#coming back from the dead just to post this

[sigynpenniman]

HELLOOOO it’s me oakley, local ggg fan. PLEASE tell me about the mcr tour and lore. i’m so curious

AHEM.

Well

Okay no for real where do I begin I haven’t actually considered how to start explaining this to someone who is completely new to it. I’m so used to throwing around phrases like ketchup and mustard hot dogs at state execution and it making sense to others immediately

okay so basically MCR are currently on tour, on a “play the well-loved album straight through front to back” variety of tour. The two things you need to know about the current state of my chemical romance are 1. They’re essentially permanently silent and often appear to be motionless and 2. They are never ever ever actually motionless and they are always fucking Up To Something, they just almost never tell us what it is until all of the sudden they scare the shit out of us on a random Sunday in November

so the last MCR tour in 2022 & 2023 had a running theme of Gerard dressing up in various outfits, ranging from obvious costumes (like Halloween bodysuits) to casual feminine looks like knitted dresses, but there was always A Fit, and it was generally a different Fit with a different reference every night. However in the very end of the tour, they played the same character at every show for a couple of weeks - we call it the Dead Secretary

^ this is the dead secretary. Nobody really knows exactly who they are meant to be, but given some of the phrasing written on the drums & Gerard’s fascination with 9/11 the character at the time seemed to be somehow 9/11 related

Gerard then waved at the crowd and walked silently offstage in Osaka Japan, without a word or explanation, and then MCR, as they do, then went completely silent for a year and a half, leaving us bewildered and scared in the dark

In November of last year, they finally reappeared with a new logo in a very obviously non-English font and a tagline. The next day we got the first of a series of trailers (do you see a familiar face in there? Perhaps a woman you may recognize from above?) explaining exactly what was happening: they were going on tour with The Black Parade, and there was at least some level of theatrical fascist critique at play.

They then left us more or less in the dark with very little by way of clarity for another 8 months. because this is MCR and they’re terrifying

We are actually officially mid-tour now, and this is what has turned out to be the lore:

The Black Parade are an in-universe band in the fictional nation of “DRAAG” (we don’t know what it stands for), a pseudo-Russian-Italian-German-amalgam fascist dictatorship. The Black Parade, in existing MCR lore, “died” in Mexico in 2007, in a planned move to kill off those alter egos and move to their next era. In our new lore, “somehow they came back” (quoth Mikey Way) and are now being ?forced? to perform by DRAAG’s “Grand Immortal Dictator.” The general flow of the show is thus: the band comes out, they do a couple songs, Gerard introduces them to the crowd as The Black Parade in an ever changing and very funny accent, a couple more songs, a guy in a suit (“The Clerk”) comes out and hands Gerard a piece of paper which they read on stage, but don’t read aloud (the paper is generally thrown into the audience, and fans pick it up later and post its contents - which thus far have been different every night). They do another song and then we have the “Elexecution.” A group of 4 bagged individuals are stood up on the b stage in the middle of the stadium, Gerard explains their crimes (generally “questioning the grand immortal dictator”) and the audience is asked to vote on their execution using red and black cards that are handed out when everyone enters the building. This is deliberately played every show as a literal magic trick, as Gerard as a rule deliberately phrases their instructions to the crowd so no one actually knows which side of their card saves the 4 people. However it doesn’t matter what the crowd chooses, as the 4 people always die - if Gerard attempts to save them, someone somehow will cause the execution to happen anyway, by threat or brainwashing. The limp stunt performers are hauled away and the show continues.

Not long after this the Clerk returns with another piece of paper which he tries to give Gerard, who generally refuses to accept it in some way. The clerk then slaps Gerard, hard, who crumples to the floor, sometimes leaving the paper behind, sometimes doing its bidding (once it was an ad read for ?fictional fiber supplements?). They then roll into Mama which is a song about hell and war and transgenderism, and to which they’ve added a new bridge about daggers and murder and treason, the implication being that there’s some plan to kill the dictator. Gerard takes their uniform jacket off here, and does this song in an undershirt. After another song the Clerk comes back and physically forces Gerard back into the uniform jacket, with some level of threat. They then play the last two songs of the album. As all of this is happening, assorted imagery is occurring on the LED volume onstage, culminating in the control and launch of some sort of missile or bomb (exactly who is bombing who remains somewhat unclear, probably deliberately). The last song is wrapped around to the first song again, and the Clerk comes back out on stage this time dressed as an opera clown. He and Gerard play off each other for a moment, before he stabs Gerard in the heart. Gerard dies convulsing on the floor and the rest of the band are black bagged and dragged away, and the clown slowly loses his mind, finally blowing up himself and the stage.

A lovely woman then comes out and plays a 10 minute cello solo and then the band comes back to the b stage in the middle of the stadium and goes Thanks Everybody We’re My Chemical Romance Wasn’t That Fun 💗. It’s THIS set where Inspekta turned up.

This is a thousand words and it is STILL AN EXTREMELY ABBREVIATED SUMMARY. The important thing to know is that the general plot appears to be this: the black parade have either been let out of political prison or literally resurrected, and are being forced to perform for the dictator’s regime against their will. They are trying, very very hard, to revolt, but generally they aren’t succeeding. However, very very crucially, the show is changing every night. Gerard retains their injuries from the previous show, and they seem to be getting smart about what’s happening (for example, Gerard blocked being slapped at the last show, and got poked in the eyes instead - they may turn up with black eyes this coming week). There’s also a lot of mentions of “reprogramming” and “reconditioning.” The implication so far seems to be that the band are being either brainwashed or straight up killed and resurrected between shows, with unclear levels of memory and awareness of the happenings of the previous loop.

