he quickly returned, now with a warm damp cloth and glass of water.

He cleaned you up, had you rehydrate- to which he insisted were necessary-, and you both now were tangled in the sheets and in each other’s arms.

His gaze drifted to the side at the digital clock beside his bed, smiling to himself triumphantly. 1:37 A.M. 

Did he beat it?

With this newfound victory, he looked back down to the side of your head rested on his chest, his fingers delicately running through the strands of your hair, sighing softly at the way the moonlight accentuated the lines of your face, which was an arresting sight.

The comfortable, mutual silence was broken by the soft, low sound of your voice. “You know..”

You lifted your head, meeting his gaze with your own. “I don’t..usually have sex on the first date. But..” You shrugged, sitting up a bit.

“I really like you,” You continued, his own gaze slightly widening as he felt his own heart nearly beat out of his chest.

‘Yeah?” He asked with a hopeful tilt to his voice and loving gaze.

“Mhm,” You carried on. “And..I don’t know.” He watched as you shrugged, moving closer with an almost endearing glint in your eyes. One that was directed at him. 

“I would..really like to see where this could go. You and me. How..about you?”

He nearly choked on his spit, his heart melting into a puddle with his eyes forming into those usual puppy eyes of his. “I..” a smile grew on his lips, one that he couldn’t control. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

“Yeah?” You questioned with a mirrored smile and wide eyes.

“Yeah. I really would.”

He pulled you closer, arms wrapping around your waist as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, almost like he was seeking shelter.

The sensation of your fingers running through his hair casted a blanket of fuzzy warmth around him, making him hum in contentment as he listened to the sound of your soft breathing and heartbeat.

He really can’t remember the last time he felt like this. He doesn’t know if he even ever has. Being with you, learning every little detail about you, sharing moments together has been something he really can’t put into words.

All he knew was that it felt like drinking hot coco in warm blankets while watching movies on a rainy day. It felt like watching the sunset from a hill while being entangled with the person you love. And it felt like learning a language he didn’t ever want to forget or share with anyone else.

Really, it felt like coming home.

You and he remained like that for a few more hours, entangled in the sheets with shared, small giggles and smiles, staring at the ceiling together with tired, barely audible words exchanged, Mini-Meow lying between the both of you at one point- learning about each other even more as well as your lives that he hoped would continue to twine together. 

The soft, gentle feeling of your hands in his hair paired with the feel of your skin beneath his fingertips as he ran them up and down your smooth, warm skin brought his mind to a quiet peace, eventually putting him to sleep. 

It was the best sleep he had in ages.

The next morning when he woke up, everything was reset. Again.

 And when he realized this, he cried for hours. Sobbed, actually. He didn’t know if it was from frustration, anger, sadness, desperation– maybe all and more. He felt so pathetic. But he was just so done. He was also kind of scared.

~

He didn’t care how sloppy he looked with his pjs still on, hair tousled– he just knew he had to stop by the bookstore to check if you really–once again– forgot who he was and everything that happened between you both. Everything that was intimate, so beautiful, so delicate between the two of you.

He cherished it.

Would you?

Only life didn’t work that way. And his certainly didn’t.

When he heard the same, daunting greeting you’ve told him a million times before- like he was no one to you- he almost collapsed. And he wasn’t exaggerating.

He swore he felt his last breath escape his lips, he should've died from broken-heart syndrome right then and there. The cause of death where someone literally dies from a broken heart, where an abrupt surge of stress hormones are produced that disrupt the heart's normal function, ultimately ending up in death. 

Yeah. That.

From then on, he spent his days wallowing in self pity. Drowning in his misery. Near agony. At first, it started with the constant searching for answers. By nonstop..he meant non. stop. He wouldn’t change out of his clothes, didn’t shower, didn’t even stop to eat or drink. 

He was desperate but he didn’t care. He used this manic state to touch every subject, book, online resource, literally everything possible related to time, physics– hell, he didn’t care. Anything to figure this shit show out.

Then eventually, he had another idea and tried tried to leave town. He had packed all his necessities, everything he needed for Mini-Meow, and left. Booked a flight and just left. 

That didn’t work.

And there was that one time, where he saw you and some guy walking into some bar when he was walking home.

Of course, he followed you both in. Totally innocent. 

The night ended in him drunk from drowning himself in hard liquor in the corner of said bar.

Why?

Oh, maybe because you were singing karaoke with your date. Practically perched on his lap. With the occasional– not so innocent- kiss.

God, he was covetting so hard. It actually hurt. 

After the hangover that transpired the next morning, it completely went downhill.

One day, he poured his heart out to you– confessed his love like a crazy obsessive stalker, because- well - hell, why not? It’s not like it’d fucking matter in the end.

He told you about all the past times you had together, everything he knew about you, all the love that he had bottled up in every atom of his body for you. It was pathetic to him, and definitely terrifying for you.

Whoops.

Then, there were other times where he begged on his knees for you, tried to play hero when the flood happened in the bookstore to get your attention- to which he ended up making it worse, one time where he was drunk and passed out right in front of you before he could even get a word out.

So, he decided to simply just watch you from afar because he knew you were something he could only admire and yearn for. Not actually have.

He would say he lost you, but you can’t lose something you never had. 

And that fact only haunted him every second, of every day. 

So then, the next cycle started.

 Science and everyone else would call it depression.

He called it life on hiatus. 

He still kept up his mild research, which reduced in size day by day– only it now would be in his bed. 

On and on, your song would be on-loop, like a maddening background to his endless suffering. 

Broken down and hungry for your love

With no way to feed it

Where are you tonight?

Child, ya know how much I need it

“Fuck,” He muttered to himself, looking down at his shirt that he now stained by dropping a spoonful of ice cream on.

With a sigh, he got up from his bed, trudged out of his room while peeling off his shirt, and to the laundry room.

He opened the washer, throwing in the shirt with a frustrated grumble, soap, and so on. Once he got the cycle running, he turned to the dryer, opening it to make sure nothing was in it for when his shirt was done washing. 

It was like a bucket of cold water had been poured over his head.

When he saw your scarf in there, he wanted to punch a wall. Simultaneously, he also wanted to ball up and sob until he had no more tears to shed.

His hand shakily reached out, grabbing it– to which he sort of struggled with how blurry his vision was from the wall of tears that rapidly transpired.

A broken, absolutely devastated and defeated cry left his lips when he inhaled its scent. He didn’t know how it still held your scent. He didn’t even know how the scarf was still there. He didn’t even fucking know how the cat was still there with him for christ’s sake!

That day of you bringing in that damn kitten in, all wrapped up in your scarf, the dinner, poker, him walking you home– it was ingrained in his mind like a damn tattoo. Both a blessing and a curse.

The intimate night you shared burned onto his eyelids so every time he shut his eyes he’d see you so beautifully splayed out beneath him. The events that led to that moment– how beautiful the night sky reflected onto your features.

He almost hated you for running through his mind so endlessly. Almost. But he knew he couldn’t. Not ever.

So I'll wait for you, love

And I'll burn

Will I ever see your sweet return?

Oh, will I ever learn?

Oh-oh, lover, you should've come over

'Cause it's not too late

It’d been a few days, he had slept with that scarf every night with Jeff Buckley playing on repeat through the earbuds he also went to sleep with.

He hadn’t seen you in ‘weeks’ since he didn’t leave at all. His only company ‘Mini-Meow.’ Which..still pained him. Considering you were both his ‘parents.’

He didn’t really hear the sound of his own voice as often now. Which only heightened the silence and isolation that he felt was perpetual.

He still searched for answers. Only..barely now.

He was starting to lose hope. Not only in finding said answer but in..everything. He didn’t understand why he had to start reliving this same day over and over if it meant he didn’t get to change anything. He always ended up in the same spot.

Yes, it was the reliving the same haunting day over and over that brought an unsoundness of mind to his soul, but it was- and he’s told himself this before- the fact that he couldn’t. do anything. about it. He didn’t know anything. He was lost.

He was completely lost and he had no idea what else there was to do. No answers. No possibilities for him.

But he knew.

He knew there was one thing he didn’t try.

~

He was terrified. 

Staring down at water below him as he stood atop the very bridge you two once stood together at. Poetic, right?

It was night– so no one would bother him or try to interfere. He wanted this.

Right?

A shiver ran down his spine from both fear and the breeze that nearly swayed him off the edge.

He did think it over for a few minutes. Was this the right thing to do? Or was it just a mix of helplessness and a need for answers dwindling together that got him here?

He knew the answer, he just wouldn’t say it aloud. He really didn’t care anymore. He was in a never ending broken record-like world of agony. Shortened version? He was dead inside. 

He was empty. His soul was void of any light; void of you, his heart was simply functioning, not really beating. The oxygen he breathed in felt like something he needed to eradicate. Because what was the use?

Living was simply torture at this point. It was if the grim reaper himself had his throat tightly in his grasp, taunting him. Teasing him with death above ground.

“Okay,” He whispered to himself. Almost a promise. For what? He didn’t know.

Tightly, he shut his eyes. Taking one last, deep, shaky breath. And leaned forward.

The cold wind blew against his skin and pushed his hair back as he descended with an increasing speed.

And he saw it, the ‘life flashing before your eyes' thing people always said.

All he saw was you.

He saw your radiating smile that always reached your eyes when it was directed at him. He heard your boisterous laughter, the way your head would tip back as your eyes shut. He saw the glimmer in your eyes when you talked about something you loved or even when you listened to him talk about something he loved. He saw your puffed out cheeks when they were stuffed with food and he remembered how it would make him laugh endearingly. 

He remembered how your lips felt on his cheek that first night. How he felt your warmth radiating off your own skin and onto his when he touched you, or when you held him and vice versa. He remembered how your scent was so distinguishably you, it always mixing with the perfume scent he loved.

The way you said his name. How it’d sometimes have a teasing edge to it. Or how you shouted his name in a laugh when he accidentally pulled you down with him while you both roller skated. You had ended on top of him, the crash being a mix of ‘ow’s’ and laughter, only for you two to be yelled at since you were in the middle of the rink in people’s ways.

He suddenly realized that you were the one constant in his life. You tied everything together. He needed you.

No.

No. No, he didn’t want this anymore. He couldn’t do this. He wanted to go back. He’d make it work. He had to.

The water had slowly, but very painfully filled his lungs. It was a burning, flame-like sensation. His body jerked and he clawed at his throat as he panicked– suddenly forgetting how to swim. He began to have hypoxic convulsions, his muscles spasming as his screams got muffled by the water.

He grew disoriented, thrashing around, not even knowing which way was up anymore because it was pitch black. Because it was fucking night. 

He could feel himself slip away, losing consciousness, body going completely numb.

And then–

He abruptly sat up from his bed, coughing and gasping loudly which woke up the kitten beside him.

His wide eyes searched the room as he threw the duvet off himself, turning to the side and looking at the blue numbers he always did.

Of course. Same time, same day.

How?

How wasn’t he fucking dead?

After an hour or so of just..staring at the ceiling..questioning his sanity and just simply repeating the same question in his mind; what the fuck, he quickly dressed, cleaned himself up and burned everything.

He burned his research books, threw out his whiteboard, whatever else he had that related to his research that he busted his ass on.

“Bullshit.” He threw out another book. “Bullshit.” Another. “Bullshit!”

He huffed, slamming the door behind him, taking a deep breath and strided to town. Where did he find this newfound courage and confidence? Who knew. He certainly didn’t.Maybe it was the basically dying. But whatever.

With his chin high, tailored slacks and purple tie, he got his coffee (tipped the barista), walked to the neighboring bookstore and–

Shit.

“Shit.”

He stared at the sign that read ‘Helena’s Book Home,’ suddenly frozen in place, to which a few people had to weave around him. His breath left his lungs, the sensation akin to the one he felt ‘last night.’

He was terrified because he didn’t know if he could take it again. You looking at him with zero recognition. Because to him, you were the love of his life. You were his life. You were his safe haven, his lifeline, you were- as typical as it sounded- his everything. 

You were what he lived for.

But the thought that resided at the forefront of his mind was..

What if he continued to just be nothing to you?

With a shaky hand, he stepped forward, entering the bookstore where– he had come to realize a while ago– it all started.

The bell rang above the door, it softly closing shut behind him. He felt his throat go dry when he seen you behind the front desk, his body feeling like it wasn’t his and coiling up, his anxiety spiking.

Then a gasp. “Spence!” You practically crashed into him, arms wrapping around the back of his neck.

He looked at you with wide eyes, his heart rate quickly escalating, his breathing growing erratic, and-

“Oh my god!” You exclaimed, immediately kneeling down to cradle his fainted form.

~

As his eyes slowly peeled open, he immediately winced from the bright, fluorescent hospital lights, starting to sit up.

“Woah! Hey, easy.” He felt hands push him back down gently, those hands belonging to you. And when he realized that, he felt like he might faint all over again.

“I..” His brows furrowed as he looked around, inhaling deeply. “Did you take me to the hospital?” 

You breathed a small laugh, shrugging with a sheepish expression. “I didn’t know what else to do. I was so worried and..and I remember hugging you and then..and then- you just..you fainted! So–”

He pulled you down into a sweet, deep and needy kiss with his hands on your jaw. He needed this. He needed you. After everything, he knew he just needed to take. To feel. To want.

How were you here and still remembering him? He didn’t know. But he honestly didn’t care. Not anymore. He was done racking his brain with trying to find the logic in things. With driving himself crazy. With demanding instead of living. With searching instead of feeling. 

That changed now.

Because all he cared about now was the smile he felt against his lips from yours– the kiss deepening for a few more seconds before you pulled away- to which he chased your lips with his own before he relented.

“Someone’s happy. What’s all that about?” You inquired with a teasing hilt to your voice, gazing at him softly with your thumb gently caressing his cheek.

“I’m just..” He shook his head, staring up at you with a wide smile, trying to gather his thoughts into words.

He inhaled deeply, holding your gaze– yours reflecting love and endearment back at him.

“I love you.”

'Cause it's not too late

Upcoming works

[iholli]

there's a funny kind of self love in Wastelander Rat straight up being absolutely awful at her job but still being beloved by everyone she works with. his value isn't tied to his ability to protect his current boss-- Rat just belongs to the group and he'd be missed.

[luveline]

𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞

you get a good dose, confess your affections, and leave poor, oblivious hotch to fix things up neatly. 

cw painkiller high, light suggestive theme 

˚‧꒰ა ✮ ໒꒱‧˚

“Hello.” 

You lift your gaze without blinking. Hotch is standing in the doorway, making his way in with a bouquet of flowers tucked under one arm and a white envelope against his chest. 

“Hello,” he says again, meeting your wide, still eyes with concern. “You okay?” 

“Flowers for me?” 

“You’re the one here in a hospital bed. They’re from me and Jack. He insisted.” 

You nod up and down robotically. Your heart is unhappy today. You’ve been fast and slow and now it’s running fast again, a tip-tip-tip on the heart monitor that makes Hotch frown. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “They told me you were on a lot of pain medication, you shouldn’t be hurting anymore. Is it not working?” 

“I feel a lot.” 

“And that’s unsettling,” he surmises.

“Can I have my flowers?” 

Hotch offers them to you immediately. “Why don’t you count to a hundred for me?” 

“They’re beautiful, but there’s not that many.” 

“Count to one hundred. I can start. Do you need me to start for you?” 

You dip your face into the flowers. “I love when you say stuff like that.” 

Hotch doesn’t answer you. You begin counting, hoping he’ll say a nice thing if you do as he asked. The numbers get mixed up after thirty five, there really aren’t enough flowers to count to a hundred, but when forty five and fifty four begin to feel like the same number spiritually, Hotch reaches for your forearm and gives it a squeeze. That means job well done. Nobody else in the team gets arm squeezes —they’re for you. Nobody else has noticed, but you have. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

You beam at him. The heart monitor beeps in slow loops. “You’re welcome. Did it help?” 

“I’d say so.” He takes off his suit jacket and puts it over the back of the chair, pulling the chair towards the bed with his foot, and getting comfortable beside you, a little lower down than you but tall regardless. “Are you feeling alright?” 

“I can’t believe you got me flowers.” 

“I got you flowers the last time you were injured.” 

“I know,” you say with a laugh. “I know, it was amazing.” 

“Here’s your card from Jack. I’ve opened it for you, I hope that’s okay.” 

“I cannot open anything. I tried to stab my pudding open with a spoon and broke it and can’t find the sharp part in my blankets. I’m worried it’s going to poke me.” 

Hotch stands from his chair. “That’s not good.” 

You take up Jack’s card, pinching the folded printer paper and pulling all of its homemade glory from the envelope. The front has a red heart drawn with bandages wrapped around it, and inside is a message written in impressive penmanship considering his age. To Y/N, it says, Please get well soon. We are hoping you to have a speedy recovery! Love you, Jack and Aaron 

“It says you love me,” you say. 

“Mm, Jack wrote the message. He misses you.” 

You catch the feeling of Hotch’s hand where it slips between your legs and almost burst, giggling excitedly, which makes his hand jump away from you like a fish out of water. “You have the spoon!” 

“Found it. No more danger.” 

“Thank you. I knew you could find it.” 

“Don’t mention it.” 

The pain medication Hotch spoke of is starting to make itself known. You hadn’t felt very different to begin with, the only worthy note your absence of pain, but right now you feel weird. Light. Happy, but strange, like the opposite feeling of missing a step. You know something’s wrong and you know it’s the medication, but you’re elated at the same time. Hotch is here. Maybe it’s just him. Maybe he’ll know. 

“Do you think I feel happy ‘cos of you or the morphine?” you ask. Softly, slurring, you swallow and try not to sound as drunk. “I feel amazing.” 

“It’s the morphine.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Well, it’s been a long time since I had some myself, but I remember feeling amazing at the time, and you’re on a lot more of it than I was.” Hotch sets himself back down in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Are you staying for long?” 

“Until they make me leave,” he says. 

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Yesterday you were here for ten minutes and I felt like my heart was bruised.” 

He doesn’t speak for a moment. His eyes seem darker than usual. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I had to be home to take care of Jack.” 

“I know you had to, it’s not your fault, but I still missed you.” 

You prop Jack’s amazing card on the nightstand with a proud grin. You love Jack Hotchner, he’s the smartest, kindest, sweetest boy you’ve ever met, and it must be because of his parents. You’ve not met Haley many times, but Hotch is amazing. It makes sense that his kid would be just as awesome as he is. Turning your attention back to the flowers, you find the courage to ask, “Do you think you could bring Jack to see me?” 

“I think he might be a little young for hospitals, I’m sorry.” 

“Well, maybe I can see him when I’m out of the hospital? How can I say thank you for the card? Does he still like bears?” 

“He has enough bears,” Hotch says gently. “You don’t need to buy him anything, he just wants you to get better soon.” 

“You’re such a good dad.” Your lashes kiss with the force of your smile. “You’re lovely. Jack is really kind.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re handsome,” you continue, slinking down in the bed. You feel tired but not sleepy, craving a really big, hot sandwich. Hotch holds your gaze. “Can I ask you a question?” 

“What?” he asks quietly. 

“Can you please get me a big, hot sandwich? Maybe with hot chicken? Or spicy chicken in a burrito? I really need it to be hot.” 

Hotch laughs aloud and reaches for your forearm to squeeze you again. “Of course I can. I’ll call Derek and I’ll make him get you both of those things, if you like.” 

“Oh, good. I really really don’t want you to leave but I really want the sandwich more than I want you to stay.” You tip your head to one side. “If you hugged me again I’d say I want you to stay more than I want the sandwich, ‘cos you haven’t hugged me in a long time.” 

“Does that bother you?” he asks, the pad of his thumb working against your wrist. 

“No, I know I’m not supposed to want you to hug me.” 

“We’re friends,” he says, shaking his head, “good friends, aren’t we? It’s alright if you want a hug. I should be better at giving them.” 

When he was with Haley you wouldn’t have dreamed of wanting it, because your affection for him has always been more than a friend‘s. You’ve guarded the secret carefully over the years. What’s more unfair to a wife than to fancy her husband? But Haley left Hotch, and he’s been single for a while now, and you think that lately he’s actively dating. He’s always had pride in his appearance, but his suits are tailored again. His hair is left to grow beyond what’s easily maintained. He and Dave occasionally joke about him getting back out there —he doesn’t need to get out there, you’re right here. 

You can’t help frowning. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“I think I’m a bad friend.” 

“You aren’t a bad friend.” 

“I am, I have ulterior motives.” 

Hotch rolls his eyes. “Honey, everybody does. You’re fine. You’re a good friend. You know you’re the sole member of the team who’s remembered Jack’s birthday every year? Remembered mine?” 

“I don’t do that to be a good friend, I just love Jack.” 

His hand slips down to yours. He holds it briefly. “I know you do.” 

“It’s why I remember yours,” you say, shaking your head, annoyed he’s taken his hand back but ready to move on to better things. “Can you ask Derek for my sandwich now, please? Please, please, I’m so hungry I’m gonna die.” 

Hotch gives you a funny look. “How about I go and get you your sandwich? I’ll be very fast. I’ll go to Sam’s across the street, would you like that?” 

“Can I have maybe a donut too?” 

“Sure, honey. I’ll get you a half dozen.” 

“Really?” 

“Sure. Do you want any in particular?” 

Hotch goes off to get you a sandwich and you click the button for more morphine without really thinking. You’re asleep before he gets back.

—

You wake up shaking. 

Aaron straightens in his chair. He hadn’t meant to doze off, but it’s nearing the end of your visiting hours and he’s been here since three. Your sandwich is stone cold in the bag and he’s not sure how he’ll get it warmed up.

Your arms are trembling badly. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

“What for?” 

“Hotch, where am I?” 

Aaron stands. “You’re in the hospital. You’ve had some morphine and it ended up sedating you. The shaking will calm down soon, but nothing’s wrong, okay?” 

You’re noticeably confused, and Aaron hates it enough to sew his fingers between yours. His are thicker by quite a bit, but he’s used to smaller hands. He’s careful with you. He can’t stop thinking about what you said earlier. 

The undercurrent of fear you’d been harbouring begins to ebb. You let Aaron hold your hand and settle back down into your sheets, turning your face toward him and shutting your eyes. You don’t seem sleepy. He’s not sure what’s wrong. 

When you say you love him, he understands. He loves you, too. He doesn’t think that he’s in love with you, but he could be. He’s had enough guilty daydreams about it, batted them away, moments doing the dishes or at the gym or when you’re standing together working a case, where he forgets to forbid himself the pleasure and imagines you in simple intimacies. He sees himself taking your hand. He pictures waking up to the smell of you on his pillows. When he’s especially pent up and you’ve haunted him with your bare face or a shy smile, he ends the day thinking of you. How he’d kiss your head with just a little of his weight atop you, or a lot. 

And then he feels so horribly wrong for doing it that he resigns himself to the distance between you forever. 

Aaron doesn’t know what you want from him, but he knows he could fall in love with you if given the chance. He has to determine how honest your morphine-confession was, and there’s no time like the present. 

“Are you feeling okay?” he asks softly. 

“Yeah,” you whisper back. 

“I brought you the donuts and a sandwich, but I’ll have to reheat it. I’m sorry.” 

“Did I ask for a sandwich?” you ask, startled.

“A hot one. You emphasised.” 

“Thank you, Aaron. I don’t think I’m hungry now, I’m kinda queasy.” 

“You had a little bit more morphine than you should’ve.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Sweetheart,” he says under his breath, “that’s not your fault.” 

You squeeze his hand weakly. Any want to draw the truth from you is quickly dwindling. All he wants now is to make sure you’re okay. 

He spills himself closer to you and, without untangling your hands, brings your thin blankets to your shoulder. “You’re gonna be okay. The queasiness won’t last long. In fact, eating might help, but we can wait.” 

“Don’t you have to go home?” 

“No, I can stay if you want me to.” 

“Please, I want you to.” 

“You’re still on the morphine,” he says, rubbing your hand, “I can ask them to lower your dosage if you don’t like it, but you have to remember that it’s keeping you unaware of your pain.” 

You hesitate. “I don’t want it to hurt.” 

“Then it won’t,” he promises. You had more than your fair share of pain. 

“Thank you for taking care of me,” you whisper. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“This is all I want. For you to look after me.” 

He takes a measured breath. “I would love to look after you.” 

You turn your head half an inch to see him. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah, I think so.” He’s trying to blend the half of him you know at work with the half of him responsible for his outer life, the part of him that flirts with beautiful women at bars, the part of him that loved being a husband. “I don’t know what you want, and now isn’t the time, but,” —he prepares to be brave— “if you want me to look after you, then I will.” 

“You promise?” 

“I promise.”

“Can you kiss me?” 

His heart skips a beat. “No, honey, I can’t, I’m sorry.” 

“Not even on the head?” 

His stomach aches, but it’s a good feeling. Like worrying you lost something and finding it in the first place you’ve looked. “On the head I can do.” 

You squeeze your eyes closed in wait of his kiss, a light, chaste brush of the lips to your temple. The morphine makes you laugh, a girly, giggly bubble of it as you burrow into the sheets, like he’s tickled you. He’s twice as endeared when you squint at him like you’re waiting. 

“Can I–”

“One more,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss your forehead again. “Any more than that and you’ll die of embarrassment when you’re not drugged out of your mind.” 

“I’m not out of my mind. I’m just hallucinating. Or having a great dream.” 

He’s inclined to agree, but he knows with confidence he hasn’t had any heavy medication today. He gives you a fond look and sits back down, obliging you when you scramble to put your hand in his again. It’s a weight he could get used to holding.

“I really like you,” you confess quietly. 

He quite likes you in return. “That’s great, honey. Do you want to talk about it later? Maybe you can have one of your donuts.” 

You don’t take his misdirection as rejection, you just pull his hand to your chest and smile. “No thank you. I can wait.” 

He can wait too. 

[lokissweater]

birthday boy!satoru who sleepily grins and smiles when you wake him up with a giant cake and gifts in bed, slowly propping himself up on an elbow and rubbing his eyes, your sweet soft voice singing him ‘happy birthday’ as he looks at you with a little gleam in his eyes.

birthday boy!satoru who devours the cake you bought him right then and there, refuses to go to the dining room table or get plates and refuses to let you leave the room, a fork in each of your hands as you both munch on his frosty vanilla bean cake, satoru’s eyes lightning up like stars once he sees that his precious pretty wife also got him kikufuku, his hands shooting out to tear open the packaging and stuff two in his mouth at once, feeding you one in return and him poking your puffed up cheeks with a shiny grin because you’re just oh so cute.

birthday boy!satoru who still refuses to let you leave his side once you’ve both cleared the desserts, his arms snaking around your waist and gently pulling you to lay on top of him, your bellies full and the sugar swirling in your heads proving no match for satoru as he raises a sneaky hand, fingers looping and pulling at the thin straps of your top down to devour you next, his favorite dessert, you squirming and giggling as you try to swat his hands away and tell him no…. but you let him have a little taste anyways, it’s his birthday after all! 

birthday boy!satoru who hasn’t even taken a peak at his presents because he just wants you, licking you up like the icing he licked off of his fingers just a few minutes prior, wet slick tongue running from the side of your neck down to your puffy plump tits as you prop yourself up, hands on his bare chest and with a shudder to your breath.

birthday boy!satoru who slobbers hickeys into your tits and sucks your nipples like a freak, you whining pushing at his chest and telling him he’s sucking too hard, and him only giving you a muffled ‘but it’s my birthday sweets!’ before sucking harder and taking advantage of your cute boobs, his big hands gripping your upper arms to keep you up and still.

birthday boy!satoru who finally listens to your protests about how you have plans made for him and you need to get going, a pout to his pretty face and dramatically moaning about how he wanted ‘morning birthday sex’ from his wife, but his face quickly switching back to that loving silly grin you love so much as soon as he sees you giggle and smile.

birthday boy!satoru who is bouncing off the walls when you tell him you got tickets to the new winter wonderland festival that’s in your town, him wanting to go since practically birth (last year) and talking your ear off about it ever since then, sprinting out of bed and putting on his pants and thin sweatshirt.

birthday boy!satoru who pouts again when you drag him back in the house because his attire is not fit for the weather outside, and pouts still as you’re bundling him up in a thicker puffer jacket, his cheeks going pink once you press a sweet kiss to his jutted out lips and chasing yours for more, obnoxious kissy noises filling the air.

birthday boy!satoru who nearly collapses upon arriving at the winter wonderland festival, the name doing itself justice with the holiday decorations strewn about and pinecone ornament filled garlands hanging from every post lamp, the particularly snowy day adding to the christmas feel as he quickly interlaces your fingers together and drags you around.

birthday boy!satoru who gets in line to meet santa, scoffing over the weird looks the parents in line were giving him as you laughed, him muttering something about how it’s discrimination to be judged like this just because he’s not a kid, and that his christmas wish list was just as important as a five year olds.

birthday boy!satoru who jumps on the old man’s lap with a huge smile, santa’s alarmed eyes darting in every corner as your husband went on about the things he wanted (mainly sweets), not a single ounce of giving a shit in his body because it was his day.

birthday boy!satoru who finishes off his christmas wish list with ‘oh! and for my wife to never divorce me! yeah put that one at the top actually—’

birthday boy!satoru who refuses to let you treat him the entire day, saying he was satoru gojo and that he was made of money for you to spend, you playfully rolling your eyes as he got gingerbread cookie after gingerbread cookie for you, and the one time you show up with peppermint kikufuku, he kisses your cheek over and over a million fucking times in gratitude.

birthday boy!satoru who by the end of the day is spent from hours worth of eating sweets and desserts and riding the kiddy rides, requesting to get on the ferris wheel one more time just as the two of you were leaving to go home.

birthday boy!satoru who has an arm around your shoulders and a cheek on the side of your head on the ferris wheel, his heart fuzzy and warm despite the chilling temperature of the night, all due to precious little you that made his day so special in the way that you did, in the way that you do every year that makes him absolutely melt and feel worthwhile.

birthday boy!satoru who cups your cheek and brings you in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips amongst the glittering lights, music, and laughter of the festival below, feeling borderline emotional over the fact that he’s married to such a beautiful person like you.

“will you marry me baby?”

“toru we’re already married—”

“oh so you want to divorce me then—”

birthday boy!satoru who leaves the festival with you hand in hand, and with a new found sense of energy because his sugar filled brain managed to remember the promise you made him this morning, one that had to do with sexy time upon arriving home, his hands literally harassing you the entire car ride home with them shoved down your shirt or a needy squeeze to your thighs.

birthday boy!satoru who deems this the best birthday he’s ever had in his life.

but birthday boy!satoru knows that he has the best birthdays of his life every year actually, and knowing that they were ever since he met and married you, for they were never this sweet before.

authors note: happy birthday to my glorious honored one OH how i need him <333 :33

[isasweetie]

‎♡‧₊˚ boat days with rafe are always prissy!readers favourite days.

you loved them because it felt like the one moment rafe’s mind wasn’t elsewhere. usually he was a stressed, impatient man, but when he’d find the time to take the yacht out far and just park it there and soak in the sun with you, he was always happy.

rafe was doing his morning workout while you soaked in the sun that reflected from the water, a shirley temple in hand that rafe made you at the bar. peacefully content, your stomach rested on the longue chair as your back tanned, glowing from the tanning oil that rafe had applied for you while complaining about how oily it felt and how he was gonna have to wash his hands.

with a sigh when you realize your drink is empty, you call rafe’s name to get you another one — not in a bratty way, you just knew rafe was always glad to keep you content, so he would make you another, even if he did mutter ‘i’m not your fuckin’ servant’ every time.

he comes over, pausing his workout. “yeah, baby?”

“can i have another drink?” you ask, turning over to lie on your back so you can face him.

“yeah, i got you,” he takes the empty glass and makes you another shirley temple, then brings it back to you. “need anything else?”

“umm..” you try to think, biting on your inner cheek. “dunno if i really want tan lines, can you help me untie my bikini top?”

“this isn’t france, baby, can’t sit outside with your tits out,”

“do you see anyone around? we’re in the middle of the ocean,” you ask. “didn’t know you were such a prude, just wanna tan my chest,”

“m’not a prude. fine, sit up. c’mon,” he relents, and you sit up.

his big hands fidget with the little bow on your triangle bikini, untying both knots. “there you go,” he pats your shoulder. “gotta go back to working out, you good here for like, fifteen minutes? not bored?”

“i’m fine. thank you rafe,” you smile up at him, pecking his lips while he’s still crouched down.

he nods, giving you one last look with his pretty baby blues before turning to go to the back of the boat to finish his workout.

you spend a bit of time on your phone while you’re still sat up, taking photos of the water, and topless selfies to absolutely send to rafe next time he’s at the office, and take sips of your shirley temple. then you apply some tanning oil on your front and tan that side for a little while, putting in an earbud to listen to some lana del rey.

after a while, you’re overheatting, even with your drink. but thankfully, rafe is feeling the exact same way. he finishes his workout and comes back to you all sweaty.

“hey,” he breathes out, taking the earbud out of your ear and stealing a sip of your drink so he can get his breath back.

“rafe!” you whine, swiping your drink back.

“usually when people say hey, you say hi back,” he says sarcastically, teasing you. “anyway, c’mon, we’re going swimming, i’m hot as fuck and you’re coming with me,”

you nod and he helps you up. he takes you to the edge of the boat. “we’re gonna jump, you good with that?”

“nervous,” you admit, staring off the yacht and into the blue water.

“you’ll be all good. i’ll hold your hand,” he assures, grabbing your manicured hand. “on three,”

he counts down, squeezing your hand each time. when he gets to three, he jumps and pulls you with him.

the water feels cold and refreshing against your warm body. you can’t help but think that your blowout is ruined from the water, but rafe will pay for another one if it upsets you. giggling, you resurface, looping your arms around rafe’s neck, topless chest pressed against his. “that was fun!”

“yeah?” he can’t help the little smile that appears at your happiness. “c’mon, let’s go again,”

with an eager nod, he helps you onto the ladder at the back of the boat, and you grab his hand when he walks you to the edge again. he counts down again, and you jump. it continues like that for 7 minutes until you get chilly.

rafe gets you a towel embroidered with his name (of course), and leaves you to warm up in the sun.

at the end of the day, you’ve changed into a spare sundress kept below deck, because rafe is cooking dinner in the mini kitchen on the yacht. you watch him cook, drying your hair off with a towel, then recurling your eyelashes and putting your lipgloss back on that wiped away.

you sit down back outside, both of you eating your dinner as the sky turns into this gorgeous swirl of pink, orange, and yellow while the sun dips down.

with the golden hour highlighting every feature on your boyfriends face, the feeling of your wet hair soaking the back of the dress, and putting the most delicious food in your mouth, you’re absolutely sure you’ll never get sick of this.

“i think the water is gonna tarnish my necklace,” you tell rafe gently as you help him wash the plates after. your hand subconsciously fiddles with said necklace, the one that has his initial on it. rafe’s very proud of that necklace.

“well we can’t have that, yeah?” rafe smiles, putting his hands on your waist. “we’ll buy you a new one tomorrow, hm? real gold this time, no cheaping out,”

you smile and nod, and he kisses you in a way that’s gonna screw you up forever. being with him is like paradise.

[cashmoneyyysstuff]

won't you spare me another year ?

synopsis : you want to be the first person to wish your katsuki a happy birthday every year <3

an. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY BOYFRIEND!!

cw. nothing, pure fluff!!! also fem reader!

"5..4...3...2...1...aaaand—happy birthday, katsuki !!"

katsuki groans sleepily as your arms tighten around him. "you're fucking insane. it's midnight."

"it's your birthday !" you defend quietly, pouting up at him. he looks down at you and chuckles.

"ya could've just let me sleep and told me that shit in the morning, would've still been m'birthday." he yawns, wiping his eyes. you shoot up to press a kiss to his cheek, leaning into his space more to kiss him all over while he pretends to try and push you off when you roll on top of him. you both ignore how he immediately goes to squeezing your hips when you settle on top.

"i could've, but then there would've been a chance i slept in too long and then i wouldn't have been the first one to wish you happy birthday."

"so my birthday's a competition now ?"

"yup. and i plan to be first every year." you giggle, he rolls his eyes but can't hide the smile growing on his face.

"clingy brat.." he mumbles, he kisses you back anyways when your lips reach his.

"you love me." you counter.

"mm, whatever." he waves off, grabbing the back of your head to bring your lips back to his. you squeal as he tries to deepen the kiss. "you're being greedy." you warn, lips smushed against his.

"s'my birthday, means i get what i wan’, right ? and since you're gonna keep me awake, could at the very least gimme a proper damn kiss." he says between kisses, it makes you laugh against his mouth and he smiles. when you pull away, you lean in to press a long, lasting kiss on the scar right below his eye. you can feel the way the muscles in his face drop and his arms tighten around you in surprise.

"happy birthday, katsuki. i'm glad i can spend another year with you." you whisper earnestly, looking down at him like he'd hung up the moon and the stars for you. unfortunately, it seems that was too much sincerity for your poor boyfriend. he squints, his massive palms enveloping your face to squeeze your cheeks.

"y-yeah, yeah. quit bein' sappy..." he huffs. you feel his thumb run against your bottom lip when he glances up at you, ears tinted pink as he quietly whispers out a "thanks...".

you don't need to say anymore, smiling as you lay on his chest. you hum "what do you wanna do for your birthday ?"

"stay in and fuckin' sleep." is his simple response, you can't help but snort.

"and nothing else ?" you look up at him.

he looks down at you "sounds like you got something you're hiding from me." he asks, suspiciously raising a brow.

you scoff, looking away "pffff, me ? no way..."you lie, your voice going airy.

you’re being grabbed by your cheeks in an instant and katsuki’s not deterred by your whining "you're a shit liar."

"i plead the fifth."

"plead my ass." katsuki scoffs, squishing your cheeks in his palm. "i hate being out of the loop on shit, you know that."

"would it kill you to not be a killjoy ? where's your whimsy ? your child's soul ?" you whine.

"whatever the fuck that means." katsuki snarks. you laugh again, and he rolls his eyes. "as long as whatever you got planned doesn't take up my whole damn day, then do what you want."

now it's your turn to roll your eyes "no need to worry, i won't be interfering with your plans to sleep in."

"our plans. you're not going anywhere." your boyfriend corrects.

"i have no say in it, do i ?" you tease.

he pokes your cheek. "nope. s'my birthday." he responds simply.

you laugh "you're using that as some sort of cheat code now ?"

when your laughter dies down he's still looking down at you. eyes, droopy with sleep sure, but with something soft inside of them. they glow illuminated by the light of the moon outside.

"what ?"

"nuffin." he sighs, still just looking down at you. his fingers run across your face, your cheeks and eyebrows and nose so softly, so unlike him (he of course has to take the opportunity to squeeze your nose, but you decide not to ruin the moment).

"yeah, right. c'mon what is it?" you urge. katsuki scoffs "so damn persistent." he reprimands. he shushes you when you remind him that "that's why you like me so much!"

"m'just..thinkin'."

"about..?" you wiggle higher up until you can kiss his chin. he sighs again , smiling to himself.

"about...this really annoying girl."

you glare up at him, he smirks. "oh yeah ?" you deadpan.

"oh, yeah. a real pain in the ass. always talkin' back to me and bothering me. planning surprises and other stupid things for my birthday every year. " he taunts.

you roll your eyes again "she sounds like a fun time. sounds to me like you just don't know how to have any fun." you grouch. katsuki laughs, of course he does, dickhead.

"yeah, well. as annoying as she is...she is a pretty damn fun time." he admits softly "real damn sweet too...probably too sweet for me.."

you look up at him in surprise. he squeezes your nose to avoid you and you swipe at his hand. he continues talking while you're distracted. "but i'm glad she chose to be with an asshole like me, and..." he leans down to press a peck between your brows.

"..and there's nothing else i'd like more for my birthday then to spend it with her again next year. even if we do lame, boring shit like staying in or doing whatever."

you feel your heart squeeze almost painfully tight. your cheeks pull up so hard you feel your jaw hurt, but you're so unbearably happy.

so unbearably happy you get to spend another year of his life with him.

you lean in to kiss him. "well, i don't know about her surprises, but mine's gonna blow your socks off. s'gonna make you cry like you did last year."

he scoffs, planting another kiss to your lips. "i didn't cry, dickwad. that's your mind making shit up." he denies.

"yeah, okay" you laugh, and with one final kiss you pull back to look at your love, with all the love you had for him. "happy birthday, katsuki."

and he smiles back, softly, and only reserved for moments like this with you.

yeah, it sure was. happy fuckin' birthday to him.

[bowtiepasta]

“is that the birthday girl I see?” atsumu drawls, voice still thick with sleep. he leans against the doorway, lazy grin spreading across his face as he watches you shuffle into the kitchen. his hair is an absolute mess, sticking up in every direction, and he’s wrapped in the blanket he clearly dragged from the bed.

before you can respond, he pushes off the wall and makes his way over — arms looping around your waist as he buries his face in your shoulder. “g’morning,” he murmurs into a kiss, softer now, raspy from misuse.

“did ya sleep okay? I was gonna wake ya up with breakfast, but..” he pulls back enough to smile at you. “figured you’d probably rather not eat burnt toast on your special day.”

his warmth lingers even after he steps away, rubbing at his eyes. “go sit down, I’ll try and make somethin’ decent,” he laughs, reaching for the coffee maker. “don’t you dare even think of lifting a finger.”

you sit down at the table, watching him while he dances around the kitchen, warmth of the sun hitting his back, casting a gentle glow over his tousled hair, and you feel an overwhelming sense of affection.

he glances over his shoulder, gaze caught on yours, the crinkle by his eyes softening like he can’t help but melt under the weight of your attention. “what?” he asks, tilting his head as he braces his arms on the counter. “something on my face?”

you shake your head, getting up and walking over, slipping your arms around him and up to rub at his chest, cheek to his back. his body tenses for a second, surprised, then he relaxes into you.

“I love you,” you muffle, breath hot against his shirt. he turns around to kiss you again, clingy as always — “love you too.”

his hand covers yours and he gently kisses your palm. “whole day. just us. your wish is my command.” he laughs, “and my wallet, too. I guess.”

his voice is barely above a whisper now, as he sways with you, kissing down your collarbone. “happy birthday, baby. I’ll make sure it’s a good one.”

[luvyeni]

ONE MORE BEFORE YOU GO ♱. ── ( 엔하이픈 )

trying to get them to stay and go another round …

𝓲𝓲 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒𓈒 ( 엔하이픈 x fem!reader )   ─── ❛ genre ⸝⸝ smut. content warning. allusions to sex , cursing word count. 0.8k 「 req? ⦂ yes/no 」 library  !

𝕼 ㅤ𓈒ㅤ𓈒 yeni’s note .ᐟ i was so confused on how to write this , idky

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 정원 : jungwon﹚ .ᐟ

“that pouty face isn’t gonna work this time.” he said looking down at your pouty face , you were wrapped up in nothing but a sheet. “it worked last time.” you purred , purposely letting the blanket fall. “fuck , you’re really pushing your luck.” he looked at the time — he was gonna be only 5 minutes late if he left right now. “why worry about the time when you can just stay here.” he chuckled. “stay here , and what fuck you all day?” you shrug, you perfect mounds on display. “doesn’t seem like a bad idea to me.”

“you’re insatiable.” he said ; the entire time he’s slowly losing jus mind. “you know you want to.” you said , he checked the time once more — he’ll be 10 minutes late if he leaves now… but he won’t be late at all if he just doesn’t go , plus he’ll be able to feel you all over again. “i promise this is the last time this will ever happen.” he said kissing your lips. “let’s see how wet you are for me.”

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 희승 : heeseung ﹚ .ᐟ

hearing you whine for the 10th time as he put his clothes on makes him laugh. “glad to know my suffering brings you happiness and entertainment.” you roll around in the bed , barely clothed , normal that would be enough for heeseung; but he was already 30 minutes late to practice. “im laughing because you’re just too cute baby , whine and throwing a tantrum because i wont fuck you again , even though i just made you cum three times.”

“but im still horny.” you said sitting up on your knees. “please , just once more.” you pouted. “and then you’re free to go.” you said , pulling at his belt loop. “you’re crazy.” he said , his lips barely brushing against yours. “for you yes.” he giggled , time long forgotten. “you what baby fuck it , lay back.” he said , hovering above you. “i can’t leave my girl all needy and this wet for me can i , what kinda boyfriend would i be?”

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 제이 : jay ﹚ .ᐟ

sighing as you rub his shoulders; he knows what you’re trying to do. “what if you’re just 20 minutes late?” you purr into his ear. “what can it hurt?” you kissed behind his ear — you were gonna kill him in the best possible way. “because 20 minutes will turn into a hour messing around with you princess , the boys are already blowing my phone like crazy and — fuck.” he threw his head back as you kissed his neck some more. “please.” your hands working on his chest. “you know you want to.”

he couldn’t hold back anymore; turning around , hovering above you. “you’re so spoiled baby.” he said , wrapping your legs around his waist. “it’s all your fault.” you bit back playfully. “yeah?” he smirked , bring his thumb to your bottom lip. “let me take full responsibility then , fuck you the way you should be.”

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 제이크 : jake﹚ .ᐟ

he literally has to fight himself internally to get out of the bed and leave you every morning even when you don’t have mind blowing morning sex , but it’s 100x times harder leaving out the door when you’re still begging for another round. “baby.” he whined. “i can’t i'm already late.” keep in mind he’s still hard himself and your begging isn’t doing him any good. “please jake , i need you so much.” he really needs to leave , his phone has already been blowing up.

he falls for it everytime ; the ole ‘just a kiss before you go.’ bending down to kiss you ; only for him to deepen the kiss , he can’t help it , he just loves kissing you ; it gets him all worked up. “fuck you do this all the time.” he moaned against your neck. “jake please fuck me.” you moaned… safe to say jake showed up to practice an hour late that day.

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 성훈 : sunghoon ﹚ .ᐟ

his shirt isn’t even buttoned up; as he rushes to put his pants and shoes on. “shit im so fucking late right now.” you on the other hand; you’re up and on one already. “see so it doesn’t matter; you’re already late.” you said , he stared at you , you were the reason he was late now , you looked so good in the morning he couldn’t help himself. “we’ve been at it since early this morning , im not sure how im gonna stay awake during practice.” he said. “how are you still so fucking needy.”

“because you look good.” you smiled with a look anything but innocent. “how about you stay home then?” he scoffed. “of course you’d say that.” he said , yet he’s the one kicking his shoes off , crawling back in bed. “are you gonna call the guys and tell them you were being such a needy slut for me today that’s why i didn’t show up?” you nodded. “if you stay in this bed and fuck me all day then i’ll tell them anything.” knowing sunghoon he’s gonna definitely hold you to it.

﹙ 𝐢𝐯. 선우 : sunoo ﹚ .ᐟ

“sorry my love.” he said quickly trying to get ready while you persuade him to stay behind. “but i can’t stay any longer.” you looked so good laying in bed , but sunoo was already so late. “why.” you pouted. “i miss you already.” you said. “what about one more round , then i guess you can go and leave me here to die.” he shook his head at how dramatic you were being , but alas he couldn’t tell you no , even if jungwon was currently blowing his phone up.

“just one more okay.” he crawled back into bed with you. “then i really have to go my love.” he kissed both sides of your cheeks. “so pretty.” he whispered , grinding his lower region against yours. “how can i ever say no to you.”

©️LUVYENI

[haniette]

grasping your love. // ln4

part one. || part two.

pairing | lando norris x fem!reader

genre | angst, fluff, friends to lovers, childhood best friends au, hurt-comfort

word count | 11.7k

warnings | no use of y/n, heartbreak, emotional distress, themes of regret and longing, abandonment themes, low-key manipulation themes??, use of alcohol, cursing, crying.

inspired by: sydney rose - we hug now, conan gray - memories, the kid laroi - bleed

summary: you told yourself you’d moved on. that you didn't care, and your heart had mended. but when he came back, all ruined and raw, you realized some hearts don’t forget who they were meant to beat for.

a/n: PART TWOOOOO!!!! as soon as i saw the requests for part two i started working on this, and actually, it turned out to be longer than i expected- OOPSIE but y'all.. writing this kinda broke me :,) i'm so happy that at least they got their happy ending </3 hope you'll enjoy !!

The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that wraps itself around you, like the silence after a storm—where everything feels too calm, too heavy with unspoken words. You could hear the soft ticking of the clock in the hallway, the distant hum of the fridge, the muffled sound of your parents’ breathing in their room down the hall.

You padded across the hallway in thick socks, dressed in your oversized sleep shirt with sleeves tugged down over your fingers. The exhaustion from the day had settled into your bones, dull and familiar. You’d brushed your teeth, put your hair up, wiped the smeared mascara from under your eyes—and still, somehow, you felt heavy.

Not even tired. Just… drained. Hollow in a quiet way. The kind of tiredness that had nothing to do with sleep, but with the ache in your chest that had been there since that night.

The night when you sat under the stars, knees drawn to your chest. When he was crouching in front of you with that lopsided smile, and made you feel like you could hope again. 

The night you almost said it. The night he almost knew.

But after that night, there came the distance. Not cruel, not sharp, just drifting. Like smoke through fingers, like something slipping underwater.

And you were trying. Trying so hard to be okay with it. But god—you were exhausted. 

However, it wasn’t the physical kind of exhaustion. It was something deeper, a kind of tiredness that came from the emotional weight of trying to convince yourself that everything was fine, that things were normal. But every time you opened social media and saw Lando’s name, or caught a glimpse of him in the halls at school laughing with Olivia, leaning in close, his hand in hers, her lips on his cheek—it all felt like a cruel reminder that the world had moved on, and you hadn’t been included in it. You were stuck in a loop of saddness and regret.

When you reached your bedroom door, hand resting on the knob, a strange noise came from downstairs, making you stop mid-step.

Clink. 

You wanted to brush it off, taking for granted that it was just the wind, or the house creaking. But then it came again—the scrape of a drawer, the distinct sound of a cup hitting the counter, the slight clink of something being set down. 

You sucked in a breath, heart suddenly pounding in your chest. Your first thought? Someone broke in.

You tiptoed out of your room, pulse quickening, each creak of the floorboards beneath you feeling like an alarm bell. The hallway was dark, save for the faint glow of the nightlight near the stairs. You could hear the rustling louder now, the sound of something being knocked over, maybe.