^ our haunted doll 3 loops in, starting to deteriorate

again I am leaving so so much out. I haven’t even mentioned the hot dogs or the ventriloquist dummy Gerard treats like a child or the ENTIRE CIPHER LANGUAGE that all the merch and documentation is in (which we have all had to decode and learn to follow along) or Marianne (our GIRL) but that’s like. A short version. If you want more lore I have a super long post with every scrap of info I could find that I’m trying to keep updated as new lore drops. All the shows are on YouTube in full in decent quality and I. I really recommend it. The reason I say it feels relevant is that the general “anti-fascist and fuck politicians for real” themes of the show are Very Pointed and Very Intentional, and I find Inspekta being the god of leadership to be a very funny character to casually flail around with at the end of the politics and fuck fascism concert. Gerard hasn’t ever had a plush on stage before, this isn’t a known part of the MCR canon to us previously (maybe it will be now?) so the choice is interesting

the next show is Saturday night in Texas. The most interesting thing to see there is going to be whether Gerard has black eyes. So far they’ve only ever been slapped and have maintained their injuries from that - this is the first “new” injury, and whether they retain it will be important to determining how “permanent” the effects of each loop are. The hope and expectation from the fandom is that the band will break the loop eventually, and defeat the dictatorship for good. As of now, they have another show planned, at the end of a leg, in Mexico, where the black parade died last time - the question is, this time, are they going to live?

this was fun as hell to write thank you. im delighted by the developments. come hang out with us come watch the next show we livestream EVERYTHING there’ll be a post Friday/Saturday with all the accounts on all the platforms who are streaming. come see what happens next!!! And be the first to know if Inspekta appears again

[femme-foucault]

This is absolutely horrifying and I don't know how to archive this but holy shit it really all comes back. The history of technology is such that every so often again, we re-invent haunted media, techno-transcendentalism, and writing technology from the ouji board to the telegraph as a medium for communication with the Dead and the Divine. Don't make me actually pull open an MA report I haven't read since 2018 to refresh myself on whether it was the early 20th-century radio or another now-mundane technology used in "seances" and by whom....

This is part of a much larger phenomenon, but the particular shape of delusions in psychosis changing in accordance with new media technologies is pretty meticulously historically documented. I don't know of any reading in psych or contemporary work on this in AI yet (I am sure it exists and I just haven't read it -- AI has been around for a long time and many people have had psychotic* episodes that featured delusions** involving it). But historically, the inventions of the telegraph, telephone, radio, and early television off the top of my head introduced new recurring common paranoias and fears that really, really, really closely parallels everything in this post.

** I am using "psychosis" and "delusions" in a medical sense. Since this is Tumblr and I want to be sure.

Absolutely buckwild thread of ChatGPT feeding & amplifying delusions, causing the user to break with reality. People are leaning on ChatGPT for therapy, for companionship, for advice... and it's fucking them up.

Seems to be spreading too.

[spookysanta]

Dodging Bullets. (MBJ)

Summary: A secret visit to set for lunch with the girls means hiding from Michael — nay, Stack. And he’s not happy.

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x reader

Warnings: intense smut. you’ve been warned. choking, spanking, rough oral (m!receiving), rough fingering.

hellooooo! we’re back with another one of the fics on my checklist. there’s only two left! the poll will be posted later today. enjoy ;)

The New Orleans heat wrapped around you like breathless hands — damp, thick, and relentless. It crawled over your skin and stuck to your clothes, pulling sweat from your pores before you'd even taken three steps from the car. You tugged at the hem of your tank top and pushed your sunglasses higher up the bridge of your nose, the sunlight sharp enough to sting. Your body moved on autopilot, but your mind was still catching up, weighted by the sweltering air and something deeper. Heavier.

Jayme and Wunmi had called you out for lunch after shooting wrapped for the afternoon, swearing you needed to decompress. You’d agreed too easily, distracted and restless. It felt good to laugh with them, to sip lemonade through a straw and pretend your stomach wasn’t in constant knots. You hadn’t even realized what day it was on the call sheet.

Until you turned the corner and saw him.

Stack.

Michael stood across the lot, leaning against a dusty red 1930s truck like he belonged there, like the truck was just another prop waiting for him to give it purpose. The afternoon sun hit the edge of his jaw, casting gold against the deep brown of his skin. Dark slacks clung to thighs you knew too well, that sharp white shirt hugging the broad lines of his chest, sleeves rolled against his strong forearms. His jacket was tossed over one shoulder, casual and effortless. The fedora was tilted just enough to cast shadow over his eyes, but not enough to hide the curve of his smirk.

He was laughing at something Ryan said, the sound carrying across the pavement, the sound smooth and rich like molasses. And when the gold in his teeth flashed with the grin you knew all too well, the one that said he already knew how this story would end, you felt it. A kind of heat bubbling through you that had absolutely nothing to do with Louisiana summer.

Your feet faltered, freezing where you stood.

It wasn’t fair.

Then his head turned. Michael saw you, his spine straightening up from the truck like a slow exhale. One brow lifted, and that smile deepened, touched with something darker. 

"Baby girl," he called. Just two words, but the way they landed in your chest made your breath catch. His drawl was thicker than usual, the edge of his Mississippi character slipping into his tone like a slow blade. He nodded once, just his chin, in a quiet command. "Get over here."

Your stomach dropped. Admittedly, you hadn’t thought it through: you’d forgotten that he was filming his Stack takes this afternoon, and his Smoke takes in the evening. Which meant he’d be dressed like this all day. And he’d be nearby. And he’d be watching.

So you turned.

And ran.

Your trainers caught on gravel, slipping slightly as you pivoted hard, heart banging in your chest like it wanted out. You didn’t even think to look back. His voice rang behind you – sharply, steadily – but you tuned it out, focusing only on the path in front of you.

The truth was: you panicked. And you knew better.

But between the outfit and the hair and the voice, you knew you would’ve been dead meat anyway. Whether it’d be by your own hand or otherwise – you knew it would be only a matter of time before Stack ruined you in the best way.

–

The diner was cool and dimly lit, a haze of comfort you couldn’t settle into. The air conditioner hummed above your head, but it did little to quiet the buzzing in your ears. Or the buzzing coming from your phone.