A breathless moment of hesitation, then you flicked the light on, your hand trembling slightly. The glow of the kitchen illuminated the open doorway.

And there, leaning against the sink, was no one other than Lando himself. A glass of water in his hand, his back hunched slightly like he’d been holding up too much weight for too long.

When his eyes set on you, he blinked a few times like he wasn’t sure if you were real or if he was dreaming you up.

Your heart dropped into your stomach. “Lando… what the hell are you doing here?” You blurted out, your voice far sharper than you intended. “It’s fucking one in the morning! You scared the shit out of me.”

He observed you, eyes bleary, and half-lidded. He didn’t seem surprised—just tired. His lips curled up slightly, almost forming a smile, but also an apology. 

Your chest tightened at that sight. “You broke into my house?” You said with your voice trembling, not from fear anymore, but from confusion. Anger. Sadness. Everything at once.

He didn’t seem bothered by your accusation. Instead, he just shrugged, “The key,” Lando muttered. “Was still under the orange flower pot.”

That flower pot. The one your mom had left by the doors years ago. The one he used to hide candy under for you in middle school. The one that had, unknowingly, never switched places.

You stepped closer, the light casting his figure in sharper detail. His hair was a mess—curls flattened on one side, wild on the other, like he’d run his hands through it over and over. His shirt was wrinkled, untucked, stained slightly with something you didn’t care to identify. And his eyes—god, his eyes. Always so bright and beautiful, in that aquamarine color, but now bloodshot, tired and wrecked.

You blinked, still trying to process what was happening, what had led him to your kitchen at this hour. “Lando, what happened?” You took a step closer. 

Your anger melted into something else—worry, and concern. You had never seen him like this. Drunk, disoriented. Not even the usual playful charm he wore like armor.

Your heart clenched at the sight. What happened to him?

“Lando… what’s going on? Why aren’t you with Olivia?” Saying her name left a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

But he didn’t answer. Instead, he shifted, like his knees had given out. Slowly, he slid down the cabinets until he hit the floor, back against the drawers, legs stretched out carelessly. 

You panicked for a second as he looked pale, dizzy, and lost. “Lan— hey.. are you okay?” You crouched beside him instinctively, heart pounding. 

Then he slumped into you without warning. His head fell to your shoulder, the warmth of his skin pressing into yours. And for a long, drawn-out moment, you just let him rest there. His breath was slow, ragged, like he had been running a marathon, like he had been fighting something for a long time. 

But all of it—the tension, the pain, the confusion—had finally spilled over in this one vulnerable moment. 

Lando sighed against your collarbone. “M’tired.” His hot breath tickled your skin, making you shiver at the sound of his voice.

And you stayed like that. There, on the kitchen floor. Tiles cold beneath your legs, your body stiff beside his slumped frame while letting the boy rest on your shoulder. The silence settled again, but heavier now, thick with questions you didn’t know how to ask.

His breath was slow and warm where it met your neck. You stared ahead at the fridge, heart unraveling in your chest.

This was still Lando. Your Lando.

The boy who used to throw pebbles at your window at 2 a.m. just to see if you wanted to go stargazing. The boy who once tried to braid your hair in sixth grade and ended up tying it in a knot. The boy who almost said he loved you once—and you didn’t hear it in time.

And now he was here, on your kitchen floor. 

“I don’t wanna leave you.” Lando mumbled, his words barely audible, his voice thick and muffled against the fabric of your shirt.

Your breath caught in your throat. “What?”

But he didn’t repeat it. He just exhaled like he’d been holding that in for years. Like that sentence had broken out of him by accident, cracked through whatever wall he’d built around himself.

You held him there, on the cold kitchen floor, unsure of what to do with his confession. Your heart pulsed violently in your chest, because what did he mean? Did he mean tonight? Or forever?

Why wasn’t he with Olivia? Why wasn’t she the one holding him now? Why did he come here like you were still his safe place?

But you didn’t ask, not knowing how. You just sat there with him—shoulder to shoulder, breathing in the same air, memories thick in the space between you.

But the weight of his presence, of him leaning into you, of him saying those words that you didn’t know what to do with, was unbearable. And it broke something inside you. Something that you hadn’t realized was still holding on.

You closed your eyes, the tears threatening to spill again. You didn’t know what you wanted from him—or from yourself. You just held him. You held him because you couldn’t let him go. Not yet. Not when he was still here.

And you didn’t know it yet, but that moment would stay burned into you—into your soul. 

Days after the kitchen night, the silence between you and Lando grew so thick you could feel it pressing against your skin. You thought maybe he’d text. Apologize. Mention what he said. Explain this whole situation. 

But he didn’t.

And so, you convinced yourself that it was a mistake—drunken words said in a foggy haze. Words meant for the moment, and not especially for you.

Still, you couldn’t forget the way his head had rested on your shoulder, like he belonged there. You couldn’t unhear the slurred, soft-spoken “I don’t want to leave you.” Those six words looped in your head like a broken record. 

Were they meant to be comforting? A warning? A confession?

But even worse than that was how everything returned to normal or, at least, seemed to.

You stopped bumping into him at school. He stopped showing up in the group chat. 

Olivia posted more often now—the two of them posing in bookstores, going to brunch, prepping for their “future.” She seemed so perfect on his arm, so carefully curated. Their relationship was like a photo in a museum: admired by everyone, but no one really understood it.

And you—you felt like a visitor. A stranger peering into a life you used to be a part of. You didn’t go to the group hangout in the woods. You skipped the movie night that once used to be your thing. Your friends texted, called, asked where you were. But you always had an excuse: studying, babysitting your cousin, or just being tired. 

Anything but the truth.

The truth was that it hurt to exist in a space where Lando no longer looked for you. Even when you did see him, it was… different. He was quieter, more distracted by being new version of him. He even laughed less than he usually would when he was around you. He didn’t hold eye contact like he used to—not the way he did when it was just you two in the corner of a room, stealing glances across dinner tables or hiding giggles behind shared inside jokes.

It was like watching a star dim slowly, day by day, losing its uniqueness.

You’d pass each other in the halls sometimes. There was a flicker in his eyes—like maybe he wanted to say something, even the smallest thing. But the moment always passed and you’d look away first, because it felt safer that way.

One afternoon, you found yourself sitting by the window, the same one you both used to lean against when you studied together. The sky outside was soft and grey, and the silence in the room felt like it was screaming at you.

You clutched your phone in your hand, screen still open on the last video you ever took together—blurry, spontaneous, just you two laughing over some dumb joke, your laughs loud and vibrant. You looked at your smile in it, and how easy it had been to smile with him. How full you had felt back then.

But then came a new notification. A tagged photo on Olivia’s Instagram.

“Couldn’t be happier to start this chapter with you. Amsterdam, here we come <3”

The picture was beautiful, in that staged kind of way. Lando kissing her cheek, his arm around her waist as she held her passport and their tickets. The luggage was behind them, and departure gate in the background.

You blinked once. Twice. Then your chest caved in.

He hadn’t told you. Again. But this time he hadn’t even said goodbye.

There had been no message, no last knock on the door, no final look.

The disbelief washed over you in waves. First it was confusion, then came the bitterness. And then that slow, aching pain—like someone had reached inside and quietly rewired your heart. And it would knock the breath out of you, because suddenly it would make sense.

“I don’t wanna leave you.”

But he did. And he was already gone, taking his future with Olivia, leaving you with nothing but the words he’d whispered to you on that kitchen floor. Words you still didn’t understand, but somehow knew were real.

────୨ৎ────

The airport was too bright.

Everything felt like it was glowing under harsh, white light—the floors, the departure signs, the rows of metal benches where people sat with neck pillows, their luggage beside them, and some even taking a nap. 

Lando could hear Olivia's voice next to him, cheerful and animated, chatting with her mum as they went over last-minute plans. He smiled, or at least tried to, but it didn’t feel right on his face. It didn’t stick.

He stood a little outside of it all—just off to the side of the check-in area, surrounded by people but entirely elsewhere. His eyes kept drifting toward the entrance doors. Every few seconds, his gaze flicked there—searching.

It had been weeks since that night. The kitchen. The water. Your shoulder. The words he wasn’t supposed to say out loud. 

You hadn’t texted him since. Not even once. He had tried writing a couple of short, awkward messages but he always changed his mind, immediately deleting them. 

And yet, some stupid, desperate part of him believed you’d still come.

Maybe you’d rush in, sleeves of your favourite hoodie pulled up your arms, out of breath, pretending you just happened to be nearby. Maybe you’d roll your eyes and mutter something like “figured you’d want a dramatic send-off, loser.”

He would’ve smiled, laughed even. He would’ve known what you meant. So he kept looking. Every flash of the color which your favourite hoodie had. Every girl which walked a little too fast through the crowd. His stomach turned every time he thought—that might be you.

But it never was.

“Boarding group A, you’re now welcome at gate 27.”

The announcement echoed through the terminal. Olivia squeezed his hand, excited, practically buzzing with it. “Ready?” She asked, sending him a warm smile. Lando nodded, but his eyes were still locked on the doors. Still waiting, hoping, hurting.

Olivia tugged his hand gently, and he looked one last time, but you weren’t there. It felt like something inside his chest folded in on itself.

────୨ৎ────

The house was quiet. Your parents were already gone for the day, hanging out with their friends which came to your city. The sun was filtering in through the curtains, soft and golden.

You were still in bed. Blankets pulled up to your chin, phone in your hand, screen dark. You hadn’t looked at his Instagram story. Not yet. Seeing Olivia’s post was enough for you.

You didn’t want to see the gate, again. The luggage. Olivia’s arm looped through his. You didn’t want confirmation that this was real. That he was really leaving. That he was no longer just not here, but truly, physically and emotionally gone.

Your chest ached with the weight of everything unsaid. And now you laid in your bed, curled under your blanket, breathing through the quiet kind of grief that doesn’t come with sobs or screams—just this low, constant ache in your chest. Like your ribs were too tight. Like your heart was trying to remember how to exist without him.

You stared at the ceiling—eyes wide, dry. You weren’t crying, you just felt… hollow.

Somewhere in a crowded airport, Lando was still looking for you in a sea of people. But now it was too late. 

He had left. And you had let him.

────୨ৎ────

a few months later

The sky hadn’t been blue in weeks. Months.

Every day carried a quiet grayness, like the world had slipped into a version of itself that was somehow dimmer—dull and breathless. The leaves had started to curl at the edges, the sun set earlier now, and everything seemed to echo more, especially the silence in your chest.

You didn’t realize how much you had gotten used to him being part of your days until the days went on without him. Not suddenly—not like a door slammed shut, but like a faucet that dripped until the sink overflowed. Now, the drip was gone, the tap turned off. But you were still soaked in the memories.

He was gone. And you hated how easily everyone had accepted it.

It was late afternoon, the kind of cloudy-gray sky that made everything look softer, like the world had been rubbed with a layer of dust. You sat outside the library, on that same bench tucked beneath the skeletal arms of a tree that had long since shed its leaves. The wind moved gently through the branches, dry and cool, like fingers brushing against your skin, but you barely even felt it.

Your textbook lay open in your lap, untouched. You weren’t reading—you hadn’t been reading for a while. You were just… sitting. Existing. Or something like it.

Students moved past in waves—laughing, talking, balancing coffees in one hand and phones in the other. Their lives felt fast, full, like they were already becoming something. Moving forward, getting somewhere. But you? You felt stuck in the same still frame, like time had stretched out for you but kept moving for everyone else.

Your phone buzzed once in your pocket. You didn’t reach for it. You already knew it wouldn’t be him.

It hadn’t been him in months.

Lando was gone. Not just in the physical way—though yes, he was hundreds of miles away in Amsterdam, probably stretched out in a dorm bed beside someone who wasn’t you. But he was also gone in the invisible, intimate, excruciating way. In the way someone disappears from your days, not all at once, but in pieces. One text not sent, one weekend not spent together, one secret not shared until all that’s left is pure silence.

You saw all the stories, posts, sunlit selfies. Blurry party photos, Olivia’s cherry gloss smudged on his cheek, and his hand around her waist like it belonged there. His smile—it looked so familiar, yet no longer yours.

He had everything he had ever wanted.

A new city. A new life. A new girl.

And you were still here, feeling as if you’re basically wasting your time. Staring at the same sidewalk cracks, listening to the same sad songs and playing the same night in your head—the one where you almost told him everything. The one where he looked at you like you were the only person in the universe, only to walk away and give his world to someone else.

Sometimes, in quiet moments, you thought back to that night in your kitchen. When he showed up drunk, lost, whispering he didn’t want to leave you. You hadn’t understood what he meant back then. Not fully. Maybe you didn’t want to, but now, in the echo of his absence, it haunted you.

It wasn’t even the relationship that hurt the most. It was the way it all disappeared—like you had never mattered, never been chosen, never been even considered.

You remembered finding out about him and Olivia. You didn’t sleep that night. You just lay there, eyes burning, heart breaking in this small, quiet, invisible way—where you weren’t allowed to scream or sob or say this isn’t fair because technically, nothing had been promised. 

But it had felt like a promise. Hadn’t it?

In the shared glances, in the laughter, in the way he used to text you when something dumb happened and say you were the first person he thought of. In the memory of him crouching in front of you at the party, brushing a tear from your cheek and saying he missed you.

Damn. Had you been that easy to forget?

Now, months later, you still carried that grief, that quiet ache but one else really noticed it. You’d gotten good at pretending—at laughing when you were supposed to, convincing that everything was great when people asked about school, often responding “yeah, I’m okay” with just the right smile to convince them.

But deep down, you were stuck, you couldn’t move on, and that’s what scared you the most. Because he had already moved on. 

His heart had mended so quickly, while yours was still bleeding. 

You saw it every time you opened Instagram. The way he glowed in those photos, new hair suiting him so goddamn good, looking like nothing ever haunted him. Like you had never haunted him. Like the version of himself that only existed when he was with you had vanished—as if it never mattered in the first place.

And yet you still remembered.

You remembered the time he fell asleep with his head on your lap, mumbling half-dreamed thoughts about how safe he felt with you. The time you screamed the lyrics of your favourite songs in your room, both of you out of breath from laughing too hard. The moment, months ago, when he almost confessed—voice low, eyes soft, something hidden in the way he touched your hand. But you had brushed it off. Laughed, and teased him about it, not taking him seriously because back then you hadn’t known. 

You hadn’t realized, and now it was too late.

It wasn’t fair, how one person could move on and build a life, while the other lived with an ending that never truly ended.

You looked up from your textbook and blinked into the gray sky. Your chest ached—dull and constant. It had become part of you now, the same way a scar settles into skin.

Sometimes, you wondered if he ever missed you. If he ever thought back to the version of his life that included you. But you knew the truth. For him, it was just something that happened. Something small. But for you? It was everything. And it felt like the world ended when it did.

Some mornings, you stared at your phone for too long. You’d open your messages and scroll to his name, only to lock your screen again. His contact was still saved—still with the dumb nickname he’d given himself when you finally saved his number. Still with the photo of him pulling a face, mid-laugh, cheeks pink from the cold. You couldn’t bring yourself to change or delete it because deleting it would make it all real, and you weren’t ready for that.

You still carried all of the conversations in your head. Those little ones, and stupid ones. Like what he would say if he saw you after going to the hairstylist, how he’d tease you for the playlist you’d made for studying or how he’d groan dramatically about missing your mom’s cooking if he walked through your front door again.

You still remembered the way it all slipped. The last few months of high school had felt like they were lined with fog—slow, delicate, full of things unsaid. You had started keeping your emotions in a box, tucking them beneath small smiles and empty reassurances. You didn’t want to be a weight on his shoulders, didn’t want to make things harder. And most importantly, you didn’t want to lose him by telling him how much you needed him to stay. But you lost him anyway.

When you got to know that he was going to university with Olivia, it felt like your heart had been held above a flame. Slowly, gently burning. 

He had made his choice, and it hadn’t been you.

You never told anyone how much that night broke you. How you cried in the shower with your hand pressed over your mouth, not to muffle the sobs, but to hold yourself together. You didn’t want anyone to know that you’d fallen apart over someone who, to the outside world, had never been yours to begin with. 

But he had been yours. In the stolen glances, in the late-night conversations, in the inside jokes that no one else understood. He had been yours in every way that mattered—until he wasn’t.

Now, time was moving without him. He was off in a new city—Amsterdam, with new friends, new routines and new loves. And you? You were left behind with the echoes. 

You never told him how often you still wore the hoodie he left at your place after one of many movie nights. Or how your chest still clenched every time you passed his old house, how sometimes you swore you could hear his laugh in the crowd, only to remember he wasn’t here anymore. The worst part? No one knew you were still grieving. Because you decided to just smile through it as it had never been said what you two were. 

Some days, the sadness came in small waves—manageable, dull, like a bruise. Other days, however, it felt catastrophic, like you were drowning in everything unsaid. Everything he’d taken with him, everything he’d left behind.

You wondered—deeply, painfully—if he thought of you at all. If there were nights when he missed your voice, if he ever wished, even just for a second, that he’d done it all differently.

But you didn’t ask, you didn’t reach out because if he had wanted to stay he would’ve.

Right?

And yet, even now, all this time later, with the silence between you stretching wider and wider from one day to another, you still dreamed of him sometimes. Still woke up with tears on your pillow and his name lodged somewhere in your throat. Still felt like he was right at your fingertips. 

Close enough to remember, but too far to touch.

────୨ৎ────

Amsterdam had been covered with heavy, dark rain clouds for a week now. Thin, cold rain that didn’t fall in sheets, but misted the air like grief that never stopped clinging. The kind that soaked into the seams of your hoodie and stuck to your eyelashes. 

He’d been in this city for eight months now. Everything should’ve felt like a new chapter. Everything should’ve felt like the freedom he once craved — the escape he told himself he needed. Instead, he felt… off. Out of place in his own life. Like he had walked onto someone else’s path and didn’t know how to find his way back. 

He had new friends here, a schedule, a routine, a girlfriend. He even made sure to decorate his room with little posters, like you once told him to. But even then—even with those pieces of color and personality—it felt hollow. He felt hollow. Olivia filled the space beside him, but not within him. That space had been carved out slowly, over the last year. And it hadn’t been carved for her. It had been carved for you.

Lando hadn’t been able to sleep properly in weeks. His room was too clean, too beige. He missed the cute mugs you used for drinking tea with him and the way your socks never matched. He even missed the ridiculous alarm tone you used—that one song you claimed was the only thing aggressive enough to get you out of bed. Now his alarm was Olivia. Waking him up with a practiced kiss to the cheek and a to-do list for the day already in her hand. Organized and efficient, but distant.

She always smelled expensive and her hair was always perfect. Her perfume clung to his hoodies now, replacing the faint vanilla and lavender scent that used to make his chest clench unexpectedly. She fit the picture—but not the frame.

He didn’t notice how much he was unraveling until he stopped recognizing himself. Everything he said felt like a script, everything he did felt like it was on autopilot. He went to class., he sat through lectures, then he answered Olivia’s questions, and he smiled when he was supposed to smile.

But it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the Lando he had been all his life, this was a new, artificial version of him. He’d laugh at something someone said at a party, and the sound would feel different. He’d catch himself zoning out at lunch, his eyes drawn to things that reminded him of home—a chipped tile, a girl wearing her hair like you used to, the specific color of a hoodie like the one you always borrowed from him. It has never stopped.

You were a ghost that followed him everywhere, not haunting him maliciously—but softly, and quietly. Just present enough to hurt.

And every time Olivia asked him what was wrong, he’d lie.

“Nothing. Just tired.”

“I’m fine.”

“It’s just adjusting to a new place, that’s all.”

Sometimes, when Olivia was out late with her friends, he’d sit on the cold tile floor of the kitchen—like he had that night in your kitchen, and he’d let the silence settle.

He remembered what he said to you, slumped against the cabinets, head spinning, your shoulder warm beneath him. At the time, he hadn’t fully understood what that meant. But now? Now he did because he had left, and it had ruined him.

He checked his phone before the flight, over and over. Desperately hoping for a message. One of your typical, low-effort, high-meaning texts:

“Don’t forget your passport, idiot.” or “You’re gonna do great, Lan.”

But it never came.

He’d hoped—selfishly—that you’d come say goodbye. That you’d be there at the airport, even if just standing in the back. That maybe, just maybe, you’d catch his hand, say something like “Stay.” But you didn’t.

He’d looked for you anyway. Chest tight, heart racing, his eyes scanning the faces of every person who showed up to send him off. Laughing, hugging, cheering. But not you. And in that moment, he felt something twist deep in his chest—a mix of guilt and disbelief. Because even after everything… some part of him truly believed you’d be there. You always were, until now.

And something inside him snapped quietly in that moment. Like a string too tight for too long finally giving way.

She didn’t come.

She didn’t come.

She didn’t come.

She didn’t—

Lando never deleted your messages. He couldn’t. They were still there, buried deep in the chat log. All those late-night voice notes, the blurry selfies, the playlists you made, the “tell me you got home safe, idiot” texts. Now they sat untouched, blue and gray bubbles frozen in time.

One night, he tapped on one of your voice notes and hit play, and your voice filled the room. It broke him. He sank to the floor—knees pulled to his chest, face in his hands—and cried. Really cried. Not the frustrated kind, or the angry kind, but the kind that came from loss. From deep, heavy regret because now, with the noise of this new life screaming around him, he realized how quiet you had been when you left.

You didn’t beg, you didn’t argue. You didn’t even try to convince him to stay. You simply stepped back, and he let you.

Everything with Olivia started to rot after that. Not all at once—but slowly. He stopped laughing at her jokes, she started noticing how distant he’d become, they argued more. She asked why he wouldn’t touch her like he used to, why he stayed up late when she went to bed. Why didn't he try. He didn’t have an answer she wanted to hear. Because the truth was that he was still in love with someone else. And he’d left her behind.

He tried. God, he tried. Olivia was everything on paper—beautiful, perfect body, intelligent, well-spoken. She had a plan for her future, a five-year vision board, a curated Spotify playlist for every mood. But she didn’t know how to read his silences like you did.

She didn’t call him out when he was spiraling in his thoughts, having anxiety attacks. She didn’t remember how he hated fish or how he picked at the skin on his thumb when he was overthinking. She didn’t feel like home, and over time, he stopped trying to force it. He stopped texting her when he stayed on campus later than planned, he started noticing how tight her grip was on his arm, how her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes when he mentioned your name—which he always did by accident.

You had a way of slipping into his sentences, even when he wasn’t trying.

“Oh yeah, she always said that movie was mint!”

“We used to listen to this song in the summer.”

Each time, Olivia would go quiet, and Lando would pretend he didn’t notice—but he did.

He just didn’t know how to stop it.

The nights were the worst. When the city noise finally died, and all that was left was the glow of streetlights bleeding through the blinds. He’d lie awake, the bed too big, the air too thin, your voice still echoing faintly in the back of his mind. 

It wasn’t even the last time he saw you that haunted him—not really. It was everything before that. The look in your eyes when you told him you were fine, the way you nodded, even though your voice cracked. The way you smiled for him even while your heart broke quietly behind your ribs.

He’d never forget the weight of your head on his shoulder in that quiet kitchen. The warmth of your presence, the familiar rhythm of your breathing, the silence between you that somehow said everything he wasn’t brave enough to. You just let him rest there, drowning in the alcohol, the ache, and the guilt.

Lando has thought about messaging you so many times. Late at night, early in the morning, after a fight with Olivia, after a dream that felt too real. He even typed out a few drafts, but he always deleted them because it felt too selfish. Because what right did he have to pull you back when he was the one who walked away?

So instead, he stayed silent—and hoped you’d reach out first. Yet days passed, and you didn’t.

He scrolled through your Instagram more often than he wanted to admit. You’d changed your profile picture, and even cut your hair shorter. You posted photos with friends, laughing in golden sunlight, and yet your eyes still carried something heavy, something distant. He zoomed in on one photo once, just to make sure he wasn’t imagining it—that slight sadness you always tried to hide behind your smile.

You looked okay. But not happy. And it wrecked him to know that he was probably the reason why.

At the four-month mark, he started skipping more classes, stayed in bed longer and let his favorite lego sets collect dust. Olivia noticed, of course, but she didn’t ask the right questions—and even if she had, he wouldn’t have told the truth. Because the truth was simple and devastating: he missed you more than he ever thought possible. Not just in the romantic sense—but existentially. Like something about his very being had gone numb without you there to ground him, like he couldn’t find the version of himself he liked anymore. The version who laughed too loudly, who stayed up late talking about nothing, who said stupid things just to make you roll your eyes and smile.

He felt like a stranger to himself, and the more he tried to fit into this new life, the more he realized he didn’t belong here.

He hadn’t told Olivia yet about the truth of what he was feeling. About the growing distance in his chest every time she kissed him. About how every time he said “I love you,” it felt like a lie wrapped in an apology. He couldn’t look at her without thinking about how he got here. And how he should’ve never left you behind.

────୨ৎ────

The apartment was dim, lit only by the blue glare of a paused movie screen and the glow of Olivia’s phone. Outside, the city murmured its usual midnight song—distant traffic, wind brushing windows, occasional laughter from people who still had somewhere to be.

However, inside, it was dead quiet.