You slid into the booth, breath still shallow, trying to slow your pulse. Wunmi raised an eyebrow as she sipped her iced tea while Jayme’s eyes were scrolling through the menu like nothing was wrong. You timidly placed your phone face-down on the table, hoping they wouldn’t notice the way your hands trembled.

Jayme laughed behind the laminated menu, grinning wide. "You barely made that corner. Thought you were gonna eat pavement."

Wunmi gave you a look from across the table, her eyebrows raising in amusement. "You ran like he was the police."

You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. "I panicked."

"He just looked at you," Wunmi teased, her voice lilting with amusement. "Didn’t even move."

"And spoke," you mumbled. "You heard that drawl. It’s not fair."

Your phone buzzed.

Once. Twice. Then again.

Wunmi didn’t ask permission. She grabbed the phone and flipped it over, her eyes scanning the screen. Her eyebrows shot up.

Jayme leaned over to peek and let out a low whistle.

The texts were short but pointed. Like bullets hitting bone.

You reached for the phone, but Wunmi pulled it back. "Oh, he’s mad mad," she said under her breath.

Another buzz.

You snatched it out of her hand, turned it face-down again, heart hammering against your ribs.

"He’s coming," you said softly.

Jayme raised her glass, "To poor choices and fine men who don’t take disobedience well."

The door opened, the overhead bell ringing with the chime that sent a chill down your spine.

Silence fell across the table.

You didn’t have to turn. You could feel it. It felt like gravity had shifted, like the air itself tilted in his direction.

Michael didn’t rush over. He didn’t need to.

He walked through the diner like a man who knew exactly how dangerous he looked. He was out of costume now: black joggers, white tee, gold chain catching the light like a warning. His eyes found you immediately, and the weight of his stare made your body lock.

He stopped at the booth, looking at you like you were already in his hands. His arms folded in discontent. "You really ran from me?"

His voice was low. Unamused. And entirely focused on you.

You opened your mouth to respond, but your throat tightened. You swallowed. "I-I panicked."

He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. "You left me standing there. In the heat. Talking to my damn self."

Jayme suddenly found her silverware very interesting. Wunmi took another sip of iced tea, pretending not to hear.

Michael didn’t look away. "Mind if I borrow her?"

Wunmi nodded curtly with a small “mhm”. Jayme gave a thumbs-up without looking.

You slid out of the booth on shaky legs. His hand was on your back the second you stood, hot and firm, guiding you a few paces away and out of earshot to any prying ears.

He stopped by the opening to the diner’s kitchen area, turning to face you, and stepping in close enough that his breath was hot against your skin. His voice dropped. "You saw me. I called you. And you ran?"

You nodded. "I-I didn’t know what to do,” you mumbled, your breath stuttered.  

Michael tilted his head slightly with a humorless chuckle. "You made me look like a fool."

Your eyes dropped. "I didn’t mean to."

"But you did."

You swallowed hard. "I’m sorry."

His eyes darkened. Not with anger, but with intention. He leaned forward, lips brushing your forehead in a kiss that didn’t soothe in the way they usually do. When he pulled back, his smirk was faint but ever-present. 

He pointed to the booth behind you. "Finish your lunch. Then take your ass home."

You blinked, confused.

He brushed past you to leave, mouth close to the shell of your ear. "I gotta finish work," he said, voice low, almost gentle. "But when I get there?"

He let the silence hang like a guillotine.

You nodded. Small. Quiet.

And he walked away, the door’s bell echoing in your head like an alarm.

–

Lunch was a blur after that.

You sat back in the booth pretending your soul hadn’t just left your body. Pretending the texts hadn’t made your thighs clench and your spine buzz like your phone’s vibration. You picked at your fries, nodded along as the girls carried on a completely unrelated conversation, trying to act like you weren’t filled with heat and dread and a sick thrill that curled in your belly when he used that voice to say your name like it was a warning.

Jayme offered you some of her sandwich. Wunmi cracked a joke that normally would’ve had you folded over the table, but your laugh came out too sharp, too late. 

But the tension in your limbs wouldn’t ease. When the check came, you didn’t argue – you just pulled out Michael’s black card and paid.

You needed to go. Needed to breathe. Needed to prepare.

You hugged them both, tried to smile, and stepped out into the heat like it wasn’t already swallowing you whole.

When you walked back to the lot, shuffling through the gravel, you saw him. Michael was leaning against your car, still out of costume, still dressed like sin.

The sleeves of his tee clung to his arms, skin damp from the heat. His forearms flexed casually where they were crossed. His eyes didn’t leave you.

You tried not to stumble as you approached, your shoes scuffing softly against the hot pavement. The sun had shifted just enough to glint off the windshield, throwing a flash of light across his jaw. But you weren’t focused on the sun. Or the street. Or anything else.

Michael was still. Way too still. Like a fuse waiting for flame.

Your mouth opened to speak, maybe to apologize again, maybe to say anything that might soften the edge in his stare – but before you could find a single word, he stood upright. His shadow fell over you instantly, his height and heat pressing into your space like a second atmosphere.

He reached behind you, gripped the driver’s door handle, and opened it with one smooth motion. His other hand landed on the roof of the car beside your head, caging you in.

“Go home,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper but it still cut clean through your chest.

You nodded quickly, stepping to the side, but he didn’t let you move.

His eyes swept over your face. Your mouth. The flushed skin at your throat. Then lower. “You hear me now, don’t you?”

You nodded again, throat dry. “Yes.”

“And just so I’m crystal clear,” He leaned in slow, lips brushing just beside your ear, his breath hot and deliberate. His voice dropped even lower, deep enough to rattle your ribs. “You ever run from me again… next time I won’t wait until we get home.”

Your breath caught.

“I’ll fuck you stupid right here in the backseat. In broad daylight. With the windows fogged up and your legs shaking so hard you’ll forget your own name.”