Lando sat slouched on the far end of the couch, elbows on his knees, thumb pressed hard into the side of his temple. His jaw ached from clenching. He’d been this way for the past hour—motionless, burning silently. 

Olivia didn’t notice. Or maybe she did, but chose not to care. Her legs were tucked beneath her, wrapped in that gray blanket she bought when they were picking things for the apartment. She scrolled on her phone, her thumb moving in slow flicks, laughter bubbling from her lips every now and then at something on her screen. 

It didn’t even feel like they were in the same room. 

“You’re really not gonna talk again tonight?” She finally said, not even looking at him, too busy replying to someone on Instagram.

He blinked slowly, taking a deep breath. “There’s nothing to say.”

Her eyes snapped to him. “That’s bullshit, Lan. You’ve been weird for weeks.” She tilted her head, getting a better look at him. Lando opened his mouth, then closed it, exhaling through his nose.

“Is this about college?” She asked, more pointed now. “Or is this about her?” He stiffened at her last words. 

There it was—the unspoken name, hanging in the air like a match above gasoline.

“Of course it is,” She scoffed, throwing her phone down. “You’ve been floating since we got here. You barely try anymore. Like your body’s here, but your head’s somewhere else—always looking back to Bristol. You need to understand that this city and every memory that is connected with it is already long gone.”

He looked at her, and for the first time in a long time, really looked—and didn’t recognize the person staring back. She wasn’t the Olivia he had first met, full of ambition and spontaneous affection. She was different now. Controlled, and expectant. Like she wanted to mold him into someone else. 

How could he forget about Bristol, about you?

“Because I don’t feel like myself anymore, Liv!” Lando finally snapped, voice sharp, loud and desperate. “I don’t even know who the fuck I am when I’m with you.”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed, “Wow,” She snickered, voice trembling with disbelief. “That’s a shitty thing to say to the person who moved hundreds of kilometers to a foreign country with you.”

“No. You moved here,” He snapped, his voice finally rising. “And I just followed. I followed after you here because I thought that maybe it would fix whatever I was feeling. But it didn’t. It just made it worse.”

Her mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. She blinked a few times before finally letting out a scoff and replying, “Okay, so this is my fault, huh?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Bullshit!” She stood now, the blanket falling off her lap. “You’ve been checked out for months. Is this really about her, Lando? Just say it. Have balls and say it, straight to my face, that this is true.”

Lando’s chest tightened. He ran a hand through his curls, pacing in quick, tight circles. He could feel the frustration building in his throat, like it was choking him. 

“I haven’t spoken to her in months, Olivia.”

“But you still think about her. I see it on your face every time we walk past something that reminds you of home. Every time someone says her name. You go quiet, and get lost in your little, stupid head again, overthinking everything.”

Her words landed like a punch in the stomach. He stopped pacing, his back was turned to her. Softly, he answered, “Maybe I am.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Her breath hitched, hands trembling, knotted into fists.

“You’re such a coward, Lando,” She whispered in disbelief. “You couldn’t even admit you loved her. You just kept pretending, and now that this life isn’t perfect, you want to run back like a scared little boy.”

He turned around, eyes shining now, but not from tears. From fury. “I never wanted this life, can’t you understand it?!” He shouted, gripping his fists tightly, his nails digging deeply into the skin of his hand. “You planned it all out and I just… I went along. I left my family, my best friend, my home. I thought I could make it work, but I can’t. I don’t even know who I am anymore, Olivia.”

“So what now?” She spat, a non-chalant grimace visible on her face. “You’re gonna crawl back and expect her to just be waiting for you with open arms? Like none of this happened? Pretend like you didn’t break her heart too?”

That brought him to a halt. He hadn’t let himself think of it that way—how much damage he might’ve caused. How you had stayed quiet while he disappeared into someone else’s world. 

Lando felt sick.

“I don’t know what she’ll say,” He admitted, softer now. “But I can’t keep doing this. Not when I feel like I’ve lost everything that made me who I was.”

Olivia stared at him for a long time. Then, her expression hardened. “Then go. And don’t bother coming back.” She added coldly.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Go ahead. Pack all of your shit, dickhead. Go chase your fucking dream girl. Just don’t expect me to wait around while you figure out who you are.”

He nodded once, jaw tight, eyes stinging. “I wouldn’t even ask you to.”

And just like that, he turned around and walked into their shared bedroom. He pulled out the old bag from under the bed—the one with his initials stitched into the side from when he was sixteen. It hadn’t been touched in months.

He threw in clothes without thinking. Chargers. Toothbrush. Photo strip he’d once tucked into a side pocket—the one with the two of you, silly grins and bright eyes, back when life had been simple. With all the necessary things, he zipped the bag up, slung it over his shoulder, and stepped back into the living room.

When he came back out, Olivia stood there, arms crossed over her chest, tears in her angry eyes. She was bitter, not even trying to stop him. 

“Lando.” She called him one last time, and he turned to look at her for the last time. “You’ll regret this,” She continued, voice low and furious. “She won’t take you back, and you’ll be left with nothing.”

But Lando didn’t say a word, he just walked out, slamming the door behind him. The moment the door clicked shut, he felt it—like breathing after holding it too long. Like grief and relief tangled into one.

For the first time in months, the silence didn’t feel suffocating. It felt like something new beginning.

────୨ৎ────

You weren’t expecting anything—just the usual hum of silence broken only by the rain pounding on the windows. It had been a quiet evening. Too quiet, actually. 

You’d brushed your teeth, turned the lights low, your skin still warm from a shower, wrapped in a worn hoodie far too big for you. A movie played softly in the background, but you weren’t really watching. You never did anymore. Everything had dulled around the edges. You went through motions now. You existed in between hours, in between memories of what used to be and the aching of what could’ve been.

It was close to 1:00 AM. You hadn’t planned on staying up this late, but sleep never came easy these days. Not since he left. So when the knock came—three distinct raps followed by a silence so heavy it filled the room—your stomach dropped. 

You froze mid-step, heart punching your ribs, unsure whether it was just your mind playing tricks on you. But then it came again—three more knocks, slower this time. Heavier. Like the person on the other side wasn’t sure they had the right to be there.

Your feet moved before you realized it. Soft, tentative steps across the hardwood. The kind you take when your heart is at your throat. When everything in you says, “Don’t hope. Don’t you dare hope.”

You reached the door and slowly peeked through the peephole. And in that moment, everything inside you fell apart.

It was him. Lando.

Soaked from head to toe, rain dripping from his curls, hoodie clinging to him like the weight of every decision he’d made. His face was pale, exhausted. His eyes locked on the doormat like he couldn’t bear to look up. He looked like regret had come to life.

You stared, frozen in place. Every nerve in your body screamed. Every instinct said this isn’t real, that it was just a trick of your mind conjured out of all the times you’d cried yourself to sleep.

You didn’t even think twice as your fingers already fumbled at the lock, breath shallow, pulse racing. When the door finally creaked open, the rain surged in, bringing cold and memories with it. 

Lando slowly lifted his head, making your eyes meet, and in that moment it felt as if everything around stopped. The storm behind him blurred into white noise, and the air between you buzzed with everything unspoken. 

Your throat tightened, and you felt as if your knees threatened to give out any second. You hadn’t seen him in eight months. Just glimpses, pictures with Olivia that felt like salt in a wound you never asked for. But now here he was, Lando in the flesh, standing right in front of you. And you couldn’t breathe.

Lando didn’t speak. He just stood there, rain running down his face, mixing with something that might’ve been tears—but you couldn’t tell. He looked older somehow. More tired, like he hadn’t slept in days, maybe weeks. Like life had eaten him alive.

You didn’t know what to say. You wanted to scream, and cry. To ask him why—why he left, why he never looked back, why he let you shatter without a single word. 

The pain hit you all at once—heavy, violent, and consuming—making you break apart. Your throat burned as you moved towards him. You shoved him back once, then again. Your fists thudded against his chest, angry, raw, messy and real. 

“You bastard—” Your voice broke into a sob as you hit him again. “You goddamn— selfish coward—” Lando flinched at your words, but still didn’t move away.

You shoved him harder. “You— you left me! You said nothing, not even a single word! You just disappeared! You think you can show up here after months and what? What?!”

Your fists pounded his chest as anger boiled over into pure heartbreak. “Do you have any idea what you did to me? How much it hurt?” Still, he took it. He didn’t raise a hand. He let you hit him. “You just left! Like I was nothing to you. Like I wasn’t even— God, I hate you!” 

Each word broke more of you apart. Hot tears blurred your vision as your fists pounded against him with every ache you’d buried for months. You were crying now, properly crying. Ugly, broken sobs tearing through your chest. The kind of crying that made your knees weak, that shook your whole body.

“You fucking asshole! You didn’t even say goodbye—” Your voice cracked. “I waited, Lando. I waited for you to say something. To make it make sense. And you just— you were gone.”

Still, he said nothing. His breath was shaking, lips parted, eyes wet from more than just the rain. And then finally—finally—he moved. Slowly and carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal, he wrapped his arms around you in a strong embrace. You struggled at first—your fists still weakly hitting at his chest, but his arms only tightened more. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other splayed across your back, grounding you.

“Shhh… I know. I know.” He whispered, his throat tightening, “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked on the last word, and that’s what finally shattered you.

You stopped fighting.

His arms wrapped around you like he’d never let go. Tight and desperate. One hand tangled in your hair, the other pressing you against him like he was terrified you’d disappear. You could feel his heart pounding in his chest—fast and scared. He was shaking, and so were you.

You sobbed into his hoodie, the fabric soaking up your tears and rain and months of silence. He didn’t say a word. His chin dropped to rest on the top of your head as he held you there, like if he let go, the world would fall apart again. You gripped at him like a lifeline, hands fisting into his hoodie, face pressed into the warmth of his chest as your body trembled. You missed him so much.

No words were needed. Not yet. Just the rain and the sound of your heartbeat against his. The thud of two souls colliding after too long apart.

You cried into his chest while he stood in your doorway, dripping rainwater and regret, your name probably sitting at the edge of his tongue.

And still, nothing. Nothing except the unshakable feeling that even now, even after everything—this was still home.

────୨ৎ────

Some time had passed before you finally led him inside.

The house was still quiet. Not the kind of quiet that hummed peacefully—but the breathless kind. The kind where the walls still echoed with everything left unsaid. 

Rain had soaked into the hallway carpet beneath your feet, his clothes leaving wet spots behind him that you didn’t have the heart to care about. Your hand trembled slightly as it held onto the railing while you climbed the stairs. Behind you, Lando followed wordlessly, his movements hesitant���like he wasn’t sure he belonged here anymore.

Your room hadn’t changed much. Same soft light from the lamp on the bedside table, same books piled up on your desk, same blanket folded at the end of the bed. And yet, when he stepped in behind you, something shifted. The air tightened.

Lando stood in the doorway, dripping, still breathing like he hadn’t figured out how to do it properly since he saw your face again. And you didn’t say anything. Not yet. You just turned around to face him, heart pounding in your ears like a warning, and the second your eyes met again in that dim golden light, something collapsed inside you. Not with noise, but with a softness that hurt.

You crossed the room slowly. No rush, no desperation, just the ache of every second that had passed since he had left. Every second you’d spent trying not to miss him, trying not to hate him, trying not to wish for this exact moment.

He looked down at you when you stopped in front of him. His hair was sticking to his forehead. His shirt clung to his skin, knuckles were scraped, and his eyes held centuries of regret. And you reached for him—not with certainty, but with instinct.

Fingers brushed his sleeve, then his hand, and finally, without a word, he let out the quietest exhale and stepped closer to you, forehead pressing to yours like he’d finally made it home.

You stood like that for a while, eyes closed, neither of you moving. The sound of the rain bleeding through the walls.

“I…” He started to whisper, voice cracking—but you shook your head against him.

“Don’t,” You breathed, your voice trembling. “Not yet, Lan.” The nickname made his heart squeeze painfully, remembering all the happiest times when you called him that.

Lando nodded as he understood what you meant. This wasn’t the time for words, for answers—not tonight.

You took his hand and pulled him gently toward the bed. It wasn’t romantic nor filled with lust. It was the comfort and longing that made you do that.

You handed him a towel from the dresser, watched as he clumsily dried his hair, and peeled off the hoodie that stuck to him like a second skin. Then you passed him one of your old sweatshirts—the navy one he used to steal during movie nights, and the one you could never bring yourself to throw away. He hesitated, but eventually he took it, his hands shaking slightly as he pulled it over his head.

You turned away to give him space. But when you sat down on the bed, you felt the weight shift beside you. He was close, but not touching. Like he was scared to ruin the fragile thing you’d just begun stitching back together. 

Not knowing what to say, you lay down, and he followed your steps. It was awkward at first, like learning again a language you used to speak fluently. His arm grazed yours and you shifted slightly, making him mirror your moves. The duvet settled over you both like a secret, warm and heavy and sacred.

It took time—slow, aching minutes—for your body to relax. But it happened, eventually. Your head found its way to his chest, just above his heart, and his arm found your waist. Your legs tangled together under the covers like they’d never forgotten how to fit. And still… you said nothing. 

You listened his breathing—to the gradually slowing thump of his heart. To the rain whispering against your windows. You felt the warmth of his skin through the borrowed fabric. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.

He held you like you were made of glass. Carefully, and reverently. Your fingers curled in the hem of his sleeve and didn’t let go. And finally—finally—you allowed yourself to breathe.

You didn’t want to sleep. You were afraid all of this would vanish if you closed your eyes. That if you let go, he’d disappear again. That the morning would come and this would all be just another cruel dream. But your body betrayed you, and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you fell asleep wrapped in the arms of someone who knew you. Who had broken you, and had come back. 

You didn’t dream You just slept—heart pressed to heart, hands entwined in quiet forgiveness.

And Lando? He stayed awake, watching the way your face softened in sleep. The faint frown that still lingered, even now. He studied every inch of your skin like he was afraid he’d forget it again. His thumb brushed your back, up and down, slow and reverent. 

He couldn’t believe that he’d left this, that he’d chosen to leave you.

You stirred slightly, breathing shifting against his chest, and he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear so gently it almost broke him. 

And that was when he knew.

No matter what it took—no matter how long it would be—he wasn’t leaving again. He couldn’t. You were his home. And this? This was just the beginning.

────୨ৎ────

The next morning the rain hadn’t stopped. It painted the windows in soft streams, whispering against the glass like an old lullaby, a rhythm that felt almost like breathing. Slow, gentle and unrelenting. The world outside was hushed, dulled beneath a curtain of gray skies and water-soaked streets, but in the stillness of the apartment, it felt safe. Wrapped in that soft kind of silence that only rain brings—where time slows, and nothing demands to be done except existing.

The bedroom was still dim, bathed in the faint amber glow of the bedside lamp that was left on throughout the night. Its golden light caught on the edges of things—the half-empty glass of water on the dresser, the corner of a blanket trailing off the bed, the framed photo next to the books which depicted you and Lando, laughing at something neither of you remembered now. Younger, lighter, unaware of the ache the years would bring.

But now, your older selves lay beneath the covers, wrapped up in warmth and each other. Skin against skin, his arm draped around your waist, your legs tangled naturally beneath the duvet. As if you’d always belonged in this shape. Like the spaces you left in each other had only ever been waiting to be filled.

His thumb moved slowly against your side—back and forth, back and forth. A silent check-in. A promise, a reminder that he was there.

When you woke up, you didn’t move at first. Just let your eyes follow the soft pattern of shadows across the ceiling, let the sound of the rain blur into the quiet thudding of your heart.

Lando shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His curls were messy, and his eyes—blue and familiar—were half-lidded but awake. “Are you okay?” He murmured, voice thick with sleep and something deeper.

You hesitated, then shrugged, your voice soft. “Just thinking.”

“About?” He questioned, his tone careful. Like he already knew the answer might sting.

You blinked slowly, and swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “You know… I don’t think I’ve forgiven you yet,” You whispered. “Not fully.” The words cracked slightly on their way out, and you hated how vulnerable they sounded. How fragile they made you feel.

Lando didn’t flinch, nor pulled away. He just held your gaze. “I know.” He said quietly. 

You turned onto your side to face him fully, his hand now resting on the curve of your hip. The mattress dipped slightly under your movement, the duvet sliding down your shoulder. Your skin cooled instantly in the air, but it wasn’t why you shivered.

“I told myself I had,” You continued, a little more steadily now. “I wanted to. But I still remember the silence. The way it felt when you left, Lan. Like— like I’d been erased from your life overnight. Like I didn’t matter.”

Lando’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at your words. Then, slowly, he reached up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. His touch lingered, as if trying to memorize you all over again, his eyes full of regret.

“I think about that too,” He murmured. “Every single day.” There was no defense in his voice. No excuses. Just the truth, bare and broken. 

“I was a coward. I was scared, and I let that fear decide everything. I left you without a word and convinced myself it was the right thing. That you’d be fine, and that you didn’t need me. But it wasn’t about you. It was about me—and I hurt you because I didn’t know how to stay.” He shook his head, like the memory made him sick. “I was selfish. I chose a version of myself that made me feel safe, even if it meant becoming someone I didn’t recognize. Even if it meant walking away from the one person who ever really saw me.”

His eyes searched yours, shimmering. “And I’m sorry.”

The words hung between you, bare and trembling.

“I’m sorry for the silence. I’m sorry for every night you waited, every time you wondered what you did wrong, every piece of yourself you had to stitch back together without me. I should’ve been there. I should’ve fought for you.”

You felt your throat tighten. Your chest ached with the force of how badly you’d needed to hear those words.

“I think I didn’t deserve your love,” He continued, “but I had it. And I broke it. And that’s something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. But if there’s a chance—any chance—that I can still be the person you trust again… I’ll spend every day trying.” His voice cracked. “I just want you to know that I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.”

You blinked, and the tears finally slipped down your cheeks again—warm, unstoppable.

You sat up slowly, mirroring him now, the duvet pooled around your waist. And for a moment, you just looked at him. Looked at the boy who had left, and the man who had come back.

You whispered, “Thank you.” as a wave of relief ran down you. 

You never knew how much you needed to hear that apology. And though forgiveness wasn’t something that could be wrapped in a single moment, it lived in that breath. In the way your body leaned into his without fear. In the way he exhaled like he’d been holding that apology in his lungs for a year.

You didn’t need a grand gesture. You needed this. The truth, laid bare. Between two people who had shattered each other once—and were now choosing, quietly, to try again.Together.

Your eyes met his. “Do you regret it? All of it?”

He exhaled slowly, chest rising and falling with the weight of the question. “Not everything,” He said finally, “But most of all, the time I wasted pretending I didn’t love you.” That cracked something wide open inside you.

“I thought if I stayed gone,” He continued, voice shaking now, “if I became who Olivia wanted me to be, then maybe I’d forget how much I needed you. But I didn’t. I never did. And one morning, I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself.” He paused for a second, his throat tightening at the recall of all the memories, “I missed you so much it made me sick.”

Your breath caught. That was the moment you let the tears fall once again—not loud or gasping, just silent, and honest. They slipped down your cheeks like the rain on the window, blurring everything.

“I missed you too,” You whispered, your hand finding his beneath the blanket, your fingers curling around his like a lifeline. “Even when I told myself I didn’t.”

When you said that, Lando smiled. It was small, soft—nothing like the wide grins he used to wear when the world was still simple—but it was real. Tired and tender and entirely yours.

He leaned forward until your foreheads touched, his breath warm against your skin. Neither of you spoke for a while, there was no need to. Just that quiet, precious stillness—the kind that only came after the storm, after the wreckage, when you realized you were both still here. Still breathing. Still reaching for each other.

When he finally whispered, “Can I stay?” it wasn’t a question about just staying at your place. It was about everything that came after—your future.

You nodded, voice barely audible. “You never have to leave again, Lan.” And you meant it wholeheartedly.

His hand curled around your side again, anchoring you close, and your body folded into his like you’d done it a hundred times before—because you had. But never like this. Never with the knowledge that tomorrow wouldn’t take him away again.

The rain outside kept falling, steady and quiet, but the storm between you had broken. And in that little apartment, tucked beneath layers of blankets and bruised apologies, two people who had once been torn apart by time and distance had finally found each other again.

Not in grand confessions. Not in desperate pleas. But in the way his thumb still moved against your hip. In the way your fingers clutched his like they couldn’t bear to let go.

This wasn’t about going back to the beginning, rather about starting from here. Where the pain had already been named. Where the truths had already been spoken. Where love, battered but burning, had quietly survived.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow could wait because right now, in the amber light and the hush of falling rain, you were home.

────୨ৎ────

3 years later

Your shared apartment smelled like warm vanilla and the candle you lit hours ago—something earthy, sandalwood maybe, that had slowly wrapped itself around the quiet of the afternoon. 

Outside, the sky was beginning to shift into early evening—dusted pinks and soft oranges stretching across the skyline like a watercolor bleeding into paper. A soft breeze drifted in through the cracked balcony door, swaying the white curtains like waves.

You were nestled into the couch, legs stretched out, a blanket tossed haphazardly over both your bodies. Your head rested on Lando’s chest, his hoodie swallowing you up, the fabric worn-in and smelling like him—clean cotton and a scent you could never name but always recognized. He was absentmindedly running his fingers through your hair, slowly, over and over again, untangling the strands with gentle care like it was the most important task in the world. And in that moment, maybe it was.

A record played low in the background, some old song he loved that you’d grown to love too. Lando had his arm wrapped around you, his hand trailing slowly through your hair. Over and over. Fingertips catching in soft strands before sliding free again, curling around them like he never wanted to stop touching you. 

You were laying there, head on his torso, the quiet rise and fall beneath your cheek like a lullaby. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. It was one of those moments where everything was said in the silence—in the closeness, the steady breathing, the way your fingers rested against the inside of his wrist, your thumb brushing the faint line of a scar you both knew the story of.

Lando shifted a little, just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head. No words, just that.

You smiled into the soft cotton of his shirt, fingers tracing slow circles over the inside of his wrist. “You’re gonna make me fall asleep, Lan.” You mumbled, your words softened by the weight of comfort, eyelids heavy.

He tilted his head slightly, brushing his lips against your hairline. “Then fall asleep,” He whispered, voice laced with that familiar warmth that always made your chest flutter. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You smiled into his shirt, your heart swelling, a quiet little ache blooming behind your ribs. “You always say that.”

He smiled, too. “Because I mean it. And would it be so bad?” He said softly, the corners of his lips twitching into a half-smile. “I like having you like this, pretty girl.”

You tilted your head to look at him, chin resting against his chest. “Like what?”

He met your eyes, all warm honey and quiet adoration. “Close.” 

And then he leaned down, connecting your lips in a kiss. Not in that rushed, desperate way he used to when everything was still uncertain—when love felt fragile and maybe temporary. No, this kiss was slow. Anchored. Like he was still choosing you, over and over again, even now.

You kissed him back, one hand curling into the collar of his shirt, the other still resting against his chest where you could feel his heartbeat under your palm. He pulled back just enough to brush your nose with his, grinning against your mouth. Lando looked at you like you were something precious—like he still couldn’t believe you were real, like even in all the time that had passed, he hadn’t gotten used to having you close again.

Your fingers slid up to his jaw, thumb brushing along the line of stubble he hadn’t bothered to shave. “You know, sometimes I still feel like I’m dreaming,” You said softly. “Like I’ll wake up and you’ll still be gone.”

His brows knit together, and his free hand came up to cup your cheek gently. “Hey,” He said, voice suddenly serious, “you’re not dreaming. I’m here.”

You nodded, but your throat felt thick, full of memories you hadn’t spoken aloud in months. The silence between you shifted—still soft, but a little heavier now. 

“You know I love you, right?” He asked, quiet and sure.

You nodded again, slower this time, your eyes starting to sting. “I know.” His eyes searched yours, his thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone like he couldn’t bear to lose contact.

His hand slipped back into your hair, gently tucking a strand behind your ear. “I don’t think I knew how much until I almost lost you.”

You blinked, your lips parting, but no words came. Instead, you just laid your head back against his chest, curling in tighter, wrapping your arm around his waist. You didn’t need to say it—he could feel it in the way you held him like he was home.

“You know,” He murmured after a while, “I could do this forever.”

You pretended to think about it. “Do what?”

“This,” He whispered. “Be with you. Like this. Wake up next to you. Watch you fall asleep on me before we finish a movie. Let you steal all the covers.”

“That sounds a lot like a lifetime commitment.” You smirked, making the man beside you grin at your words.

“That’s kind of the point, love.”

You looked at him then—really looked—and it hit you again, how much love had filled the quiet spaces in your life since that night he came back. Since the rain, the doorstep, the apology. Since everything shifted.

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing over the curve of his cheek. “You know,” You said softly, “I never thought we’d make it here.”

He leaned into your touch, gaze steady. “Well, I did.” And with that, the silence wrapped around you both again—no pressure, no need to rush. Just comfort, and peace. The quiet knowledge that love didn’t need to be loud to be real. 

It was here. In the way your body curved into his, perfectly fitted. In the way his eyes softened every time they landed on you. It was here. Always.

You didn’t say anything. Instead, you melted further into him, burying your face in his neck, arms wrapped tightly around his middle. You stayed like that for a long time. Breathing. Existing. Loving.