A gasp slipped past your lips before you could stop it, knees buckling just enough to make him smirk. He gripped your chin gently with two fingers, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you that you were his.

His lips brushed over yours, slow and soft, then bit your bottom lip. Just once, and just enough to make you gasp again. “Good,” he whispered. “Now go.”

And you did, seating yourself into the car, buckling your seatbelt with trembling hands and clenched thighs, and turning over the ignition. The sound almost – almost – drowned out the sound of your heartbeat in your ears. 

Your brain was foggy. With fear, ache, want. But also with the dangerous truth that you were in trouble. And you knew you’d learn to never run again. 

Not from him. 

Not ever.

–

The hours dragged slowly like wet rope across tile. You couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop checking the clock. You’d showered, changed, then changed again. Tried to eat something but couldn’t.

Everything smelled like him. The seat of your car, your pillow, the air around you.

Your phone hadn’t buzzed once since he walked away.

But when you heard the front door unlock, your body snapped to attention like a live wire. Your breath hitched. Your hands trembled.

The door clicked shut with a soft, final sound. When he entered the house, his footsteps were quiet. Measured. Intentional. 

You heard the rustle of his keys hitting the bowl by the door. The subtle tug of fabric as he peeled off his jacket. The faint sigh that escaped him as he finally crossed the threshold.

And then you saw him.

Michael stood in the bedroom’s doorway, framed by the hallway’s dim light, jaw set, shoulders rolled back like he was walking into a fight.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he just looked at you. And honestly…that was way worse.

He moved slowly, coming toward you with the kind of purpose that made your knees lock together. His silence wrapped around your throat like rope. “You ready to explain yourself?” he asked, voice cold.

You opened your mouth but closed it again. “I–” you started, but he held up a single finger.

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Your throat closed as you stood frozen in place, heat crawling up your neck.

Michael stalked closer until he was right in front of you, his body crowding your space, his presence stretching thick across your skin. “You ran,” he said. “While I was talking to you. In front of people.”

“I panicked,” you whispered.

He laughed, but it was cruel. “You panicked.”

His hand shot out, gripped your jaw, thumb pressing into the soft space beneath your chin, tilting your face up to his. “You really thought that was gonna fly? That I was just gonna let that shit slide?”

“I didn’t mean–”

“You didn’t think,” he snapped. “That’s what you didn’t do.”

Your eyes welled up, shame and heat burning behind your ribs.

“Strip,” he said, taking a step back, eyes boring into yours.

You froze. 

He didn’t move. “Everything. Move.”

You obeyed. Fingers trembling, heart slamming against your ribs, you peeled your clothes away piece by piece until you stood naked under his gaze.

Michael looked you over like he was assessing damage … or, rather, measuring what he was about to destroy. “Turn around, hands on the bed.”

This time, you moved without hesitation. And the second your palms hit the sheets, his hand came down hard across your ass.

You yelped out at the contact.

“Louder,” he growled.

Another slap. Then another.

Your legs buckled, your throat raw from the cry it dragged out of you.

He didn’t speak as he pulled your hips back, forcing you to arch until your spine trembled and your breath came shallow.

“You wanna run?” he snarled. “Let’s see how far you get.”

He thrust two fingers between your embarrassingly soaked folds. “You’re so pathetic,” he muttered, adding another finger and pumping deep, curling them against your G-spot until your knees shook. “Still drippin’ for me after all that?”

You choked on a moan. Tried to answer. Couldn’t.

“You don’t even deserve to cum tonight,” he said. “You deserve to cry.”

He pulled his fingers out, making you whimper at the loss of contact, feeling your hole clench with want. You heard the shuffle of fabric behind you, but you didn’t dare meet his gaze. 

He spat nastily on your cunt, lining the mushroom head of his cock at your entrance, thrusting into you so deeply, so fully, you couldn’t help but let out a scream that could’ve cracked open the ceiling.

You clawed at the sheets, back arching, eyes rolling back as he slammed into you over and over, the pace brutal, unforgiving, relentless.

“You mine?” he growled, fingers digging into your hips like vices.

“Yes,” you sobbed with a nod, eyes already fuzzy. “Yes–yes, I’m yours!”

“Say it again.”

“Fuck, I’m yours!”

“Louder.”

“I’M YOURS!”

He grunted in satisfaction, one hand fisting in your hair, yanking you up until your back was pressed to his chest.

“You gonna run again?”

“No–n-no, never–”

“You gonna ignore my calls?”

“No, I swear–”

He wrapped a hand around your throat, squeezing at the pressure point. “You better fuckin’ not.”

You took every snap of his hips. Every sting of his words. Every filthy word he growled into your ear. You took it until you were shaking, until your body betrayed you and started to cum around him even though you knew you weren’t allowed.

You cried out – your throat aching, your voice broken, desperate, apologetic.

He didn’t stop.

He fucked you through the orgasm, through the sobs, through the dizzy tears streaking your face. He flipped you over, pressed your knees to your chest, and went deeper.

You were nothing but sound and motion now. A ragdoll in his hands. A lesson he was making sure stuck.

When he finally came, it was with a snarl against your throat, his hips grinding deep, releasing in hard, punishing waves.

He didn’t pull out right away.

Didn’t loosen his grip on your thighs.

Just breathed. Heavy. Possessive.

Then he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “You feel that?” he grunted angrily. “That ache in your stomach? That burn in your throat? That’s me. That’s what happens when you run.”

You didn’t even register the shift in position until you felt him prop you against the headboard and Michael was kneeling in front of you, eyes dark, jaw locked tight. His hand cradled your jaw firm enough to keep you right where he wanted you.

“Open your mouth.”

Your lips parted automatically, tongue trembling as he tilted his hips forward, dragging the head of his cock along your bottom lip. Still slick. Still hard.

“You think I forgot about that smart-ass mouth?” His thumb tapped your cheek once. “You thought I wasn’t gonna handle that, too?”

You tried to speak. To beg, maybe. But he slid in before you could even get a sound out, the thick weight of him forcing your throat wide, inch by brutal inch.

Tears pricked your eyes but he didn’t pull back. He just held you there, watching you struggle around him, spit already pooling at the corners of your mouth. “Take it,” he growled. “All of it.”

You gagged once, then again. He rocked deeper.

Your hands clutched at his thighs, nails digging into his skin, but he didn’t flinch. He just kept going, letting your throat stretch, making you fight for every breath.

By the time he pulled out, a string of spit connected your mouth to the head of his cock, and your lips were red, swollen, wrecked.

Your chest heaved, voice completely gone now, throat sore. 

Michael smiled down at you with a grin that could only be described as devilish. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I fuckin’ thought.”

–

Michael didn’t speak again when he finished with you. He just laid you down with a reverence that cut against everything he’d just done, like he hadn’t spent the last hour using your body like a battleground. Like he hadn’t made you break in the best way.

The pillows were still warm, your limbs still trembling. He settled beside you, chest rising and falling in slow, heavy breaths, his gold chain sticking to his damp skin.

He looked at you like he was still angry, but he touched you like you were breakable.

His palm rested gently against your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth in slow, measured strokes. The sheets were half-draped over your waist, your chest rising in uneven, shuddering inhales.

You blinked up at the ceiling, voice barely audible when it finally came. “…You mad at me?”

His head turned instantly. “What?”

Your throat burned, and your voice was raw – broken glass laced with guilt. “I just… I didn’t know if you were still mad. You didn’t say anything.”

He stared at you a moment longer, then exhaled hard, like the question had knocked the wind out of him. He leaned in slowly, forearm sinking into the mattress as he hovered above you, nose brushing yours. “I was mad,” he said, voice low. “But not because you ran.”

You swallowed, lashes fluttering. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I was mad because you forgot who you belong to.”

His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb dragging across the corner of your mouth, wiping away the dried tears and spit from earlier. “You belong to me, baby. And when you run like that? When you look afraid of me? That shit makes me feel crazy.”

Your throat worked around the lump that built there. His voice was calm, but it shook something deep in you. “I wasn’t scared of you,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes scanning your face like he needed to etch it into memory. “I know that now.”

Then, quieter, almost to himself, “But I needed you to remember what it feels like to be claimed.”

You didn’t answer. But really, you didn’t need to.

He bent down and kissed your shoulder softly. Then your collarbone. Then your temple. “You okay?” he murmured. “Anywhere hurting bad?”

You shook your head, then paused, motioning to your throat with a weak gesture. He chuckled low, the sound rough and unapologetic. “You could’ve tapped out, y’know.”

You gave him a half-smile that barely lasted. “You wouldn’t have let me.”

He hummed and kissed your cheek again. “You’re right. I wouldn’t’ve.”

Then, after a long pause, “You scared me today.”

You blinked. “I did?”

He nodded, brushing a thumb along your damp hairline. “You ran so fast. Thought somethin’ was wrong. Thought maybe I crossed a line somewhere.”

Your chest squeezed. “I just… I got overwhelmed. Seeing you like that. Dressed like him. Sounding like him. I knew what was coming.”

His jaw flexed.

“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. I just… I didn’t know if I could take it.”

“But you took all of it,” he said, voice low with pride. “Every fuckin’ bit. And you're still here.”

You blinked slowly, vision blurring.

He kissed your forehead, then got up briefly. When he returned, it was with a damp washcloth and a bottle of water. “Drink,” he ordered gently, propping you up with one arm. “Don’t argue.”

You obeyed. Your throat ached with each swallow, but the coolness helped.

Afterward, he wiped you down slowly. Between your legs, behind your ears, under your breasts. Everywhere he thought to reach, until the shame melted from your skin and only warmth remained.

You were already drifting when you felt him tug the blankets over both of you. His arms wrapped around your middle, tugging you close until your back was flush against his chest.

“I’m not mad,” he murmured again, nose buried in your hair.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Then, after a beat: “But if you run from me again, I’m puttin’ a tracker on your phone, your car, and your titties.”

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[agustdsluv]

when it happened to me.

summary | you grew up next to him. you loved him before you knew what loving someone meant. and maybe that was the problem. there was no big fight. no betrayal. just distance. just time. now you see him in coffee shops, in dreams, in old texts you don’t open anymore. he hugs you now. he didn’t used to do that. and that’s what hurts the most.

“the world ended when it happened to me”

inspired by Sydney Rose’s “we hug now”

paring | jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings | best friends to lovers to strangers (maybe back to lovers) (maybe second chance later on?) angst, soft heartbreak, emotional whiplash, themes of loss, unresolved feelings, nostalgic imagery, mention of drinking and smoking, quiet grief, they both need to figure they’re feelings out, time skip, distance, and just heartbreak

word count | 3.8K

notes: I love a good heartbreak song, especially when it gets me in my feelings and I just get so much nostalgia and it just puts me in that phase where I want to write something out of it and so that’s what I did here. I know this is technically a friendship break up song, but then I got an idea out of it and that’s why l made them friends first and then lovers to strangers just to see where that went. This was supposed to be a one shot, but then I started writing more and more and so then this turned into a three part one shot so I might post more of it later. There’s a Jungkook point of view that’s coming for the second part and then the third part is just something that I’m working on at the moment but you’ll see how it goes and I’ll definitely posted it today. I don’t want you guys to wait to read all three parts so I’m going to try to post all three parts tonight and try to edit them as fast as I can and then tomorrow I’ll post the first chapter of the grudge.

MAIN M.LIST

part 1. | part 2. | part 3.

You don’t see stars here—just city lights.