The light outside faded into dusky blues. The candle flickered, the music looped. And still, you stayed like that—wrapped in each other. Lando’s fingers never stopped moving through your hair, slow and thoughtful, like he was memorizing the feel of you. And when the night time finally came, when the only light was the glow of the kitchen lamp left on across the room, Lando gently scooped you up—blanket and all—and carried you to bed.

Because this wasn’t the beginning of something new. This was the finally. Finally together, finally home. Finally, always. 

Everything that had once been right at the fingertips, was now fully grasped.

© haniette | 2025, all rights reserved.

reuploads and likes are highly appreciated ♡

taglist: @xoxomansee @htpssgavi @toriiez @neo-teenkidz

[nereidprinc3ss]

drunk in love

in which fem!reader gets extra affectionate with spencer when she's drunk and he's just happy to be there

fluff! warnings/tags: drunk!reader, tooth-rottingly sweet fluff, spencer loves you so bad, short n sweet, that's it a/n: this is for the person who requested spencer taking care of drunk!reader and they're just being really cute and kissy and i lost your request i'm sorry but i hope you see this!! if you guys like this pls let me know, i have spencer helping drunk!r with a bath locked and loaded and its also so cute oh my god i love him goodnight

“Spence,” you say, voice pretty and airy as a song, pressing butterfly-light kisses with soft lips all over the side of his face. 

“What?” he asks fondly, fighting to keep his grip on you secure as you keep trying to fall down and bring him with you. This bar isn’t necessarily a dive, but he’s sure the floor is still sticky and he’s not interested in checking. 

“I really love you so much. I love you so much more than anyone else has ever loved anyone before.” It’s the fourth or fifth time you’ve told him you love him so much in ten minutes, but it doesn’t feel any less wonderful to hear. “Say it back!” you pout, settling against his chest. 

“You didn’t give me time to say it back,” he explains patiently, looking down at you and brushing hair behind your ear. “I love you so much, too, baby.”

Suddenly you’re too flustered and shy to make eye contact. 

“Call me that again.”

Spencer’s brow furrows. His smile flickers wider. 

“What? Baby?” You nod into his chest. He smooths your hair. “I call you baby all the time.”

“Because you love me?”

“Because I love you,” he agrees solemnly. 

You squeak, covering your face with your hands. Not for the first time tonight, he wonders what exactly was in those drinks Penelope kept ordering for you.

“Kiss?”

He gently grabs your wrists. 

“You have to show me that pretty face if you want a kiss.”

Your hands slide down your cheeks and you tilt your head up. Now that your face is on display, pretty and shiny in the low lighting, Spencer ducks down and kisses you sweetly, one hand on the back of your head, the other pulling your wrists down and out of the way. He makes sure to not let it go on for too long. There are still plenty of people around, but more saliently, you are quite drunk. 

“Good?” he asks, brushing a thumb over your cheek as he pulls away.

“Can we kiss forever?”

“We can try,” he muses. 

“I love you,” you say again, plainly. “I wish there was a word stronger than love. I feel like I’ve said love so much it’s lost all its meaning.”

“Keep saying it,” he encourages. “I like hearing it.”

“Can I tell you a secret?” you whisper. Spencer leans down for you to cup your hand to his ear clandestinely. Sweet vanilla perfume still clings to your warm skin, lingering on your neck, mixing with the smell of fruity cocktails on your breath and making him dizzy. “I think JJ has a crush on you.”

He chuckles, straightening. Grieving the loss of your scent for just a second in the back of his mind—until you’re pressing against him anxiously, and it returns. 

“JJ is married, babe. I don’t think so.”

You pout. 

“No, but I really think she does! It makes me sad!”

Spencer doesn’t believe it for a second, but he knows hard logic and persuasion aren’t really going to do much for you right now. So he loops an arm around your waist and reigns you in. 

“You don’t need to be sad, sweetheart. It doesn’t matter who has a crush on me because I have a crush on you.”

“Just me?” you ask anxiously. 

“Just you. You’re the prettiest girl in the world. I have a huge crush on you.”

He realizes his voice has taken on that saccharine quality that Derek would give him shit for, and it’s probably visible in his eyes as he leans close to you, but he doesn’t care at all. 

You raise your chin, wordlessly asking for another kiss. He delivers. The fabric of his shirt tugs where you grab onto it, attempting to bring him closer even when he draws away from the kiss. Of course he allows it, narrowly avoiding stepping on your toes as you pull him to you like a dog on a leash. 

“Can we go home? I wanna cuddle.”

Oh, yeah. If Derek were present he’d have the most ridiculous, shit-eating grin on his face right now. Luckily he’s not here right now, and even if he were, Spencer would still brush your hair aside and say, absolutely we can go home and cuddle. 

“Of course we can. Do you want to say goodbye to everyone?”

“Mm… can we Irish goodbye?”

He chuckles. 

“I think you should say thank you to Penelope for buying you all of those ridiculous drinks that are making you so nice.”

You make a face. 

“I’m always nice.”

“You’re not always this nice,” he reminds you with a small smile, resting his hands on your waist. You frown. 

“In my head I am.”

He kisses your head. It’s impossible not to. 

“I know. Come on, let’s say bye. I want to go home too.”

“You think I’m not usually nice?”

“Of course I don’t think that. I think you’re so nice.”

“Oh my god, can we get ice cream?” You gasp, already distracted and pulling him along by the hand as you weave through the sparse crowd. 

He smiles to himself, happy to follow your lead as long as you don’t let go. 

“We can definitely get ice cream. We can do whatever you want.”

[iydiamartinx]

GOD SAVE THE PROM QUEEN II

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @omi-resources word count: 2.6k synopsis: Crowned prom queen, she waits for Jason Todd—never knowing he died that night, betrayed by the mother he hoped would love him. a/n: Still angsty but happy-ish ending!

Jason didn’t come here often.

He told himself there was no point. No use in standing over old stones and pretending it meant something. The dead didn’t care for flowers. And he was never very good at pretending.

But sometimes—on quiet, grey evenings when Gotham’s skyline blurred into a jagged scar against the clouds—he found himself here anyway. Standing still. Hands buried in his pockets. Breathing in the damp, earthy petrichor scent of graveyard.

The wind always smelled like rain here, even when the sky held back. Like the world was trying to weep for him, but couldn’t quite bring itself to shed the tears.

It was peaceful, in its own bleak way.

Silent in the way only graveyards could be.

And yet, no matter how long he stood there, staring down at polished stone and his own name carved deep into the granite, he never felt like he belonged on either side of that grave.

Jason Peter Todd.

Beloved son.

Gone too soon.

He scoffed under his breath. The sound was rough. Bitter.

Bullshit.

He was neither beloved nor gone.

What stood here now was just what was left behind of the boy he’d once been. Not alive. Not dead. Just… stuck. Practically, a ghost with blood in his veins. 

And yet, here he stood again—staring at the marble that tried to summarize a life in three hollow lines. A stone that meant to mark an end, but never came close to telling the story.

But today… today was different.

There was a bouquet already there. 

Fresh. Still wet with morning dew. Peonies, lavender, and black calla lilies—the exact mix he used to see you draw in the margins of your notebooks.

Jason’s breath caught as he knelt down beside them, knees pressing into the wet earth. He reached for the bouquet with a kind of reverence, fingers brushing over the stems before finding the folded note tucked between them.

Still miss you, you pain in the ass.

– Always, Y/N.

And just like that, the air left his lungs.

He didn’t need to see the signature. He knew that handwriting better than his own. The looping curve of your Y. The confident, slanted cross of your T. He’d watched you scrawl it on the back of his hand a hundred times during lectures—hearts when you were happy, flowers when you were feeling soft, and sarcastic jabs when he annoyed you.

You still came.

After everything.

After all this time.

After how he heard how he hurt you.

It hit him harder than the crowbar ever had.

From his place by the grave, half-hidden by shadows and trees, he saw you.

You were walking toward the exit now—coat cinched tight against the late-autumn wind, hair pulled back, shoulders squared the way they always were when you were trying not to feel too much. Your heels clicked lightly on the path, a steady rhythm against the hush of damp leaves and distant city hum.

You looked older. More refined. Sharper around the edges. Like time had carved you into something tougher.

But you were still you.

He could see it in the way you paused before leaving, glancing back at the headstone like it still had the power to hurt you. Like you hadn’t made peace with it—even after all these years.

And in that moment, something inside him began to shift.

You were no longer the girl with the silver crown and crushed corsage.

That girl had died the same night Jason Todd did.

Now you were the woman people called terrifying behind closed doors. The one whose heels echoed through Wayne Tower like a woman on a mission. Bruce Wayne’s right hand, the assistant no one dared to cross. Sharp-eyed. Ice-voiced. Efficient didn’t even begin to cover you. Ruthless might have been closer.

No one handed you crowns anymore. They handed you problems—and you solved them.

“Three board members in the conference room. Two more on video. Coffee’s on the table—black, extra shot, because I know how this morning will start.” You placed the folder in front of Bruce with a flick of your wrist, barely pausing. “Your notes are inside. Don’t ad-lib. Shaw’s already looking for excuses to delay the merger.”

Bruce gave you a long look over the top of his glasses. He didn’t say thank you. He never did. But then, he didn’t need to. You were his best weapon behind the scenes, and you both knew it. There was a reason why the employee called you the Ice Queen, and were more scared of you than they were of Bruce Wayne himself.

You left the room before the door even fully shut behind you.

Later that afternoon, you were back at your desk—one heel slipped loose beneath you, phone cradled between your shoulder and ear—you barely looked up from your screen.

“I’m not moving the board meeting again because Shaw’s having a midlife crisis,” you snapped, scrolling through the projected quarterly. “He’s had three decades to prepare for his hairline receding, and that is not a justifiable excuse to stall the merger—”

A sharp knock on your desk broke your concentration.

Your eye twitched.

You let out a long, irritated sigh. “The final answer is no. Now I need to go.”

You hung up without waiting for a response and finally turned your attention to the source of the interruption, expecting yet another intern who couldn’t read a calendar.

But it wasn’t an intern.

He leaned just slightly on the edge of your desk—not enough to be disrespectful, but enough to suggest he didn’t mind waiting. He wore a leather jacket that had clearly seen better days, paired with worn boots and dark hair tousled by wind and time. A streak of white cut through the strands near his temple—unmistakable, and in need of a trim.

He didn’t look like he belonged in Wayne Tower.

And he sure as hell didn’t look like he was here for a scheduled meeting.

Your eyes narrowed, every instinct flaring to attention. Something about him caught at the edge of your memory—frayed the edge of something you’d tucked away years ago.

He tilted his head, gaze moving over you in a slow, thoughtful sweep. Not lecherous. Not even flirtatious. Just… observant.

Still, your expression didn’t budge. You raised a brow, tone clipped and dry.

“Can I help you?”

He blinked, like shaking off a thought. “Maybe. Not sure yet.”

Your jaw tightened. Cryptic wasn’t a language you spoke anymore. Truth be told, you didn’t have the patience for much these days. Somewhere along the way, you’d adopted Jason’s no-bullshit approach to life—only without the charm and biting humor that had once softened his edges.

“Is there a reason you’re at this desk, or are you just in the mood to get escorted out?”

That almost made him smile. Almost.

“I was just looking around,” he said simply. “Place has changed a lot.”

You didn’t answer, still sizing him up.

He glanced around the room, then back to you. “Didn’t expect the assistant to be running the tower.”

You leaned back slightly in your chair, arms crossing. “You’re not the first person to make that mistake. Most of them don’t last long.”

That earned you a small nod. Respectful. Not mocking.

Then his eyes met yours again.

And this time, he looked. Not at the expensive cut of your suit, not at the stack of color-coded schedules or the headset you’d tossed onto the keyboard. And for a second, something in his expression flickered. A flash of something soft. Grieving. Nostalgic.

But it passed.

“You got a name?” you asked, tone even but no longer impersonal.

He hesitated. Just long enough to make you notice.

“Jay,” he finally said.

You nodded once, pushing down the strange knot in your chest. You tried to ignore how that reminded you of another who’s long dead. 

“Well, Jay,” you said, gesturing with your pen, “unless you’ve got a meeting or an appointment, you’re done looking around.”

“I figured.” He straightened a little, not pushing back. “Just curious. That’s all.”

He turned, stepping away with a nod.

You watched him go. And long after he was gone, that strange, electric prickle stayed curled at the base of your spine.

You didn’t know it yet.

But the boy you buried four years ago had just walked back into your life.

He left without pushing.

No clever remark. No lingering glance. Just a quiet nod and the soft, fading sound of worn boots tapping over marble tile.

But hours later—long after the last intern had clocked out, after the boardroom lights had dimmed, and the final elevator chimed shut—you were still thinking about him.

Jay.

You didn’t know what unsettled you more—his calm, unassuming presence, or the way his face lingered in your mind like a half-finished memory. Familiar, but off. Like an old photograph left too long in the sun, its edges faded, the details too blurred to fully get a good look.

You tried to forget it.

You had bigger problems to handle than cryptic strangers in weathered leather. Tower politics. Corporate vultures. Logistics. Mergers. Deadlines.

But three days later, he was there again.

In the east corridor outside Bruce’s office, half-shadowed beneath the soft white light of the hanging fixtures. Talking in low tones with Alfred—Alfred, of all people.

You’d only caught the tail end of it as you turned the corner. Alfred’s voice, warm and measured. And Jay’s… quieter than before. Almost cautious.

Your steps slowed. Not by much. Just enough to get another look at him.

Alfred glanced your way first, ever perceptive. He gave you that small, knowing nod he always did—acknowledging everything without needing to say a word.

And Jay only turned away, as if he hadn’t meant to be seen.

But before he gave you his back, your eyes met for the briefest second.

And something in his expression faltered. Hesitation. Maybe even regret.

Then he turned and slipped away.

No words exchanged. No excuses made. No cryptic remarks. But everything about this situation felt off to you, like you were missing an important detail.

You didn’t call after him.

Didn’t confront Alfred.

But the thread tugged.

Subtle. Persistent.

The kind of thread, you didn’t let go of until you unravelled it.

You didn’t mean to go looking.

You told yourself it was just cleaning. Just a lazy Sunday and a little long-overdue organization.

But your fingers hesitated when they brushed the edge of an old box at the back of your closet. One you hadn’t opened in years. Not since you moved into this apartment. Not since before you learned how to build your armor from pressed suits and five a.m. coffee.

The lid creaked.

Inside were fragments of a girl you no longer let yourself remember—

Notes passed under desks.

A half-finished journal.

A dried corsage, fragile and browned at the edges, still curled around a faded ribbon.

And tucked beneath it all… was the photo.

Worn. Creased. The corners soft with time.

Jason Todd. Sixteen. Captured in front of the Gotham Academy library, hoodie unzipped halfway, hair wild from the wind. One hand in his pocket. The other flipping off the camera with that shit-eating grin that had made you laugh even as you rolled your eyes.

Your stomach twisted.

You sat down, slowly, the box on your lap, the apartment suddenly too quiet.

Your eyes stayed on the photo. Then drifted to the memory behind it—the sound of his voice, the warmth of his hand brushing yours as he walked you to class, the way he’d rest his head back and smirk when he caught you staring.

And then…

That face.

That same smirk.

The man in the lobby.

The one with the jacket.

The one who called himself Jay.

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

He was dead.

He was dead.

But your chest was tightening, your pulse loud in your ears.

Because it was.

It was him.

Older and harder but still him.

The boy they buried four years ago.

He wasn’t a memory anymore.

Jason.

Your Jason.

You didn’t knock.

You stormed into the East Wing guest suite at Wayne Manor where you figured out he was staying, bypassing Alfred and Bruce and the rest of the kids with a glare that could level buildings. No one stopped you.

Jason opened the door expecting someone else—Tim, maybe. Or Dick. One of the people he was still learning how to be around again. He hadn’t prepared for you.

You slapped him.

Hard.

The sound cracked through the hallway like a gunshot.

“You son of a bitch,” you hissed, eyes already glassed with unshed tears. “You let me think you were dead. For four goddamn years.”

Jason didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t flinch.

“I was dead.”

“Don’t you dare,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare use that like an excuse when you’re clearly here.”

You shoved him hard, hands balled into fists against his chest. He didn’t move to stop you.

“I buried you,” you choked out, the words scraping past the lump in your throat. “I visited your grave. I cried over you, Jason. I—” your voice cracked, “I loved you. Do you have any idea what that did to me? What it took to keep going after that?”

His expression didn’t shift, but his voice came quieter, rawer.

“I didn’t know how to come back into your life.”

You laughed—sharp and broken. “But you came back for him, didn’t you?” you snapped. “For Bruce. For the rest of the family. You came back for all of them—just not for me.”

His eyes flinched at that.

“I watched you,” he admitted. “At the grave. The first time I saw you again, you looked… different. Stronger. Harder. Like you didn’t need me anymore.” He swallowed, gaze dropping briefly before finding yours again. “And I—I’m not the same. I’m not who I was. I’m broken, and you… you don’t need someone like me in your life.”

You shoved him again. Fiercer this time. “That’s not your call to make,” you hissed. “You think I cared? I didn’t care then, and I sure as hell don’t care now.”

“I know,” he said, softer. “You were always too good for me.”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, silent and relentless. Years of grief and fury pouring out in streaks you couldn’t stop.

Jason stepped toward you, slow and careful, like a man afraid that one wrong move might send you running.

“I wanted to come back,” he whispered. “A thousand times. But I was angry. And lost. I thought I lost you the second that bomb went off. I didn’t know who I was when I woke up. I didn’t know what was left of my old life—if there was anything left to come back to.”

You shook your head, tears streaking silently down your cheeks. “You were mine. That’s who you were. Just like I was yours.”

The silence that followed stretched between you, thick with everything unsaid. Years of grief. Of longing. Of questions that never got to be asked—let alone answered.

Then—tentatively, like he wasn’t sure he still had the right—Jason reached for your hand.

You let him.

And when he pulled you into his arms, you didn’t resist.

You just sank into him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “For the crown. For the dance. For everything I never got to give you.”

“I don’t care about that stupid dance,” you whispered. “I just wanted you.”

His arms tightened around you like he was afraid you might slip away. Like he needed the contact to believe this was real.

And for the first time in four long, fractured years, you let yourself breathe.

Not like someone surviving. Not like someone holding their grief together by sheer force of will.

But like someone who had finally, finally reunited with the other half of their soul.

← Previous Chapter

Tag list: @swagangelllamawolf, @lou-diaries, @salvatt1

[yasministration]

be my baby - harry potter

concussions and interruptions au summary: another night at the potter household reveals that you love one of harry's least favourite songs, and his dad's all time favourite. wc: 1k+ cw: kissing, so much fluff, highly recommend pressing on the link in bold when you get to that point!

The night surrounding you is calm, despite the bustling energy in the Potters’s backyard. There’s an old tune playing in the background that Harry’s dad and his friends sing to, freely being dorks, his mother sat on the patio sofa with her own friends around her. It’s nice getting to know Harry’s extended family, you think. You had no idea he and Neville grew up so close to each other, but the shy boy’s parents fit so well in the Potters’s little bubble.

Neville is busy tonight, Alice had told Harry with a glint in her eyes. A date, but I’m sure you already knew.

Harry had shrugged his shoulders, trying to act nonchalant for Neville’s sake, but you had nodded excitedly, having heard all about it from Luna herself. “They’re gonna get married, Mrs. Longbottom, I already know.” And somehow the Longbottoms immediately loved you.

When you and Harry disappeared from their sight, Harry tugging you away from the adults, they had both raised their eyebrows at Lily and James, commenting their own approval of their son’s girlfriend. Now, Frank is busy James, Sirius and Marlene, singing along to the music while throwing a quaffle around as they zoom around on their brooms in the backyard. Lily, Alice, Remus and Mary enjoy a conversation filled with laughs, eyes trained on their partners in the air.

However, Lily occasionally glances down to ensure you and Harry are okay. You’ve hidden away from them, sitting near the lake. Harry’s back is leaning against the thick trunk of a tree, one leg folded up whilst the other rests on the grassy floor. You sit between his legs, back to his chest, and Harry plays with your hair, the laughter around you being the only sound between you.

Harry’s free hand rests against his leg, fingers intertwined with yours. He sighs happily, wondering only for a moment what’s going through your head. But then suddenly, as the music changes and the familiar melody of his dad’s favourite jazz song comes up, you jerk away from him, your head snapping back towards the house.

Harry grimaces “Sorry. My dad’s music-” “I love this song!” Harry blinks rapidly, not expecting the wide grin that overtakes your features, your loud exclamation taking him aback. You scramble upwards, hauling him up with you by the hand still tangled with his. Neither of you notice the way James Potter lands on the ground, abandoning his broom to tug his wife into his arms, dramatically singing the lyrics out loud to her, as though he was falling in love all over again.

So won’t you please? Be my, be my baby?

You giggle as Harry’s arms loop around your waist, a boyish smile on his face. You cup his face in your hands, pressing your lips to his once before pulling away, stroking his cheeks as you sing along to the words. “I’ll make you happy baby, just wait and see!”

Harry swallowed thickly, eyes dipping to your lips. He always used to groan when the song came up, looking away from his parents as his dad twirled Lily into his arms, singing lovingly at her. But as you serenaded him, Harry decided he loved this song. Maybe it wasn’t so bad when the lyrics were aimed at him.

“For every kiss you give me, I’ll give you-” You were cut off by the press of Harry’s lips against yours, the kiss broken by your joyful giggles. Harry grins, forehead resting against yours as the song continues blaring in the background. He is acutely aware of his dad’s voice in the background, and he doesn’t doubt that James is holding Lily in his arms. But Harry cannot physically care less when you are pushing him back against the trunk, your hands laid flat on his chest as you capture his lips with yours again.

His fingers curl around the curve of your hips, tugging your body closer to his. Harry is sure you can feel his racing heartbeat beneath the palm of your hand as he slips his tongue into your mouth.

From across the backyard, Lily Potter’s back is pulled towards her husband’s chest, and the pair sways slowly with wide smiles on their faces. “I’m glad someone else appreciates my taste in music.” James whispers against his wife’s temple. Lily laughs, mumbling “Did you see what she did?”

“What, you mean only make our son actually enjoy the song he has complained about for eighteen years? Yes, I saw, honey.”

“She’s the one, isn’t she?”

“Yeah, love, I think she is.”

You break the kiss, Harry’s lips parting from yours with a loud squelch, and you can see the redness tinting his cheeks in the soft moonlight. You shriek as Harry’s fingers run up your sides with a gentle squeeze to tickle you, laughing softly as you squirm in his hold. Your boyfriend chuckles, pulling you into his body. You sigh happily, resting your head on his chest as you loosely hold him, hands on his back to hug him back.

“So, would you be my baby? Forever?” Harry finally asks in a whisper, voice suddenly shy. Lifting your head off his shoulder, you feel your lips tug up into a smile. You are so inexplicably happy. “Yeah. I’ll be your baby forever. Only if you’ll be mine too.” Harry’s chest bubbles with a joyful laugh and he digs his face in the crook of your neck, hiding his flushed cheeks from you.

A gust of wind has a shiver running down your spine, and Harry pulls away from the hug to wordlessly tug his jumper off. You don’t have time to deny his jumper before he’s forcing it over your head and guiding your arms into the sleeves. So instead, you just smile, letting him steer you into the position you were previously in, back against his chest as you curl up on the floor.

Your voice cuts into the comfortable silence once more, smiling to yourself as you asked “Does that mean we’re gonna get married then?”

“Uh, yeah. Thought we already confirmed that.”

taglist: @hisparentsgallerryy, @liviessun, @rory-cakes, @heebiemcjeebies, @fl0weryannie, @muffinemmaa, @anne061989, @regsg18, @graciereads, @adharaoaklyn, @hawaii2320, @c0ldstvff, @bigbodycity, @starmaniii, @urmom101, @simpfortoomanymen, @ennaholic, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @eunicefrogsandfoes, @dreamamubarak, @quinquinquincy, @vxyselectric, @liliemb04, @crowleythesexydemon, @lovelyygirl8, @matcha-kitty13, @dlljdhsh, @yegrnn, @marauder-era6779, @xadenswhore, @5sospenguinqueen, @esposadomd, @paytonluvxx, @wrenisrad, @lovelyteenagebeard, @mxvoid26, @bxuzi, @dlljdhsh, @aouoo, @isnt-itstrange @fandomhoe101

[glossdebut]

best laid plans | MYG

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x f!reader

✧ SUMMARY: You meet Min Yoongi at a GS25 on a nothing Tuesday. You don't expect him to change your life. You certainly don't expect to change his.

✧ TAGS: strangers to lovers, angst (with a happy—but hopefully realistic—ending), smut, fluff, this is a heavy one so please heed the warnings!

✧ WARNINGS: mental health issues, depression, depressive episodes, suicidal ideation throughout, suicide mentions throughout, implied suicide attempt (sort of?), panic attacks, specifically panic attacks after (consensual!) sex, smoking, recreational marijuana use, vaginal fingering, oral (m. receiving), oral (f. receiving), vaginal sex, mentions of unprotected sex (but no real unprotected sex), MINORS DNI, please do not read this fic if any of these warnings are triggering to you!