They blink in a thousand different colors: red and gold and neon blue, casting their flickering reflections across car hoods and high-rise windows. The night never fully darkens in Seoul—it just shifts from day-bright chaos to the soft, constant hum of artificial light. Even in the dead of night, the streets pulse with movement. There’s always a cab rushing somewhere. A group of college students laughing too loudly. A distant siren wailing like it’s calling for something it can’t quite reach.

The air in Seoul is always buzzing, glowing, alive with the energy of ten thousand people chasing something. Dreams. Deadlines. Connection. Escape.

Y/N used to love it. The noise, the motion, the promise tucked into every subway tunnel and corner café. She used to feel like she belonged to this current, like she was moving forward with everyone else.

Now she mostly walks with her head down, her AirPods in, blocking out the city with music that reminds her of somewhere else.

Somewhere quieter.

Somewhere like Busan.

Where the skies opened wide at night. Where the stars didn’t have to compete with street lamps. Where the ocean’s breath hummed against the sand, and nothing ever felt quite as urgent. Where her memories lived in weathered rooftops and cracked sidewalks and the slow rhythm of a neighborhood that knew her name.

Somewhere like home.

Somewhere like the night she was seventeen and fell in love with her best friend.

She can still feel it sometimes. Not the moment exactly, but the feeling—like something in her cracked open and filled with light. It hadn’t been sudden. It had been growing all along. In every lazy bike ride. Every shared soda. Every time their shoulders brushed and neither of them moved away.

And then one night, it bloomed.

And then one day, it ended.

She walks a little faster now. The crosswalk light blinks green. The buildings glow above her like constellations made of glass and steel, but she doesn’t look up.

There are no stars here.

And she doesn’t want to be reminded of the ones she used to wish on.

Jungkook had always lived four houses down. Always barefoot in the summer, shirtless, tossing water balloons and skateboarding down their street like it belonged to him. And maybe it did.

He was the kind of boy the neighborhood revolved around. The kind of boy who made even the hottest August days feel like an adventure. He climbed rooftops like they were jungle gyms. He knew every shortcut through the woods, every hiding spot during flashlight tag, every crack in the sidewalk that could trip you up if you weren’t careful.

He was loud laughter at golden hour. Sticky popsicle fingers. A flicked water bottle cap hitting her knee. He was home, in the most reckless, sun-drenched form.

Maybe that’s why it hurt so much when he left it behind without looking back.

Because the street never felt the same after him. Quieter. Smaller. Like someone turned the volume down on her whole world.

Back then, everything was infinite. The sidewalks. The sleepovers. The late-night texts about absolutely nothing. He was the one constant in a world that kept shifting beneath her feet.

And she had clung to that. To him. Even when everything else—college decisions, graduation parties, the ache of growing up too fast—started tugging them in opposite directions.

Until the kiss.

Until she kissed him, or he kissed her—maybe it was both—and everything that had felt so safe suddenly wasn’t.

It happened on his front porch. The paint was chipped on the railing, the porch light flickering, and the cicadas were screaming loud enough to feel eternal. They had just walked home from someone’s backyard party, giggling and stumbling slightly, the kind of drunk that makes you feel invincible and weightless.

They sat shoulder to shoulder on the steps, the warmth between them more electric than the humid air.

A silence settled.

Not uncomfortable—just charged.

She could feel her heartbeat in her throat. Could see the outline of his jaw in the yellow porch light. He was twirling the cap of his drink between his fingers, but his knee kept bouncing like he had something to say and didn’t know how.

So she said it with her eyes.

So did he.

They kissed on his front porch the night before graduation, half-drunk off convenience store soju and the kind of hope you only have when you’re seventeen. He tasted like salt and citrus. His hands shook. And when she pulled away, blinking against the blur of her own breathless thoughts, he said:

“What now?”

And she said, “I don’t know.”

And that was the beginning of the end.

Because no matter how long they sat there afterward—hands nearly touching again, cheeks flushed, trying to laugh it off like it didn’t change everything—they both knew it had.

There was a line now. A crack in the foundation.

Something delicate had been broken, even if neither of them wanted to admit it.

And by the time morning came, and the world was dressed up in caps and gowns and cheap leis and big, glittery dreams—

They were already drifting.

Y/N gets coffee in Canton.

The place hasn’t changed much—same chipped counter, same dusty chalkboard with outdated seasonal drinks. The peppermint mocha special is still written in faded red marker, even though it’s mid-July. The ceiling fans creak faintly, turning just enough to stir the warm air. The booth cushions are still lopsided, like someone sat in the same spot too many times and left a memory behind.

She orders her usual and takes a seat by the window because the barista said it’d be ten minutes, even though she could see they weren’t that busy.

Outside, the street is slow. A dog tied to a bike rack barks once, then settles. A mother pushes a stroller past the flower shop. It’s quiet in that small-town way—familiar, almost tender, like everything here still remembers her, even if she tried to forget it all.

She doesn’t realize she’s bouncing her leg until she sees it. She still does that when she’s nervous.

She’s wearing the jacket she always wears when she comes back here—light, soft, a little frayed at the sleeves. Her fingers toy with the hem. She checks her phone even though no one’s texting. It’s been years since they last saw each other, and now she’s trying to remember how she used to look at him without it showing on her face.

The door jingles.

Jungkook walks in wearing a black hoodie, hood up, like he could hide. But of course she notices him instantly. Her stomach drops. It’s like a time loop. Like no time has passed at all.

He looks older—but not in the obvious ways. There’s something quieter about him now. Less spark, more gravity. His jaw’s sharper, his hair a little longer than she remembers. There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there before, or maybe she just didn’t notice them back then.

“Y/N,” he says with a half-smile.

“Jungkook.”

His name tastes like memory. Like bike rides and bonfires and bare feet on gravel.

He sits across from her. They don’t hug.

They never used to hug.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says.

“You’re only five minutes late.”

It’s small talk, but it lands heavy between them. He glances down at the table. She notices the ring of condensation his coffee leaves behind. He notices the way she avoids his eyes when she sips her drink.