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: okay. so... i said i wasn't going to post any more fics until june. and i won't post any more until then after this! i'm still on semi-hiatus! but something happened in my personal life last week, and i couldn't... not get it all out, somehow. so... here's this almost 14k monster. thank you claret @yoonmetogether for beta reading and giving me so much love and support while i was in the process of writing this! i love you! and thank you yoongi, for writing/releasing so far away (and the last) in 2016 and teaching teenage aqua how to stay, even when i didn't want to. and teaching adult aqua the same thing every year since. i hope this fic helps someone. that's why i'm posting it.

P.S. i recognize that i haven't edited my taglist since my hiatus. if you want to be removed, let me know.

✧ WORDCOUNT: 13.6k words

It’s a Tuesday night, which means nothing. Just like Monday meant nothing. Just like Wednesday won’t either.

The buzzing fluorescent lights in the 24-hour convenience store stutter overhead. You’ve been zoned out in the ramen aisle for at least five minutes now, doing the same song and dance you always do. Pretending you’re going to try something different this time, be a little spontaneous. Because you must break the pattern today or the loop will repeat tomorrow, right?

Still, though, your hand hovers over the same one you always get—the spicy one in the black package that scorches your mouth and makes your nose run. But at least it makes you feel something. So, you grab it.

Into the basket it goes, landing beside a bottle of Milkis and a crumpled bag of gummy worms. You sigh, turn around—

—and nearly walk straight into some guy you didn’t even know was in the store.

You both do that awkward side-step thing, freeze, then side-step the same way again.

“Oh. Shit. Sorry,” the guy mutters, voice low and scratchy, like it hasn’t been used yet today.

He’s wearing an oversized hoodie, the drawstrings uneven. His hair, bleach blonde, is tucked messily under a beanie, and there’s a faint line on his cheek from what was clearly a very intense nap. He’s holding a can of cold coffee and a pre-packaged egg sandwich in one hand, clutched between long fingers.

His eyes flick up to yours, and you realize, belatedly, that you’re staring. You should probably move, or say something.

“No, I—sorry,” you say, taking a step back. Your basket clinks against your knee. “Didn’t see you.”

Both of you are still kind of in each other’s way. There’s that weird, hesitant pause where you’re not quite sure who’s supposed to move next.

You clear your throat, nodding at his sandwich. “Midnight craving?”

“Something like that,” he says, eyes flicking down to the ramen in your basket. “You going for pain, huh?”

You blink, then smile a little. You didn’t expect him to be game. “Only the kind I can control.”

That makes him huff a short laugh through his nose. “Hey, no judgment. I’m out here buying coffee at midnight, so.”

You nod toward the sandwich again. “And that. Bold choice.”

“I wasn’t ready to commit to tuna.”

“Fair.”

It feels dangerously like flirting, just for a second. Awkward, clumsy flirting, sure, but flirting nonetheless. But the moment ends just as quickly as it came, like you’ve both run out of things to say at the exact same time.

You awkwardly step in opposite directions after that.

You return to your mission. First, hot water from the machine by the coffee counter. Plastic fork from the stack that’s always slightly sticky. You sit on one of the cracked stools by the window while the noodles steep and sip from your Milkis while staring out at the empty street.

By the time you make it to the register, the guy is gone. You kind of expected that. 

He was cute, you think. A year ago, when you were a different girl and sort of had your shit together, you probably would’ve asked for his number. Batted your eyelashes or something stupid like that.

But now? You barely have the energy to brush your teeth most days. You’re certainly not in a place for romance. Not when your big life plan has boiled down to ‘survive one more month.’ 

So no, you’re not mourning the possible missed connection with the kind-of-cute stranger in the GS25. Just acknowledging it.

But then, when you’ve paid and make a move to shuffle out, the automatic doors slide open—and there he is. 

Again. Leaning against the low brick wall, trying to light a cigarette with the wind working against him. The flame sputters out twice before catching.

You could leave. You should. But you linger, and since the street is pretty much desolate, he notices.

“Didn’t mean to loiter behind you,” he says, glancing up.

You shrug. “Didn’t mean to run into you. Twice.”

He waves his free hand dismissively, the other bringing the cigarette to his lips, plastic bag dangling precariously. “No harm done.”

That should be it, probably. End of conversation, end of interaction. Two strangers walk in opposite directions to wherever it is they call home.

But something about the slump in his shoulders, so similar to your own, makes you momentarily brave.

“You got somewhere to be?” you ask, gnawing at your bottom lip.

“Does it look like it?”

It doesn’t. Neither do you.

“Wanna sit?” you offer, gesturing towards the curb. “I’m just gonna eat before it gets cold.”

His eyes widen, like that’s the last thing in the world he expected you to say.

“Uh. Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

You sit. He settles a little awkwardly beside you, pulling the sandwich out of its crinkled plastic. It’s predictably silent between you, but you don’t hate it.

He eats. You slurp noodles.

And eventually, inevitably, you glance sideways.

Okay. He is cute. Decidedly. Maybe even hot, if you caught him on a better day. In a bleary, worn out way. The kind of good looks that sneak up on you, delicate and masculine all at once. Pale skin. Sharp jaw. Soft mouth. You’re not going to do anything about it. Obviously. But… still.

“What’s your name?” you ask around a mouthful of noodles.

“Yoongi.”

You nod. Don’t offer yours yet.

Yoongi takes another bite of his sandwich. Swallows. “You here often?” he asks, immediately grimacing. “God. That sounded—"

“Like a line?” You laugh. “Yeah. It did.”

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

You shrug. “I’ll allow it. Just this once.”

Small talk comes easy after that. You find out he used to live on the other side of the river and only recently moved to this part of the city because of a roommate situation that imploded. You tell him that you only planned to live in your current apartment for a year, until you could afford something better. It’s been three now.

He tells you he’s currently between jobs. You admit you’re technically not sure if you still have your night gig, because your boss hasn’t texted you in three days and you don’t want to ask.

He gives you the remaining half of his sandwich. You pass over your ramen wordlessly, letting him steal a few bites. It’s still awkward, eating so closely with a stranger like this. Sharing your dinner with someone who doesn’t even know your name. But it’s weirdly nice.

When the food is mostly gone, he holds out his cigarette pack. You take one and he lights it for you. You both pass it back and forth in silence for a minute.

“I used to think I’d be famous by now,” he says eventually, exhaling toward the gutter. “Like, not stupid-famous. Just… enough that I wouldn’t be here. You know?”

You nod. You do know. 

“I wanted to be a writer,” you offer in return. “But I hate writing. And I hate people who are good at it. And I hate that I still kind of want to do it anyway.”

“I don’t even know what I do anymore,” he says. “I was making music for a while. Then I got tired. Now I sleep too much. Avoid my friends. Pick up shifts at my cousin’s record store when he gets desperate enough to ask.”

“That actually sounds kind of nice.”

He snorts. “It’s not. But thanks.”

You tip your head back, look up at the sky, which is a washed-out navy and completely starless. Seoul smog. “I work part-time at a bookstore that almost exclusively sells erotica. And I cry like, three times a week, minimum. Usually in the bathroom. Sometimes in front of customers.”

Yoongi flicks ash onto the ground. “You win.”

You both sit with it. The warm, awful food. The too-sweet soda and the gummy worms melting in the bag between your knees. The companionship of a stranger willing to share a cigarette and half of his shitty sandwich, whose life isn’t all that different from yours.

You turn your heads at the same time. Your eyes flick down to his lips where they’re sealed around the cigarette. Inhale, exhale. To his long fingers, thumbnail bitten to shit. 

He’s really pretty, even like this, in the unflattering light of the streetlamp you’re sitting under. Long lashes and dark eyes that pierce through you. You wonder if his mouth really is as soft as it looks.

He’s looking at your lips, too, you realize. When you catch him, he looks away fast, ears pink.

“This is nice,” he says, staring at the concrete beneath his shoes.

You blink. Then, just as quietly, “Yeah. It is.”

He offers the cigarette again. You take it. Neither of you says anything else for a long time.

✧

The bookstore has been blissfully, predictably dead since you opened this morning. That’s really the only upside of the job—nobody shows up. You could count the regulars on one hand, and half of them only come in to use the bathroom, despite the clearly posted sign that says they can’t.

You’ve developed a theory about it, about the shame that still lingers around buying erotica in person. As if reading about sex is fine, but purchasing it in the flesh is something to feel embarrassed about. You could write a dissertation on it, probably. But you won’t. You don’t write anymore. You just clock in, count the till, and reorganize displays no one looks at.

You’ve already done your morning routine. Opened up. Counted money. Packed a frankly alarming number of online orders (apparently people really love vampire erotica). Now, you’re posted up behind the counter, flipping through a paperback about sexy cowboys with a bright red cover and a title that would make your mother blush.

You’re in the middle of counting how many times the author uses the word member on one page (six, and one was throbbing) when the bell above the door gives its half-hearted ding.

You glance up from the counter, fully prepared to give your standard ‘we don’t have a public bathroom’ spiel, when you see him. Hoodie. Messy, bleached hair. Soft mouth.

Yoongi.

Your mouth actually falls open a little. You eventually gave him your name that night, but you hadn’t exchanged numbers. You didn’t even follow each other on social media. And yet, here he is, bearing witness to you in all of your smut-peddling glory.

“I guessed,” he says, by way of explanation. He sounds a little breathless. “You said bookstore, and there’s like, two in the area. The other one didn’t have nearly enough erotica.”

“So you just… showed up?” 

He shrugs, sheepish. “You didn’t give me your number.”

If he wasn’t cute, you might be a little creeped out. He’s lucky he’s got such a nice face. It makes things feel romantic. 

“You want something?” you ask, gesturing to the wide variety of bodice-rippers your manager has displayed so proudly at the register.

“Yeah,” he says. “A cigarette. And maybe to talk to you again.”

You exhale through your nose, amused despite yourself. “Come on.”

You lead him through the back, past the haphazard ‘Employees Only’ sign that no one respects. Outside, the alley smells like stale piss. Very romantic, indeed.

Just like Tuesday, he lights a cigarette for you to share. You take it, and he leans against the brick wall, watching you.

“I kept thinking about you all week,” he says suddenly, no preamble. His eyes are fixed on the smoke curling off the end of the cigarette. 

You take a drag, the smoke clinging to your teeth. “I thought about it too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You look down at your shoes. “Didn’t think you’d actually show up, though.”

He gives a quiet little laugh, almost self-deprecating. “Honestly, I almost didn’t.”

“So why did you?”

“I don’t know. Stubbornness? Hope? Boredom?” He shrugs. “I guess I just didn’t want to go another week without feeling like something mattered. Even if it’s just a conversation in a piss alley.”

That earns a smile from you. A real one. You pass the cigarette back.

“I don’t know what this is,” he says eventually. “I don’t even know if I’m in a place to have a thing. But I liked talking to you. And I’m tired of not liking anything.”

You look at him. He’s not exactly looking back, more at the space near your shoes. But his profile is soft, a little hopeful.

“I feel the same way,” you say, cheeks hot and heartrate climbing. Something you haven’t felt in a long time—not for good reasons, at least.

He smiles. It’s small, but it feels real.

“You’re gonna give me your number this time, right?”

You dig your phone out of your pocket and hand it to him.

He types in his number one-handed, cigarette dangling from the other, then calls himself so he has yours too. When it buzzes in his hoodie pocket, he hums like that settles something. Like now, technically, you belong to each other in some tiny way.

You take the cigarette back from him. Your fingers brush, knuckles stay touching longer than they should.

“You’re not gonna ghost me now that you’ve won the chase, right?” you murmur.

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “You think that was a chase?”

You shrug. “It was something.”

For a moment, you just stand there in the alley. The world keeps moving, traffic hums in the distance. Your shitty boss is probably inside wondering why you’ve been gone more than the regulation five minutes.

But you don’t move.

You look at him. His mouth. The cigarette between your fingers. And your body makes a decision your brain is too tired to argue with.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s clumsy at first. Your lips a little dry, the angle off, but it doesn’t matter. He makes a sound like a surprised exhale against your mouth and then he’s kissing you back, slow and warm and honest.

He tastes like smoke and canned coffee. You drop the cigarette and his hand finds your jaw. Your fingers reach for the edge of his hoodie, twisting in the fabric like you’re worried he’ll disappear if you don’t hold on.

You kiss him again. And again.

You’re not trying to make it romantic, really. You’re not trying to make it anything. It’s just—fuck, it’s been so long since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted to.

And Yoongi kisses like he wants to be anywhere but alone. Like he gets it.

When you finally pull back, both of you a little dazed, he lets out a quiet, almost embarrassed laugh. “Okay,” he says, voice rough. “So… this is happening.”

You nod, heart hammering. “Don’t make it a thing.”

“I won’t.”

And he kisses you again, one more time for the road, hands on your hips like maybe he needs the grounding just as badly as you do.

Yoongi leaves around the back and you go back inside like nothing happened.

But he leaves with your number, and you can still taste him on your lips.

✧

Weeks pass, but you both take full advantage of having each other’s numbers.

You text mostly during lulls, when you’re hiding behind the register pretending to alphabetize the books, or when Yoongi’s stuck in the back room of the record store sorting the new arrivals.

You never say good morning or good night. It’s not like that. But he sends you photos of weird album art, and you respond with blurry selfies surrounded by piles of books with egregious titles.

There’s comfort in the ease of it. No pressure. Just a quiet thread tying your days together.

You: someone asked if we have a bathroom and when i said no they said “then what do you do?” like they wanted me to shit in front of them for proof

Yoongi: People are the worst. Come work here. The pay is shit but at least no one talks to me

Sometimes you send voice notes instead of typing because you’re too tired, and he never comments on how drained you sound. He just sends one back where his voice is raspy and low and he’s clearly half-asleep but trying anyway.

It’s not dating, but it’s not not dating. You’re not friends, not exactly, but you care, at least a little, about whether he eats. Whether he sleeps. Whether he means it when he says he’s fine. 

It’s just whatever the two of you are capable of giving right now. Somehow, that’s enough.

It’s nearly midnight when your phone buzzes.

Yoongi: You up?

Yoongi: Don’t say anything about how that sounds btw

You stare at it for a second. Then you type:

You: i am. what’s up?

You: and yes i’m going to make fun of you anyway

You: is this a booty call

Three dots bubble up and disappear. Once, twice, three times.

Yoongi: I just want to see you

Yoongi: Is that okay?

You sit up, heart doing something inconvenient in your chest.

You could say no. You could ask why. You could point out the hour, claim you have work in the morning. But you haven’t seen him since the day you exchanged numbers (and saliva), so instead, you say:

You: yeah

You: come over

You send him your address. Twenty minutes later, he shows up, in the same hoodie as last time. Holding a plastic bag with canned coffee for him, Milkis for you, and a package of cookies you once mentioned liking in a text two weeks ago.

You don’t say anything at first. He holds up the bag like it’s proof that he should be allowed inside, and you take it with a soft, bemused snort. Then you step aside so he can come in.

He enters like someone trying not to wake a sleeping house—careful and quiet and unsure of what to do with his hands.

You close the door behind him. You both fidget for a second.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says finally, standing just inside the doorway, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Kept thinking about you.”

Your heart tips, like it’s leaning closer to him whether you let it or not.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you admit softly.

And then, because it’s late and you’re lonely and he’s warm and real and here, you kiss him. Again.

It’s immediate this time. No fumbling. No hesitation. Just mouths pressing together like they’re picking up where you left off in the alley behind the bookstore. His hands find your waist. Yours cup his face, thumbs brushing the sharp edges of his cheekbones. You kiss him slow, then faster. Harder.

You don’t think about what it means. You don’t try to label it. You just let yourself feel it—the weight of his body, the sound of your breaths, the sudden, startling relief of being touched.

His mouth trails to your jaw. Your neck. His hoodie bunches in your fists.

When you finally pull back, both of you flushed and breathless, he presses his forehead against yours.

“I like you,” he says quietly.

You swallow around the knot in your throat and nod. “Kiss me again.”

There's a sharpness to the way your mouths move now. You tug at his hoodie, fingers slipping under the hem to touch skin, and he makes a sound against your lips, small and desperate.

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your waist like he’s trying to ground himself, sliding up your back, curling in your shirt like he can’t bear to let go. He presses you up against the door, urgent, and you gasp when his teeth graze the underside of your jaw.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breathing hard. “I’m sorry—I didn’t come here for this, I just—”

“Don’t stop,” you say, voice barely there. “I want this.”

That undoes him a little. You feel it in the way his mouth crashes back to yours, the way he exhales sharply through his nose like he’s already drunk on it. He kisses you hard, lips and teeth and tongue with no finesse.

His thigh slips between yours and you move against it, just enough to chase friction, just enough to let him feel how badly you want this too.

“Jesus,” he whispers, low and raw. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You tilt your head back and let him mouth at your throat, lips wet, sucking a bruise into the skin. Your hips roll down again, slow and deliberate, and Yoongi’s breath stutters.

“I missed this,” you admit, half-ashamed. “I missed being touched. I missed wanting someone.”

Yoongi lifts his head just enough to look at you, eyes heavy, expression unreadable.

“You’re not the only one,” he says.

And then he kisses you again, deep and dizzying, and slips a hand beneath your waistband. His fingers are warm against your skin. Tentative at first, like he's giving you a chance to stop him, even now. Like some small, rational part of him is still waiting for you to say, ‘don’t.’ But you don’t. You tilt your hips forward instead, breath catching, and he exhales like that’s all the permission he needs.

He pushes his hand into your underwear and groans when he feels how wet you are. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “You’re so—fuck.”

It’s been a long time since someone touched you like this. Since someone wanted you like this. Desperate but gentle, afraid of messing it up. His fingers slide through your slick heat and you let out a sharp breath, clinging to his shoulders, your forehead pressed to his.

“I’m not gonna last long,” you whisper, already dizzy. “This is—fuck—this is embarrassing.”

Yoongi huffs a soft, broken laugh. “Don’t care. Come for me. Come fast. I want to feel you lose it.”

He fucks you with his fingers slow, then fast, then slow again. Just enough pressure to make you tremble, to make you cry out softly into his hoodie. His thumb finds your clit, and you nearly sob from the shock of it.

“Yoongi—” you breathe, hands scrambling for purchase. “I—fuck—”

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just like that. Let me have it. I got you.”

You come fast. Hard. Pathetically hard. Your body locks up and then shudders violently, mouth open against his collarbone, heart pounding like it’s trying to claw out of your chest. Yoongi holds you through it. Doesn’t say anything. Just lets you ride it out with his mouth pressed to your temple, breathing you in.

When it’s over, you’re shaking. Barely upright. He eases his hand out of your underwear and presses a kiss to your hairline, tender in a way that makes your eyes sting.

You bury your face in his neck. 

“I can’t believe I let you finger me against my front door,” you mumble, mortified as you catch your breath.

“Can’t believe you invited me to,” he replies, grinning against your skin.

You both laugh. Quiet and shaky and a little shellshocked. You’re still leaning into him, your breath evening out, your body boneless. The high is fading, but the warmth he left behind is stubborn.

You lift your head, eyes still a little glazed, and give him a suspicious squint.

“I have a question,” you say.

Yoongi blinks, cautious. “Shoot.”

“How the fuck are you not getting laid constantly?”

His eyebrows shoot up. Then he laughs, quiet but full-bodied, like he’s genuinely caught off guard.

“I mean,” you continue, gesturing vaguely to your crotch, “that was—God. And I didn't even know if you’d be good at it! Like, I kind of assumed it would be decent, because you have a mouth and hands and a pulse—but that was fucking criminally good. Who taught you that? Why is this not a more widely available service?”

Yoongi presses his face into your shoulder and groans, laughing harder now. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m just saying, someone out there is missing the opportunity of a lifetime.”

He finally lifts his head again, his cheeks tinged with pink. “Yeah, well. Most people don’t really stick around long enough to find out.”

That sobers you a little.

You study him—his messy hair, his blown pupils, the way he tries to play it off with a little shrug. But there’s something underneath it all. Not sadness, exactly. Loneliness, maybe.

You reach up and brush your fingers through his bangs, almost absently. “They’re idiots.”

Yoongi watches you for a moment. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Just leans into your touch. 

And then the quiet gets to you, makes you want to crawl out of your skin, so you say:

“So… uh… want me to suck your dick?”

Yoongi freezes. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“...Right now?”

“No,” you say dryly. “Next Thursday.”

He laughs. “Are you always like this?” he asks, amused, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You ignore him and reach for the waistband of his sweatpants instead, fingers slipping under, deliberate and slow. “So?”

Yoongi exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah. Fuck. Yeah, I want you to.”

His head tips back when you start kissing down his neck. His breath goes shallow. The way he touches you, light on the back of your neck, like he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this—it makes you want to give him everything all of a sudden.

So you drop to your knees in your entryway, hitting the floor with a quiet thud that echoes in the quiet. Yoongi looks down at you in amazement, eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast.

You tug his sweats down and he helps, fingers twitching against the fabric, thick cock already hard and leaking at the tip.

“You’re serious,” he says, voice thin. Disbelieving.

You glance up at him, smirking. “That a problem?”

“Not even a little.”

You spit into your palm, spread it over the head, and he twitches in your grip. When you lean in and lick a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, Yoongi lets out a quiet, broken sound.

You’re a little rusty, but you don’t tease. You don’t take your time. You just sink your mouth down around him, spit-slick and sloppy. 

“Fuck—” 

Yoongi’s head knocks lightly against the wall. One hand finds the back of your head, loose and shaking like he doesn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold you still.

You bob your head faster, messier. Let your saliva drip down over your fingers, curled around the base of his cock while you work the rest with your mouth. He groans again, choked and startled, and you feel him twitch in your palm.

“Jesus, you’re gonna—fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.”

You hum around him. That does it.

He gasps. Buckles a little. Then pulls back. Not all the way, just enough to jerk himself through the last few strokes, breathing ragged.

“Shit, shit—I’m—fuck, baby, fuck—”

You look up at him, mouth open, lips shiny and wet, tongue out just barely. 

He spills across your mouth, your cheek, your chin. Hot and messy and so, so much. You blink through it, a little stunned, a lot turned on.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, staring at the mess he made of you. “You’re—god. You’re insane.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, still grinning. “You’re welcome.”

Yoongi laughs breathlessly. “I think I just fell in love with you a little.”

You feel the shift, then. It’s small, almost imperceptible, but suddenly the air feels different. Too quiet. A little too still.

“Don’t be weird about it,” you huff, just to fill the space. 

Yoongi leans down and helps you up with careful hands. Your legs are a little wobbly. His hoodie is rumpled. His hair’s a mess. His sweatpants hang loose on his hips and his lips are kiss-bitten and red.

You glance at him, then away just as fast.

You’ve crossed some invisible threshold. You both know it. And now you’re just... here.

“I’m gonna, um.” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “Wash my face.”

Yoongi nods, but doesn’t say anything. You don’t look back as you walk away.

In the bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror, palms braced on either side of the sink. You wash your hands. Splash your face. Pat dry and breathe.

Or try to.

Fuck, are you having a fucking panic attack? Over that? Your chest is tight, every cell of your skin foreign to you. Like you’re wearing someone else’s body and she just did something you weren’t supposed to.

What the fuck was that?

Not the act itself. That part was great. The enthusiasm, the sheer filth of it—you don’t think you regret it. Maybe. It felt good, in the moment. You wanted it.

It’s what came after.

The shift. The quiet. The moment you felt like he saw too much of you. The part of you that glows when it’s being wanted, and dims just as quickly when it’s alone again.

And—Jesus, ’I think I just fell in love with you a little’? Who the fuck says that?

It takes you longer than you’d like to calm down. You do the breathing exercises you were taught, back in college when counseling was free and they handed out pamphlets on every corner of your campus. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. You smooth down your shirt. Brush your fingers through your hair. 

Then return to the living room like you didn’t just spiral for fifteen straight minutes.

When you return, breathing still a little labored, Yoongi’s sitting on the arm of your couch with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s afraid of what comes next. Like you’ve left him with his thoughts for too long. 

He sits up when you approach, brow furrowed at the state of you.

“You okay?” he asks.

You sigh and sit down. 

“Yeah. I just…” You stare straight ahead. “That was good. Really good. But it’s been a while. And I don’t know what I’m doing. With any of this.”

Yoongi nods slowly. “You don’t have to know,” he says. “I don’t either.”

You turn to look at him, and the thing in his eyes, the softness, it’s too much. So you keep going. 

“Not just the sex. Not just… you. This,” you say, gesturing at yourself, then your apartment. The mess that’s accumulated over the past month. “Letting someone see me when I don’t have it together. When I’m not even trying to pretend I do.”

You rest your head on the back of the couch, stare up at the ceiling like maybe it’ll swallow you whole if you keep talking.

“I don’t know why the fuck now of all times is when I’m letting myself feel anything,” you say. “It’s not like my life is better. It’s not like I’ve earned it.”

Silence. 

Then Yoongi shifts. Leans forward, elbows on his knees again, like he’s working up to something.

“You don’t have to earn anything,” he says. “There’s no quota for being okay. Or being wanted. You can be a mess and still deserve good things. You can be at your worst and still… feel.”

You laugh. Bitter and small. “So what, we’re just two disasters trying to convince each other it’s fine?”

He shrugs. “Pretty much.” And then, so gentle it nearly breaks you, he adds, “I don’t think I’m here to fix you. I just want to be here.”

How can he be so sure?

You don’t know a damn thing about him. Not really.

You know he works the stock room in a record store part-time and hates most of his coworkers. You know he smokes too much. That he eats terrible sandwiches and drinks canned coffee. That he texts like he’s trying to make you laugh even when he’s probably in the middle of some breakdown of his own.

You know he’s good with his hands.

You know he looked at you, in all of your mess, like you were still human. You know that he says dumb, grossly honest shit way too easily.

But you don’t know where he grew up. You don’t know what keeps him up at night. You don’t know what kind of heartbreaks he’s carrying, or who let him down hard enough that he walks around like he does.

And still, there’s something in your chest that won’t calm down. Something desperate. Clawing. A tightness you don’t want to name.

Why?

Why the fuck are you feeling so much for someone who’s barely more than a stranger?

Is it just the attention? The intimacy? The fact that, for once, someone touched you without asking you to be okay first? Is this what happens when you’re starving? When your skin has been untouched for too long and someone comes along with warm hands and tired eyes and lets you fall apart without flinching?

Maybe.

But it doesn’t feel shallow. It doesn’t feel fake. Instead, it just feels too easy. Like being with him turns the volume down in your head. Like you don’t have to explain yourself to be understood.

It scares the shit out of you.

Yoongi slips down from the armrest, sinks into the cushion next to you instead. Your knee brushes his. His arm rests behind you on the back of the couch, not quite around you, but near enough that if you leaned even slightly, he’d catch you.

Neither of you moves for a while. You just breathe. 

Then his arm moves and his pinky finger nudges yours.

A small thing. Stupid. Barely anything.

But it’s the first deliberate touch since everything happened in the entryway. And it’s soft. Hesitant.

“We don’t have to do… that,” he says, quiet but firm. You know he means the sex. “We don’t have to do anything.”

Maybe you don’t need to define it yet. Maybe it’s not about love or fate or healing. Maybe it’s just about want.

Two people letting themselves be wanted for a while.

You hook your pinky around his.

Just this, you think. Just this is fine. 

✧

Yoongi doesn’t push. He doesn’t label anything. He just keeps showing up. 

Sometimes at your place, sometimes at his. Sometimes at the bookstore, when he has a day off.

There’s a pattern now.

Late-night convenience store runs. Shared ramen on cracked stools by the window, making fun of people’s bad haircuts as they pass on the street outside. Socks borrowed and never returned. His hoodie living permanently on the back of your chair. Your phone lighting up with ‘Proof of life?’ on days he knows you’re at a low.

Sometimes you kiss. Sometimes you just sit in the same room and don’t say anything. Sometimes he talks and you don’t respond. And that’s okay, too.

It’s not about what it is. It’s about the fact that it keeps happening.

When you disappear, he still shows up. Like today.

It’s not a dramatic breakdown. Not this time.

Instead, it’s the kind of bad week that sinks its teeth in slow. No single catalyst, no big meltdown. Just one exhausting day stacked on top of another, until your body forgets how to move without dragging. Your sink is full of dishes you can’t look at. Your hair’s unwashed. You haven’t eaten anything substantial in days.

You didn’t text Yoongi to come over. You didn’t say much of anything at all this week.

But you must’ve sounded off, or maybe he just knows how to read silence better than most, because around three in the afternoon, you hear the soft knock at your door.

You don’t answer at first. You don’t mean to ignore him, you just can’t make your legs move.

A minute passes, and your phone buzzes from somewhere near your pillow.

Yoongi: Not trying to crowd you. Just wanted to drop off some food Yoongi: Leaving it by the door. No pressure

You muster the energy to roll out of bed and crack the door open. A plastic bag sits at your feet and Yoongi is already halfway down the hallway, hands in his pockets.

“Yoongi,” you call, your voice raspier than you expect.

He turns around.

“Hey,” he says, probably surprised that you’re upright.

You open the door wider. “You can come in. If you want.”

Yoongi hesitates just for a second, checking that you’re sure. Then he nods. He picks the bag up and slips inside without a word, setting it on your kitchen counter. 

He doesn’t try to hug you or touch you or ask what’s wrong. He doesn’t judge your apartment, the clothes strewn about, the closed curtains, the dishes piling up in the sink. He barely even looks.

“You eaten today?” he asks, gently.

You shake your head. “Not really hungry.”

“Okay,” he says. “I’m gonna make something anyway. Just in case.”

He moves around your kitchen like it’s his. Not because he’s overly familiar, but because he’s not afraid of your mess. He pulls out eggs, rice, a few green onions from the bag he brought.

You retreat back to your couch. You didn’t mean to lie down again, but the second you sit, your body droops until you’re horizontal. So you stay curled on your side, facing the wall. Listening.

The clink of metal. The whoosh of your gas burner catching. The soft sizzle of garlic hitting oil.

You don’t remember falling asleep, but when you wake up, Yoongi is sitting on the floor in front of the couch, cross-legged, a steaming bowl in his lap and another on your coffee table.

You push yourself up slowly. Your head aches, your throat’s dry, but you can’t lie. It smells good.

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

“I know,” he says, soft. “I wanted to.”

You eat in silence. The rice is soft, buttery, a little salty from the soy sauce and the eggs scrambled through it. You’re hungrier than you thought, but you pace yourself.

Halfway through, he glances over at you.

“You wanna watch something dumb?”

You nod.

Yoongi takes your bowl when you’re done, rinses both of them without comment. When he comes back, he takes a seat next to you. He scrolls through streaming apps on your TV until he lands on something you like.

The opening credits roll.

He doesn’t try to hold you. Doesn’t try to tell you it’s going to be okay. He just sits beside you, shoulders barely brushing. When your body droops again, he lets you lean into his side.

Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, he mutters, “You don’t have to be okay for me to want to be here.”

You don’t look at him. Your throat tightens like you’re going to cry. Which is something, at least, after the numbness of the week. 

“This could be me next week,” he says, like it’s nothing. “Or tomorrow. So. I get it. That’s all.”

And then the movie continues. One ridiculous scene after another. The light from the screen flickers across his face.

You don’t say thank you yet, but you know you don’t have to.

✧

You still haven’t put a name to it.

Neither of you has tried. There was one moment, maybe, a few days ago. Yoongi was over for no particular reason. He’d looked at you from your kitchen floor, head propped against the cabinets, lips red from kissing, and opened his mouth like he might ask.

But then the takeout came, and the moment passed.

You text like friends. ‘Want anything from the store?’ ‘This customer just asked if we sell records on vinyl. I hate it here.’ ‘What are you doing tonight?’ ‘Absolutely nothing.’ ‘Come do nothing with me.’

You hang out like you’re in a relationship. Eat cross-legged on his bed. Steal fries from each other’s plates without asking. Sometimes fall asleep shoulder to shoulder watching terrible TV.

You make out. A lot. 

Against walls. On couches. Outside each other’s doors at night when neither of you feels like saying goodnight just yet. It never quite escalates to the point it did that night—maybe once or twice it almost does, but one of you always pumps the brakes.

You don’t meet each other’s friends. You don’t ask about exes. You don’t introduce him to your sister or take photos together or exchange socials. Because that doesn’t feel like what this is.

You like the bubble you’ve built. The little world where nothing outside matters. Where it doesn’t have to matter yet.

Because outside the bubble, your life is still a mess. Rent’s overdue. Work is torture. You haven’t written anything in over a year and you haven’t figured out how to be proud of yourself again, not really.

But inside it—when Yoongi’s mouth is on yours, when he texts you ‘Made extra ramen if you’re hungry btw’ like that’s not the most romantic shit anyone’s ever said to you, you feel steady.

But, like anything else, it comes with its own set of issues.

The thing about not fucking is that it used to be about not wanting. A lack of drive. A lack of spark. A lack of time or energy or libido or options.

But now? Now, it’s something else. Because you have the option. 

Now, it’s starting to feel like a crack in the glass. Like every time you grind against his thigh with your hips twitching and your breath shaky, or every time he pulls your shirt off and buries his face between your tits but doesn’t go lower, the crack gets a little deeper. And you’re both pretending not to see it.

Because the truth is: you want to fuck him.

You desperately want to fuck him.

You think about it constantly. The way his fingers curled inside you that first night, the soft, filthy way he talked to you, the way he looked down at your face when you sucked him off like he was watching a goddamn miracle unfold.

You think about how he’d feel inside you.

You ache with it.

But you don’t bring it up. Because once you do, once you have sex, it’s not a bubble anymore. It’s real, something with expectations.

And you know yourself, you know how you get. You’ll start needing more. Wanting more. And Yoongi, sweet and quiet and lost in his own way, will become another thing you don’t know how to manage. Another thing you don’t know how to keep.

You’re scared of that. Of ruining it. Of letting your body talk you into something your heart might not be strong enough to carry.

So you kiss him like you’re dying, but when his hands drift to your waistband, you laugh, too high-pitched, and pull away. Pretend you’re tired. Or hungry. Or something, anything. Any excuse not to cross that final threshold. Yoongi never pushes. He just nods, catches his breath, and helps you back into your shirt like a gentleman.

But you feel the tension growing. Between your thighs. In your chest. In the way you wake up soaked and aching after every sleepover, body clenching at nothing. In the way your kisses are starting to come with more teeth. With soft little growls in your throat you didn’t mean to let out.

Tonight, he’s at your place again. It’s late. You both know he should’ve left hours ago, and the crack is splintering even further, faster than you realize.

You’re straddling Yoongi on the couch, your knees bracketing his hips, your mouth fused to his. Your hips are rocking down, slow and aimless at first, but building. You can feel him getting hard beneath you, feel the press of him through his sweats as you drag your clothed pussy over him like your body is starving.

Yoongi groans into your kiss. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips twitching. But, like always, he doesn’t push. He just lets you move, lets you grind down on him with that ragged little gasp in your throat, lets you take what you need without crossing the line you’ve both carefully danced around for weeks.

Except tonight, something’s different. You’re different.

Because when he tilts his head and mouths at your neck, hot and slow, and mutters, “you’re gonna make me come in my fucking pants,” you snap.

Completely.

You pull back just enough to look at him, breathing hard, eyes wild. “I want to fuck you.”

He blinks. Catches up slowly, like he’s not sure if he imagined it.

“I want you to fuck me,” you amend, a little louder. Desperate.

Yoongi just stares at you for a moment, mouth parted, chest heaving. His hands tighten on your thighs. 

“You sure?” he asks, voice rough.

Once you say yes, it happens fast. 

Yoongi’s hands are everywhere. Gripping your hips, your waist, sliding up your back to tug your shirt over your head. He peels it off and tosses it somewhere behind you, eyes locked on yours like he’s giving you one last chance to change your mind.

You don’t.

Your bra’s off next, fast, and he curses the second your tits are bare, like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s been thinking about it for weeks too, and now that it’s real, he doesn’t know where to start.

So he starts with his mouth.

He palms your breasts and groans low in his throat, then leans forward and takes one into his mouth like he needs it—hot tongue flicking over your nipple, lips sucking gently before he bites, just enough to make you gasp. His fingers find the other, circling and pinching lightly.

“Fuck,” you whimper, arching into him. “Yoongi—”

You grind down on his cock again, still half-dressed from the waist down, the friction sharp and unbearable. You’re soaked. You can feel it. Your panties are useless at this point, clinging wetly to your folds, and you’re half a second away from tearing them off yourself if he doesn’t move faster.

“Condom,” you breathe. “Please. Where—?”

“Yeah—fuck—yeah, hold on.”

You scramble off his lap at the same time he stumbles off the couch, both of you half-laughing and swearing under your breath. He digs through his bag on your floor, frantic, muttering, “I swear I had one—fuck, wait—yes.”

He holds it up like a prize, and you don’t even give him the chance to rip it open before you’re tugging your shorts and panties down in one go, stepping out of them and crawling back onto the couch.

Yoongi stops cold, stares at you for a second.

Hair messy. Chest heaving. Legs spread. Eyes hungry.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, tearing the foil open and shoving his sweats halfway down his thighs with shaking hands. His cock bobs free, hard and flushed and so ready, and your mouth actually waters.

He rolls the condom on with practiced ease and climbs back over you, settling between your legs like he belongs there. Like he’s done it a hundred times in dreams and is finally allowed to touch.

He presses inside you slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch knocks the breath from your lungs. You’re soaked, but it’s still so much, been too long, and you cling to his shoulders with a gasp.

Yoongi groans, forehead dropping to yours.

“Jesus, you’re tight,” he rasps. “Fucking wet.”

You whimper, hips already rolling up to meet him. “Been wanting this,” you whisper. “Needing this—”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, voice shaking. “You gonna let me give it to you?”

“Yes, please—”

And then he starts to move. Just the brutal press of his hips to yours, every thrust deep and deliberate and filthy, like he’s trying to bury himself somewhere he won’t be able to crawl back from.

Your head tips back against the couch, eyes rolling up, mouth falling open on a gasp that barely sounds like a real word. He’s got one hand gripping the arm of the couch behind your head for leverage, the other wrapped tight around your thigh, keeping you pinned wide open beneath him as he fucks into you.

“Fuck, Yoongi—fuck—”

“You like it, baby?” he growls. 

You whimper, nodding helplessly, your hands scrambling up under his hoodie to claw at his back, his sides, anywhere you can touch.

Your skin’s on fire. Your thoughts are gone. All you know is the sharp, perfect drag of his cock, the sound of your soaked cunt every time he slams into you, the guttural noises he makes when your walls flutter around him.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groans, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched. “Tight little pussy just gripping me—shit, baby, I can’t—”

His pace stutters for half a second, like your body is pulling the soul out of him.

You cry out when he hits deep—too deep—and he groans, pulling your legs higher around his waist to get the angle just right.

“There,” he growls when you shatter under him, thighs shaking, cunt clenching so hard he nearly loses it. “Fucking cum.”

You come like you’ve lost control of your body. Loud, legs locked, nails in his back. It hits hard and fast and doesn’t stop, rolling through you in hot, humiliating waves. Yoongi hisses, desperate now, chasing his own end, rhythm starting to break.

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants, even though the condom’s there, even though it’s just a filthy fantasy, and you sob at the idea of it. “Fuck, I wish—wish I could come inside you—fuck—you’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me ruin you for anyone else—”

“Yes,” you gasp, not even sure you mean it, but it sounds right. Feels true.

That’s all it takes.

Yoongi groans like it’s been punched out of him, hips jerking as he comes hard, cock twitching inside you, face buried in your neck as he spills into the condom.

You both stay there, gasping against sticky skin through the aftershocks. He kisses your neck once. Then again. And again.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, dazed. “I think you just rearranged my internal organs.”

Yoongi laughs. “Cool. I was aiming for your soul.”

The couch cushions are half off the frame, your legs still trembling where they’re spread open around his waist. Yoongi pulls out slowly, careful, and your body aches from it, clenches down involuntarily, already missing the stretch. 

He ties off the condom, looks around for somewhere to put it before settling on the empty takeout bag from earlier. Pulls his sweats back up.

You sit up with limbs like jelly, not bothering to put your underwear back on just yet, and run a hand through your hair. Your thighs are sticky. Your lips are swollen. You feel fucked out and raw and wrung clean.

Your body is so satisfied.

Predictably, your brain is a different story.

You glance over at Yoongi. He’s slouched against the other end of the couch, head back, eyes closed. His hair is damp at the temples, chest still rising and falling like he hasn’t quite come back to himself yet.

He looks gorgeous.

You want to kiss him.

You also want to run.

That tight, itchy feeling—the one you’ve been avoiding since you first let him touch you—comes roaring back. You just crossed the line. You fucked the one good thing in your life that wasn’t tangled in expectations. That didn’t ask anything from you.

You broke the bubble.

He opens one eye and glances over at you.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just…” You trail off. Shrug. “That was intense.”

Yoongi huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah. You think?”

You stand. Your legs are still shaking.

“I’m gonna, uh… go pee,” you say, already heading toward the bathroom. “Before I die.”

He doesn’t stop you. Just nods, eyes following you for a second before he looks away.

You close the door and sit on the edge of the tub. Breathe.

You want to feel good. You do feel good. But also… you feel like maybe you’ve fucked up. Or you’re about to. Or like this is going to change something that shouldn’t be changed.

You think about what you’ll say when you go back out there.

You think about whether he’s getting dressed. Whether he’ll leave. Whether he should.

You think, I don’t want this to become another thing I have to recover from.

✧

When you finally open the bathroom door, the light feels harsher than it should, and your skin’s still warm from the shower you didn’t really want but took anyway. Just to delay, to think, to scrub away the sweat and the way his hands felt on your hips and the way your body sang for him.

You step into the living room wearing clean underwear and a fresh shirt. Your face is bare. Your hair is damp. Your expression, despite your best effort, is a little too tight.

Yoongi looks up from the couch, where he’s still sitting, this time in his sweats and hoodie again, elbows on his knees, fingers idly twisting the hem of his sleeve.

His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t smile, but his gaze softens. Immediately.

“Hey,” he says, quiet.

You nod, cross your arms. “Hey.”

He watches you for a second, then leans back, patting the space next to him.

You hesitate, but you lower yourself onto the couch anyway. Not quite touching, not quite distant. A safe middle. 

“Wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Yoongi says, disbelieving. “Then why do you look like you’re trying to figure out how to ghost me while I’m still in your apartment?”

You wince, staring at your knees. “I just—I didn’t mean for this to turn into, like… a thing.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

“I mean, we’re not, right? A thing?”

You look at him now, really look. Your heart’s racing. Your stomach’s twisting. You’re not sure what kind of answer you want.

Yoongi looks back at you for a long moment. Then he leans back again, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“I don’t know what we are,” he says. “I wasn’t trying to make it anything.”

You swallow hard, because part of you thinks that should make you feel better. Instead, it just makes your chest ache. You were the one who let him in, even when you swore you wouldn’t. You’re not trying to make him feel like he’s the one at fault here. It’s you. It’s always you.

“But,” he adds, eyes flicking to yours again, “I like you. I care about you. And if we’re fucking now, yeah, that’s gonna mean something to me. Even if we never put a label on it.”

“Doesn’t that make it worse?” you ask, voice thin. “If it means something?”

Yoongi doesn’t speak for a long while. You sink into him without meaning to, thigh to thigh, arm to arm. You don’t really know why.

He exhales, slow and deliberate, and says, “Can I tell you something?”

You nod against his shoulder.

“I wasn’t supposed to be at that convenience store,” he starts, voice shaky in a way that makes you sit up, just slightly. “I mean, I didn’t have a reason to be anywhere. But that night… I think I was sort of… walking around to see if I’d change my mind.”

You still. Your heart trips over itself, because that could mean a lot of things. Because you know, just by the tone of his voice, that he means the worst. 

He keeps going.

“I’d been thinking about it for a while. Not in a loud way. Not even like a plan. Just… wondering. If things would be better. Easier. If I just stopped. Just disappeared.”

You don’t interrupt. You don’t breathe too loud. You just listen.

“And that night, it felt close. Like maybe I was ready. Like maybe no one would notice.” He lets out a shaky laugh. “I hadn’t talked to anyone in a couple days. I didn’t even brush my teeth before I left the house. I just started walking.”

Your eyes sting. You try not to let it show.

“I stopped at the store because I thought—fuck it. One last shitty sandwich. One last can of cold coffee.” He huffs. “Really poetic, right?”

You let out a breath. “Yoongi—”

He shakes his head. “I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel bad. Or because I think you saved me. You didn’t. You just… made it a little easier to stay.”

You’re crying now, because god, you didn’t know, but you know. You know how it feels to always have that in the back of your mind, to convince yourself that there would be relief in giving up. Letting go. 

He turns his head toward you now, not quite meeting your eyes, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to say all this out loud.

“I still think about it. Sometimes. Not all the time. But… it comes back. When it’s quiet. When I’m alone too long. But since that night, it’s been easier knowing that someone gets it. That I don’t have to pretend I’m fine all the time.”

He finally looks at you, and it’s not a dramatic, sweeping kind of moment. There’s no soft lighting or music swelling. Just his tired eyes, and your tired heart, and the shared weight of knowing what it feels like to want to give up—and choosing, for whatever reason, not to.

“Maybe that’s all this has to be,” he says. “Not a love story. Not some perfect, clean thing. Just… two people who don’t always want to be here, making it a little easier for each other to stay.”

You can’t speak. You nod, and your eyes blur, and Yoongi presses his forehead to yours like it’s the only way he knows how to say thank you for seeing me.

✧

Days later, things aren’t better—not in the way people usually mean. Your life is still a mess. His is too. 

But something’s changed. Settled.

He lets himself in now. Doesn’t knock. Kicks his shoes off like he lives there, shrugs his hoodie off and drops it somewhere near the couch, grabs two cups and fills them with whatever’s in your fridge.

And you let him.

You sit next to each other, thigh to thigh, flipping through shows you won’t finish. You kiss during the commercials. You fall asleep with his hand on your waist.

You still haven’t said you’re together. You still haven’t said what you mean to each other. But when you’re quiet for too long, he looks up from his phone and asks, “Okay?”

And when he’s too quiet, you ask, “Wanna stay the night?”

And when you both lie awake in the dark, not talking, not moving, you think: I’m still here.

And so is he.

✧

It starts with scraps. Half-sentences in your notes app. A phrase here, a sentence there. Something you jotted down after Yoongi left one night, when your chest felt like it was holding more than usual and your bed still smelled like his shampoo.

Then it becomes a little routine. You open your laptop without the usual dread. You stare at the cursor blinking in a half-finished document and think: maybe I can.

It’s not for meant to be published. It’s not for anyone but you. But it’s something.

One night, Yoongi finds you sitting on the floor with your laptop on your thighs. You’re so focused, you don’t even hear him come in.

He just watches for a second, quiet.

“Writing?” he asks eventually, and you jump.

“Jesus—” You slam the laptop shut on instinct, and he raises both hands in surrender, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“You don’t have to show me,” he says, setting down the drinks he brought. “But… that’s new.”

You shrug, embarrassed. “It’s nothing. Just… stuff.”

Yoongi sinks to the floor beside you. “You haven’t written since we met.”

“I haven’t written in a long time.”

He doesn’t ask why not. He already knows.

Instead, he leans his head on your shoulder and says, “I’m glad you’re starting to again.”

He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for details. He doesn’t ask to read it. He just sits with you, there on the floor, eyes closed. Like your writing means something just by existing.

You open the laptop again.

You keep writing.

✧

Yoongi is sitting cross-legged on your bed while you type, cradling a cup of tea you made him because he clearly needed something to do with his hands. 

You can tell he’s nervous. He’s got that look on his face like he’s about to say something serious but is trying not to scare the shit out of you. It isn’t working.

“So,” he says, after a long stretch of silence, “I have a friend.”

You glance up from your laptop, blinking. “Amazing.”

Yoongi huffs. “Kim Namjoon. He’s an old friend. College. We used to mess around with production stuff, back when I thought I was gonna be a genius producer with a Grammy by 25.”

You smile a little at that, set your laptop aside. “What’d he say?”

Yoongi hesitates, fingers drumming softly against the side of his mug. “He got some seed money. Not much. Just enough to rent a space, get a couple of half-decent mics, some gear. Says he wants to start a small label.”

Your stomach does a little flip. Not because you’re worried. Not yet. But because of the way he’s saying it. Like he’s trying not to want it too much.

“He wants me in on it,” Yoongi continues, staring down into his tea. “It’d be three of us, working in a basement, surviving off cup ramen. Maybe getting a local artist to sign on eventually.”

You exhale. “That sounds… really fucking cool.”

Yoongi finally looks at you. He’s smiling now, just a little, but it’s tight at the edges. “Yeah. It does.”

“And?”

He shrugs, but it’s not a real shrug. It’s that shoulder-lift people do when something matters too much. “And I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m ready to give a shit again. I don’t know if I’ll fuck it up. I don’t even know if I still have anything to say.”

“You do,” you say, instantly.

His jaw flexes. “Yeah, well. Maybe. He’s starting soon. Wants me to come by next week. Just to mess around with some demos, get a feel for it again.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let the ‘what if’s start swirling. What if it pulls him away? What if he leaves? What if this tiny, fragile thing you’re building—whatever it is—gets buried under a dream he's only just remembered how to want again?

But you don’t say any of that.

Instead, you say, “You should do it.”

Yoongi searches your face for a long time, hesitant, like he’s trying to catch you in a lie. 

“Yeah?”

You reach over and take his mug, set it on the nightstand. You curl into his side, your face pressed to the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I think maybe… we’re both starting to remember how to want things again.”

You feel him breathe out. Slow. Unsteady.

But he nods.

✧

Yoongi doesn’t stop texting. He still sends you memes, voice notes, the occasional photo of his workspace—a cramped basement room with exposed pipes and cords spilling out over his desk, coffee-stained notebooks piled next to a MIDI keyboard.

But he’s not around as much.

The nights you used to spend together—half-draped over one another on the couch, kissing during reruns, sleeping side-by-side without labels—are fewer now. Sometimes he falls asleep at the studio. Sometimes he doesn’t respond until 2 a.m., when you’re already asleep.

It’s hard. You won’t lie to yourself about that. You feel the absence like a low-grade fever. Always there, dull but insistent.