“You look different.”

“So do you.”

There’s a silence then, taut and fragile. The kind of silence where everything unsaid waits just under the surface, ready to pull them under.

They talk. They pretend like it’s casual. Like they didn’t spend half their lives orbiting each other. He fidgets with the edge of his coffee sleeve and laughs too hard at things she says. She pretends it doesn’t feel like a funeral in her chest.

He tells her about his apartment in Seoul. She tells him about grad school. They nod in the right places. Smile at all the wrong times. Every word feels like it’s standing in for a hundred more they’re too afraid to say.

The barista calls out someone else’s name. A chair scrapes across the floor. A door slams outside. And through it all, she keeps glancing at the clock on the wall, wishing time would either stop or speed up—anything but this dragging in-between.

And when they leave, they hug.

A short, stiff hug that’s over before she can remember what it used to feel like.

And that’s what breaks her most.

Not the hug itself. Not even the silence afterward.

But the way it makes her realize—this is what they’ve become.

Two people who used to share everything. Now sharing a hug like strangers.

And neither of them says, Let’s not wait so long next time.

Because maybe they both know—

There won’t be a next time.

Sometimes she goes to sleep and she’s still seventeen.

Seventeen, when the world was golden and wide and full of promise. When time moved slower, like honey in the summer heat, and everything important could be carried in the back pocket of a pair of ripped jeans.

Still wearing that thrifted dress she wore to their last summer bonfire. The one with the fraying hem and tiny daisy print, clinging to her skin in the humid air. It smelled like sunscreen and smoke by the end of the night. She loved how he looked at her in it—not like she was someone he knew, but someone he was still learning how to love.

Still watching him dance with a sparkler in his hand like a firefly come to life. His laughter echoing under the stars. His silhouette framed by the glow of firelight and youth. The sparkler hissed and popped in his hand as he spun in loose circles, daring her to join him. He always did that—made life feel like a dare worth taking.

Still hearing the sound of his voice in the dark when he said, “Promise me something.”

“What?”

“That no matter what happens next, we’ll always be us.”

She promised.

They broke it.

And it hadn’t been a sharp, sudden break—it had been slow. Like a rope fraying thread by thread until there was nothing left to hold. She wonders sometimes if he remembers making that promise. If he ever thinks about how long she tried to keep it after he stopped trying.

Now he lives in another city. He models. He sings. He laughs in videos and flirts in comments and gets recognized in public.

He shines there.

Bigger. Brighter. Like he was always meant to leave this version of himself behind.

She stays small. Studies literature. Works part-time at a bookstore. Writes poems she never posts. Thinks of him when she sees the moon through cracks in the smog.

And sometimes when her apartment gets too quiet and the poems won’t come and the sky is too gray to pretend, she’ll open their old texts—not to read them, just to scroll. Just to feel the weight of his name in her hand again. Just to remember what it felt like to be seventeen and so sure that someone would never leave.

She closes her eyes.

And in the place where sleep and memory blur, she’s there again—on that beach, in that dress, chasing a boy with a sparkler and a heart she didn’t know she’d lose.

Every day after May felt like aftermath.

It was the kind of quiet grief no one prepared her for—drawn out and shapeless, like waking up in a house you no longer recognize. There was no date she could circle on a calendar, no moment she could point to and say, That’s when we ended. Just the slow, agonizing fade of something once electric, now flickering out in silence.

It wasn’t one big fight. No screaming. No cheating.

Just… distance.

A breath between them that kept stretching.

One skipped reply became two. One missed call became a habit. She started rereading old messages just to remember what it felt like when he used to call her first, when her name on his phone meant something more than obligation.

He got busy.

She got scared.

Too scared to ask if she was still important. Too proud to say, I miss you, in case he didn’t say it back. She told herself not to be needy. Not to take it personally. He had a new life now, and she was supposed to be happy for him. That’s what you do when you love someone—cheer from the sidelines even when you’re no longer in the game.

Texts slowed. Calls missed. “Sorry, I’ll call tomorrow” became “next week.” Until eventually, there was nothing at all.

No goodbye.

No closure.

Just the sound of the wind where his voice used to be.

And that silence? It screamed louder than anything ever could.

It filled the spaces where their inside jokes used to live. Where his hoodie still hung behind her bedroom door. Where her heart kept reaching for a version of him that stopped reaching back.

She never told him everything she wanted. How no one else has come close. How every guy she’s met since has only made her miss him more. How she still looks at old photos when she’s drunk, just to remember what it felt like to be loved without needing to ask for it.

Like that one picture of them on the pier—her leaning into his side, his sunglasses pushed up on his head, both of them laughing mid-blink. It wasn’t posed. It wasn’t perfect. But it felt like them.

And sometimes, that’s the one that ruins her the most.

But she doesn’t tell him that now.

Because they hug now.

And they don’t talk about the past.

They smile in the right places. Ask about work. Mention mutual friends like it doesn’t sting. They act like they don’t remember everything—the secrets, the softness, the promises they whispered in the dark.

And maybe he doesn’t.

But she does.

She always will.

In her dreams, he’s not mad at her.

He smiles like he used to. Calls her “bug,” the nickname he gave her after she cried about a spider in the shower freshman year. In the dream, they’re seventeen again—feet in the pool, grape soda between them, moonlight painting silver on their skin. Everything is soft in that space. Easy. Like they never broke. Like they never learned how love can curdle into silence.

In real life, she doesn’t know if he even remembers what they had. He’s always polite when she runs into him during visits home. Cordial. Friendly. Like someone she once sat next to on a plane, not someone she once planned a future with.

He’ll nod, ask how her parents are. Compliment her hair if it’s changed. Make small talk like they don’t both remember how her voice cracked the night she told him she didn’t want to lose him.

It’s mechanical, almost. A routine.

He’s good at moving on.

She’s still practicing.

She thinks of texting him sometimes.