And there’s still no word for what you are. No boyfriend, no girlfriend. Just… you, and Yoongi. And this thing you’ve built together, quiet and warm and undefined.

But when you do see him—when he walks through your door smelling like coffee and sweat and work—you can see it on him. The spark. The momentum. The low, buzzing joy of trying again. Of wanting something bad enough to bleed for it.

He’s tired. But he’s tired for a good reason, now.

And that makes you want to try, too.

So you keep opening your laptop. Not just to scribble down half-formed ideas, but to finish. You sit with the mess of it, the aching in your fingers, the voice in your head that says ‘why bother’—and you write anyway. You dig up old stories, rework scenes that used to make you cringe. You find your voice again, piece by shaky piece.

Sometimes, late at night, you send him snippets. Just to say, look. I’m doing it, too.

And he always responds, eventually. Usually something like:

Yoongi: Fuck yes

Yoongi: Proud of you

Yoongi: Also the studio toilet flooded again. I’m going to kill Joon

You laugh. You keep writing.

It still hurts sometimes. Missing him, wondering what all this means. But now the hurt is paired with movement. With hope.

✧

Eventually, you finish something.

It’s not perfect. Not even close. There are typos and sentences that feel like strangers to themselves, and places where the ending is still a little jagged and wrong. But it’s done.

A full manuscript. Your name at the top. Your words, your voice, your pain and hunger and stupid hope wrapped into a whopping 112 pages.

You think of Yoongi when you submit it with an application to a graduate school program. A program you’ve read and re-read the description for more times than you care to admit. You don't know if it’s good enough. If you’re good enough. But for the first time in a long time, you do it anyway.

And then you don’t tell anyone.

Maybe it’s selfish, but you want the hope for yourself. Just for a little while. You want to keep it quiet and sacred, untainted by expectations or well-meaning encouragement or the crushing weight of what if it doesn’t happen. You just want it to be yours.

You keep seeing Yoongi, of course. When he can. When he’s not tangled up in late-night meetings and studio sessions. You see each other in stolen hours, sleep-heavy kisses, lazy dinners eaten on the floor.

But lately, even those small moments feel bigger.

And then one night, you get a text.

Yoongi: You home?

You are. You say yes.

He shows up ten minutes later, breathless, hoodie damp from trying to dodge light rain, cheeks flushed with joy. Real joy. The kind that lights his whole face from the inside out.

“I had to tell someone,” he says the second you open the door. “I had to tell you.”

You let him in, confused but smiling all the same. You’ve been doing a lot of that lately. “What happened?”

He doesn’t even sit. He paces back and forth, rakes a hand through his hair, practically vibrating.

“We signed someone,” he finally says. “Tentatively, but, this artist from Busan, she’s insane, she’s so weird and good and her voice is like—fuck, I don’t even know how to explain it. But Namjoon loved her. We all did. And she said yes. She said yes, to us.”

You blink, stunned. “You—Yoongi, that’s—holy shit!”

He grins, wide and unguarded, and you’ve never seen him like this before and it just makes you so fucking happy. You’re up on your feet before your brain catches up. 

You hug him tight, breath caught in your throat. Because he’s shaking a little, and he smells so good, and this is what he looks like when he’s proud of himself. When he’s living.

You pull back to look at him, hands on his jaw.

“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper.

And Yoongi’s expression shifts. Softens. Deepens. He takes a breath. 

“I love you,” he says.

Like it’s not sudden. Like it’s been sitting on his tongue for weeks, waiting for the right moment to fall out.

“I just—I do. And I didn’t want to say it while things were still messy, or early, or whatever. But this is what I wanted. That night, at the convenience store. This. You. Someone who gets it. Someone who doesn’t fix me but lets me stay. And I love you.”

Fuck. There it is. 

You don’t speak right away. You reach for him instead. Pull him back in. Rest your forehead against his and let yourself feel it. All of it.

And then, soft and steady, you say it back. 

“I love you too.”

✧

It’s not frantic, not this time. 

Not messy or rushed or born of need. It’s slow, reverent, deep. Yoongi’s hands cradle your face like you’re something fragile, something he’s terrified of breaking now that he knows what you mean to him. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. His breath catches when you tilt your head and kiss him harder but just as slow, open-mouthed and aching.

You walk him backwards toward the bed. He lets you. He goes willingly, grinning against your mouth like he can’t believe this is happening again, that you’re his, and that this time, it’s not just comfort or heat or distraction. It’s love.

He sinks onto the mattress, and you climb over him, straddling his lap, kissing him again and again, hands tangled in his hair, grinding down against the hard line of his cock through his sweats.

But then he pulls back. Barely. His hands settle on your thighs. His eyes are dark and shining and hungry.

“Let me eat you out.”

Your breath catches.

“I—what?”

Yoongi licks his lips. “You don’t get it,” he says, too far gone to filter it. “I’ve been wanting to. Since the night I fingered you against your fucking door, I’ve wanted to get between your thighs and just live there. I love you, and I love your pussy, and I’m gonna make you come so hard you forget every single bad day you’ve ever had.”

You stare at him, slackjawed.

Then you exhale, soft and wrecked, and whisper, “Okay.”

Yoongi repositions you onto your back, gentle, lips back on yours. His hands slide down your body like he’s mapping out every inch. He tugs your shirt off, unhooks your bra, kisses down your neck, your chest, your ribs, like he has all the time in the world.

And then he pulls your shorts down. Your panties too.

He groans when he sees you. Like, actually groans.

“God, baby. Look at you.” He kisses your inner thigh, drags his nose along the crease, eyes flicking up to yours. “So fucking pretty.”

And then he licks into you.

You cry out, sharp and sudden, because it’s so much. He’s warm and wet and greedy, tongue flat against your clit, then pointed and precise, then everywhere, like he can’t choose, like he doesn’t want to.

He moans against your pussy like he’s the one being touched. Like he could cum just watching you feel good, because of him.

“Yoongi—shit—” Your hands fly to his hair, thighs trembling, already shaking, already close.

He wraps his arms under your thighs, holding you open, keeping you grounded, mouth working you over like he’s worshipping you. He sucks on your clit, gentle but firm, and you arch off the bed.

“I’m gonna come,” you warn, voice breaking. “Fuck, Yoongi—”

He groans, messy and eager, never once letting up. And then you do.

You come hard, thighs clamping around his head, hands in his hair, eyes rolled back. It’s hot and overwhelming, your body jolting and twitching, his name a broken whimper on your tongue.

He keeps going until you push him away, overstimulated and trembling.

“Jesus,” you breathe.

He grins, climbs back up your body, presses his mouth to yours without hesitation. You taste yourself on his tongue.

“You love me,” he murmurs, like it’s the best thing he’s ever been told.

You nod, dazed. “I do.”

He kisses you again.

“You’re gonna let me do that every day, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “If you keep doing it like that, yeah. I might not survive, but yeah.”

You let Yoongi kiss you for a while, slow and soft and full of so much love, but eventually, you push at his shoulder. He pulls back instantly, eyes wide and brows furrowed.

“Lie down,” you murmur. “Let me take care of you.”

Yoongi blinks, lips swollen and wet. But he lets you push. “Baby—”

“You’ve been working so fucking hard,” you say, crawling into his lap, straddling his thighs. “Let me ride you. Let me make you feel good. Please.”

Whatever protest he might’ve had dies in his throat the second you reach down and palm him through his sweats. He’s hard—has been since he had your pussy on his tongue—and he groans, low and helpless, as you slide your hand beneath the waistband.

You stroke him slow, loving, watching the tension bleed out of him with every pass of your fist.

“Fuck,” he whispers, eyes fluttering shut, hips twitching into your touch. “Feels good.”

You smile. Kiss his chest as he fumbles for the condom in his wallet.

When you finally sink down onto him, Yoongi lets out a groan. His hands fly to your hips, gripping hard, eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in his neck when he leans his head back.

“God—” he gasps. “Fuck, baby, you—”

“I know,” you breathe, grinding your hips in slow, careful circles. “I know. Just relax. Let me do this for you.”

You ride him slow, deep, dragging his cock through your tight, wet heat over and over. Every inch of him feels like it was made for you, thick and perfect and pulsing inside you, your cunt already fluttering from how good he made you feel earlier.

Yoongi can’t keep still. His fingers squeeze your thighs, your hips, then your waist, like he can’t decide where to hold on. Like he’s barely holding on at all.

He opens his eyes to look at you and whines, higher than he probably meant to. Because you’re riding him like you love him. Because your tits are bouncing with every slow roll of your hips, and your face is flushed, and your eyes are locked on his like there’s nowhere else you want to be in the entire fucking world.

It springs him into action.

He sits up, wraps his arms around you, mouths at your tits like he’s starving. He sucks at one nipple, then the other, licking and kissing and biting softly like he can’t stop, like he needs to touch you.

“Yoongi,” you gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.

He moans into your chest. Hands moving down to your ass, guiding you up and down on his cock in that same slow, dirty rhythm, like he wants to make this last forever.

“Can’t even think,” he pants. “You feel so fucking good—too good—fuck, I love you—”

You ride him harder, faster, your hands on his shoulders. Your whole body shakes with how good it feels to be full of him, to see him like this—wrecked, undone, yours.

“I’m so close,” you whisper, hips stuttering. “Yoongi—”

“Come for me,” he begs. “Please, baby, come on my cock, wanna feel it.”

You do.

You fall apart in his arms, gasping his name, pussy clenching around him so tight it nearly rips the orgasm out of him too. You’re shaking, sweating, still grinding through it as he buries his face in your neck, groaning your name, fucking up into you just a little, just enough—

He comes with a low, broken ‘fuck,’ arms locking around your waist, cock pulsing inside the condom. He’s so loud, so needy, and god, you’ve never loved anyone like this.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathless and slick with sweat, still joined, still trembling.

And Yoongi holds you like he never wants to let go.

✧

You stay like that for a while, pressed to his chest, his arms strong around your back, the rhythm of his heartbeat still racing under your cheek. The room smells like sweat and sex. Yoongi’s hand is stroking slow lines up and down your spine. 

He hasn’t said much since you both came down, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Just full.

You’re the one who breaks it.

“I did something,” you admit.

Yoongi hums, not missing a beat in the way his fingers trace over your skin. “Yeah?”

You nod against his chest, then force yourself to sit up, just enough to look at him. His hair’s a mess. His eyes are half-lidded and lazy, but sharp with attention the second he realizes you’re serious.

“I applied to grad school.”

Yoongi blinks.

“For writing?” he asks.

You nod again, heart hammering. “Yeah. An MFA. I submitted a portfolio. Finished something for the first time in forever. I would’ve told you sooner, I just—” You shrug. “I didn’t want to jinx it.”

His mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again, like he’s still processing.

And then he grins. Slow. Genuine. Gums showing and eyes shining.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, sitting up and grabbing your face in both hands.

Your eyes sting. “I don’t even know if I’ll get in. It’s probably stupid—”

“It’s not,” he cuts in, firm and quiet. “It’s not stupid. It’s huge.”

You try to look away, but he keeps your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, grounding you.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he says. “Seriously. I’ve watched you try so hard to find something again, and you did it. Whether or not you get in doesn’t matter. You tried. That’s fucking everything.”

You bite your lip, blinking fast. Yoongi kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your mouth.

“Thanks for telling me,” he murmurs. “I’ll keep it safe.”

And you know he will.

For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel so terrifying.

✧

The email comes on a Wednesday.

You’re not expecting it. You’ve nearly forgotten the timeline, pushed it into the back of your mind like a daydream you didn’t want to get too close to. You’ve been telling yourself not to hope too much. Not to want it, even though you do. Badly.

It hits your inbox around 11:42 a.m., and you stare at the subject line for a full minute before you open it. And then—

You’re in.

You read it twice, then two more times. It still doesn’t feel real. You read the phrase We’re pleased to inform you like it’s in another language. Like it’s not something anyone was ever supposed to say to you.

Then you laugh. A startled, breathless sound that turns into something half-sobbing.

You call Yoongi.

He doesn’t pick up on the first try—he’s a busy man these days—but he calls back two minutes later.

“Hey, baby. What’s—?”

“I got in.”

There’s a long pause.

And then, softly, “what?”

You swallow hard. You’re pacing your kitchen now, barefoot and trembling. “I got in. Grad school.”

“Holy fuck.”

You laugh again, breathless. “I know.”

“Holy fuck.”

“I know! Yoongi—”

“You got in,” he says. “You fucking got in.”

He sounds like he’s smiling. Like he’s trying not to cry. You’re trying, too.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “So fucking proud of you. I’m gonna lose my mind.”

Your throat tightens. “I don’t know what to do now.”

“Come to the studio,” he says instantly. “No one’s here today except me. I’ll order food. I’ll roll a joint. I’ll kiss you a lot. Do some very dirty, celebratory things to you on the desk, if you want.”

You’re already grabbing your keys. “Okay. Yeah.”

“Meet me out back.”

When you get to the studio, he’s outside. Leaning against the back of the building, waiting. The joint is already rolled, tucked neatly behind his ear, and he’s got that look on his face—that slow, lazy grin.

“You,” he says, pushing off the wall the second he sees you. “Fucking you.”

You don’t say anything. Just drop your bag on the cracked concrete and launch yourself into his arms.

He catches you easily, wraps you up in him—hoodie and warmth and the faint smell of cigarettes and detergent and Yoongi. His arms curl tight around your waist, and he lifts you slightly off the ground as you bury your face in his neck.

“You got in,” he murmurs again. “You really—baby, you did it.”

You nod against him, laughing and sniffling all at once. “I did.”

He sets you down but doesn’t let go. Just pulls back enough to kiss you. Once. Twice. Then a third time, slower. Deeper. Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—buzzing and breathless and so fucking proud of yourself.

When he finally pulls away, he grins and taps the joint behind his ear.

“Celebration?”

You nod. “God, yes.”

He lights it. Takes a drag, passes it to you, and you both sit on the loading dock out back, knees bumping, fingers laced, smoke around your heads. The sun’s low in the sky. It’s chilly, but you don’t feel cold. Not with his hand in yours.

And everything’s… okay. Not fixed. Not perfect. But better.

Because loving Yoongi didn’t save you, and you didn’t save him. You still have bad days. Panic attacks. Guilt. Long, unbearable silences you have to claw your way out of. He does, too. Life is still life.

But he holds your hand through it.

And when things are good—like now, like this—you feel it in your bones: you love him. You fucking love him.

You lean into his side, head on his shoulder, and you think:

I can do this. I can live this life. 

Especially if he’s in it.

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[mylovesstuffs]

birthday afterglow 🚿 joshua hong × fem!reader.

✩ ! includes :: smut-adjacent | MDNI!. husband!joshua x dead-tired!wife!reader. established relationship. heavy post-coital fluff, consensual use kink (??), one-sided physical effort (consensual ofc), implied 4+ rounds, sleepy dialogue, mildly cracky. soft birthday sex aftermath. 629 words. notes :: ig my first actual drabble? indulgent, sleepy, feral domesticity. unproofed, but powered by delulu strength. I think I was very sleepy too when this prompt popped up in my head.

You were boneless, and not in the sexy, flexible way, but in the, if you ask me to lift a single toe, I’ll pass out and see God, kind of way.

Four rounds. Four.

Joshua lies beside you, chest still heaving. Skin slick with sweat, his warmth pressed along the length of your spine, trying to sink back inside you by proximity alone. The room smells like vanilla-sweet infused by sweat and skin; remnants of what you both have done to each other. He’s been all smiles earlier when you surprised him with a low-lit dinner and a ribbon-tied ‘gift’ only he can unwrap.

But now? Now, he was hovering above you, eyes dark and still so goddamn hungry.

“Babe,” you mumble, face half-buried in the pillow. “Please. I can’t feel my legs.”

Joshua chuckles low in his throat, sound stitched from both affection and pride. “I know,” finger brushes sweaty strands of hair from your cheek. “You did so good for me.”

You let out a half-pained, half-mocking groan, wriggling slightly where you lie, skin sticking to the sheets. “You’re still hard, aren’t you?” He doesn't answer, but the press of his cock against your thigh gives him away. You can feel it. A beat of silence passes before you sigh, voice hoarse and completely serious, “Use me if you still need to. I’m not moving again.”

There is a literal pause for a good five seconds before the reaction you expect from him finally comes. He moans—like actually, moans. Soft and almost whiny, “God,” he breathes out, nuzzling against your shoulder like he is trying to restrain himself from trying to crawl inside you without actually doing it. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I do mean it,” you mutter sleepily. “Just... don’t expect eye contact. Or movement. Or words.”

You feel his lips ghost over the top of your spine. “You sure?”

“I’m your wife. This is part of the job,” you deadpan as if that is the entire argument in itself. Dry delivery, with no frills, the tone makes it impossible to tell if you are serious or just playing for the effect. “Happy birthday.”

Joshua lets out a fond breathless laugh that rumbles from deep in his chest but doesn't bother making a show of itself. His lips brush your shoulder again like a muscle memory he doesn't have to think about anymore. “I love you,” he says into your skin, not because he expects an answer, but because it is true in that moment and every other one too.

You hum, not even a full word but just enough to say, heard you. Say, me too. “Love you too,” already half-melted into the pillow. “Now go ahead. I’m just gonna nap while you commit a felony on my body.”

He groans, burying his face in the curve of your neck.

He dives in, and when he moves, it is slow. Every shift of his hips, every inch of contact, carries an edge of desperation; like he knows the moment will end and can't stop chasing it anyway. He whispers your name into your skin, clutches you like it matters, like letting go would split something wide open.

You don't move even when he breathes hard against your back. Not even when he says things that aren't full sentences but still get the meaning across. You just stay there, your body heavy and warm and unmoving, since you have poured every last drop of energy into him already—as your husband makes love to you one last time for the night.

Later, he lifts you gently, arms looping under you like it isn't the first time he’s carried you this way [it wasn't the first time]. Your legs don't argue; they’ve already given up.

⌦ 🚿 © mylovesstuffs | est. 2025. thank you for reading—your reblog means everything. until we meet again, stay cozy and keep dreaming! ◜ᴗ◝

[kxsagi]

hi babes! i just want to start by saying i absolutely love your writing and i have been left speechless by it and how GOOD IT IS!!! could i request a blue lock nagi x reader (headcanons or one shot whatever you see fit) of nagi dating someone who is very touchy, handsy and their love language is physical touch? like she is happy just touching him jumping on him etc. thank you!!!! 🫶🏼🫶🏼

“𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐥𝐞”

a/n: two nagi oneshots in a row let’s gooo

also thank you so much, you are so sweet, please take this oneshot as my appreciation 🌸💕

nagi seishiro is a simple man. he likes sleep, games, and snacks. 

and now, he likes you. 

correction: he adores you. 

especially when you're practically hanging off him like a koala twenty-four-seven. 

you’re the kind of girlfriend who doesn’t knock, just walks right in, throws your bag on the floor like it personally offended you, and immediately climbs onto his back like it’s your birthright. and nagi? doesn’t even flinch. he just adjusts his posture so you don’t fall off and keeps playing his game, one arm curled under your legs to hold you in place. 

“you didn’t even say hi,” he mumbles, but you can feel the smile in his voice. 

you squish your cheek into his shoulder blade. “your skin said hi. that counts.” 

he sighs. “lazy.” 

“look who’s talking.” 

but gosh, he loves it. he doesn’t say it often, but he’s a complete sucker for your touchy behavior. it makes him feel wanted, needed, even if you're just poking his face while he’s trying to nap or tangling your legs with his under the kotatsu. 

when you’re walking beside him, your arm always loops through his like you’ll die without contact. sometimes you even swing them dramatically like you're on some sort of romantic anime opening. nagi doesn’t stop you. he just blinks down at your hands, mumbles “mm” like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and lets you drag him around like a big sleepy husband. 

and when you’re on the couch together? you don’t sit on the couch, you melt onto him. across his lap. in his hoodie. on his chest. under his blanket. even if it’s a hundred degrees out, you’ll still find a way to burrow into his arms like a human furnace. 

“aren’t you hot?” he’ll ask. 

“yeah, but your arms are my air conditioning.” 

“… that doesn’t make sense.” 

“neither does my love for you.” 

nagi blinks slowly at the screen, dies in-game, and then kisses the top of your head like he’s been doing it forever. 

also, he never used to hold hands much, but now you’ve trained him like a pro. you’ll sneak your hand into his at random – while grocery shopping, on walks, or while waiting in line – and now he does it without thinking. even once reached for your hand in his sleep, like his body just knew you were too far. 

sometimes you jump on his back and demand he piggybacks you around the house like it’s normal. 

“you’ve got legs,” he mutters as he stands up with you clinging to him like a sleepy monkey. 

“they’re just for aesthetics,” you yawn. 

“cheater,” he says, but again, he doesn’t complain. if anything, he takes the long way to the kitchen. 

and every time you nuzzle into his chest when you’re tired, or tuck your hands into his hoodie sleeves, or wrap your arms around his neck out of nowhere with a sleepy “love you, sei,” he just hugs you tighter. 

because for someone who used to hate effort… loving you feels effortless. 

and having you glued to him like velcro? 

he wouldn’t want it any other way. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[moonlit-imagines]

Headcanons for being Tony Stark’s child

Tony Stark x child!reader

warnings: alcohol ment,

a/n: so i just really think that the concept of tony having the party kid as opposed to nerdy avenger kid would be a really cool idea to explore teehee. most of this does actually take place pre-avengers tho!!

prompt:

you were quite the exhausting kid

“is this really how it felt to raise me?” -tony

many of nights he’d find your bed empty, you’d snuck out to go have your fun as teenagers do

“yeah, boss, i imagine it was” -happy

you always showed back up in one piece (like him) and besides a little slap on the wrist you didn’t get much discipline

actually, it usually went like:

“so, where did you go off to last night?” -tony

“a party” -you

“really? didn’t want to loop me in before you snuck out…again?”

“last time i told you about a party you showed up!”

“uh—yeah, but it’s not like i went all dad on you and dragged you away or anything”

“yeah, you joined the party and offered to buy teenagers more booze”

“hey, they all loved you after that! and they couldn’t get enough of my classic dance moves” -tony, jokingly doing the sprinkler with one arm “but seriously, let me know next time”

“we’ll see about that” -you

^the above conversion went about the same every time

sometimes for entertainment purposes you’d try a little harder, throw a few pillows under the covers to make it look like you were still home to put a smile on tony’s face

“aw, y/n reminds me so much of me” -tony

tony was still partying at this point so you’d flip the script on him from time to time

“you were out late” -you

“what are you, a cop? leave me alone. actually, can you get me some aspirin and water?” -tony

“sure, one or two” -you

“make it three” -tony

he would nurse your occasional hangovers (what a great dad!)

okay, he didn’t always know when you were gone. he was busy a lot of the time with his own business and extracurriculars so you guys did just kinda do your own thing for certain stretches of time

honestly you could be a bit of a klepto in the best of ways

but only to tony and only for fun

“oh, great, where’s my car?” -tony

“which one?” -pepper

“the black one!” -tony

“be more specific” -pepper

“the only one missing from my garage!” -tony

“yeah, i know, just wanted to give you some more time to think about it” -pepper

“i changed the code on the lockbox like, five times this week. did they hotwire it?” -tony

“we are talking about your kid, right? pretty sure they just hacked it” -pepper

“i am…so proud” -tony

you MAY have gotten a few close calls with authorities, but nothing tony couldn’t handle

and up until tony’s accident, the phrase “you’re going to give me a heart attack” was silly and endearing

“you might actually give me a heart attack, y/n, give a guy some warning or just say please for god’s sake” -tony, now comes with an arc reactor in his chest

“sorry” -you

“what—huh—didn’t hear ya, wanna say that a little louder?” -tony, very sarcastically

i tell ya when he got that armor u couldn’t tell if u were gonna flip out at him or invite him to a party

or steal it for…you didn’t even know what

but tony was 3 steps ahead of you when all this came to be

and you weren’t very interested in weapons, still just parties and dumb fun for you

“dad, i dont wanna be a nerd, will you just let me go out?” -you

“come on! just help me in the lab a few hours, what’s it gonna hurt?” -tony

“my social status” -you

“might i remind you you’re a stark? i think you’ll live if you miss one party” -tony

“you’d be surprised” -you

“hey, i almost died! give your old man a break” -tony

once tony got involved with SHIELD and the avengers he got even busier really

and in came the parenting advice from fury, clint, nat, steve

“hey, i don’t see you raising a teenager, back off” -tony

*clint side eye*

steve once tried to give you a good talking to, but you reminded him a great bit of your father with your stubbornness

“you done? i dont think you should be giving out any parenting tips fresh off the ice” -you

tony was kind of proud of you for sticking to your guns

especially around such powerful people

but you had a knack for that and could do it to practically anyone

mostly because you felt like an invincible teenager since you were raised by tony, who also thought himself an invincible teenager at one point

u tried to tone down giving tony grief when he started having panic attacks

since u accidentally caused a few by pushing boundaries and staying out for several nights in a row

cuz as tony gained more enemies, he thought you’d be in more danger

which was true

“happy, you’re y/n’s personal bodyguard” -tony

“no!” -you

“uh, cool? any fun parties planned tonight? i’ll be the designated driver. god knows i’ve been tony’s too many times” -happy

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