When she hears their song on shuffle. When she walks past a boy wearing a hoodie just like his. When she orders two drinks out of habit and realizes the second one has no one to belong to.

To say: “Do you ever think about it?”

To ask: “Was I the only one who felt like it meant everything?”

She types it out once at 2:17 a.m. The message sits there, blinking on her screen like it’s daring her. She stares at it until the battery icon turns red, then presses delete like it’ll erase the ache too.

But she doesn’t.

Because she knows he probably thinks it was just a small thing that happened.

A blip. A phase. A chapter.

A teenage crush, easy to outgrow.

But for her?

The world ended when it happened.

It was the unraveling of something sacred. The moment time split into before and after. She didn’t just lose a boyfriend. She lost her favorite laugh. Her late-night ride home. Her forever.

And sometimes, in the quietest hours—when even the city noise goes still—she still mourns the version of her that only ever existed when she was loved by him.

It’s raining the last time she sees him.

It’s not dramatic. No lightning. No grand confrontation. Just a quiet drizzle and the smell of petrichor clinging to the sidewalk.

They run into each other outside a 7-Eleven.

She’s just come from the bookstore around the corner, carrying a paper bag with a half-eaten sandwich and a dog-eared paperback she didn’t technically need. Her hair is damp at the ends, frizzing the way it always does when the air is thick with rain. Her hoodie is too thin for this weather, but she hadn’t expected to be out this long.

“Hey,” he says, pushing his hair out of his face. His voice is a little hoarse. Maybe from the smoke. Maybe from everything else.

“Hey,” she replies, pulling her hoodie tighter. Her voice is steadier than she feels.

“You look good.”

She huffs a soft, breathy laugh “You too.”

It’s not a compliment, not really. It’s a placeholder. A safe thing to say. Like checking the weather or asking about traffic. And yet, it still makes something sharp twist behind her ribs.

There’s a pause. The kind that stretches too long and says too much.

The rain is light but constant, like a background track that drowns out everything else—the cars passing, the neon signs buzzing, the faint music spilling from the convenience store’s open door.

“I saw your poem in that magazine,” he says after a moment, tipping the cigarette ash onto the pavement. “The one about the porch light.”

She freezes just slightly, grip tightening around her bag.

“Oh.”

“I knew it was about me.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You didn’t have to.”

He’s not smiling when he says it, but he’s not smug either. Just matter-of-fact, like he’s always known, and maybe didn’t know what to do with that knowledge.

Her lips part like she might say something—deny it, explain it, apologize—but nothing comes out. The truth is, she doesn’t even remember submitting it. It had been late, some night in March, when the world felt especially quiet and she’d run out of things to hold onto.

Another pause.

He doesn’t fill it this time. He just looks at her. Really looks.

Her face has changed—he can tell. Not in any huge, obvious way. But her eyes are different. Tired, maybe. Guarded. There’s a maturity in the way she stands, in the way she doesn’t rush to speak just to fill the silence. She used to hate awkward pauses.

Now she seems to live inside one.

“You okay?” he asks.

And the question lands heavier than it should.

She almost says no. Almost says I’m still stuck here, Jungkook. Still seventeen when I dream. Still waiting for you to say it mattered. Still waking up with that ache in my chest that no one else has been able to reach. She almost tells him that she sometimes checks his Instagram just to hear his voice again, even if it’s through a screen. That she once walked past his old house and cried on the curb for twenty minutes because the porch light was off.

But she doesn’t.

Because what would that change?

Because time doesn’t rewind.

Because they’re strangers now who happen to share a handful of memories and one too-honest poem.

So she just smiles.

“I’m good.”

And they hug.

It’s the first real hug they’ve shared since it ended. The first one that isn’t born out of obligation or politeness or awkward nostalgia. It’s warm. It’s tentative. It lingers.

And this time, she lets herself hold on just a second longer.

Just enough to remember what it felt like to be sure of someone. To be known.

His hands rest on her back like he remembers the shape of her. And for one second—just one—he pulls her in like maybe he doesn’t want to let go either.

But then he does.

They both do.

And he steps back, clearing his throat. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“You too.”

He drops the cigarette. Crushes it under his shoe. Nods once.

And then he walks away.

She stands there for a long time, unmoving, the rain curling at the edges of her sleeves.

Because even if he forgot what it meant—

She didn’t.

Months later, someone asks her who her first love was.

It’s a quiet evening. One of those slow, stretched-out nights where conversations spill past midnight and everything feels softer, closer. There’s music playing low from someone’s speaker—some indie song she doesn’t recognize, but it sounds like something she would’ve loved back then.

She’s sitting cross-legged on a friend’s floor, a warm mug of tea in her hands, surrounded by people she’s grown to know in this newer chapter of her life. Friends who know the current version of her, the one who moved cities and got older and learned to carry her heartbreak with a kind of grace.

They’re trading stories. About exes. About first kisses. About the people who ruined them and the ones who shaped them.

And then someone turns to her.

“What about you?” they ask. “Who was your first?”

She doesn’t say his name.

She thinks it, though.

Feels it like muscle memory in her chest.

Like the ghost of a hand holding hers under a blanket fort. Like summer sweat and porch light moths and the thrum of his heartbeat in a quiet car. Like all the things that felt permanent until they weren’t.

She just says, “We grew up together. Fell in love. Grew apart. It’s the kind of thing that feels huge when you’re in it. Like the end of the world.”

The room gets quiet for a beat, like they can feel the weight of it. Like they can hear the part she’s not saying out loud—the way it didn’t just feel huge. It was.

“Was it?” they ask.

And she smiles, sad and sweet and soft.

“It was when it happened to me.”

She doesn’t elaborate. Doesn’t explain the ache that lingered in her for years. Doesn’t say how long she waited for closure that never came. Or how she still dreams about him sometimes—always seventeen, always that last night before it all unraveled.

She sips her tea. The room moves on. Laughter picks back up, the moment slipping gently back into the haze of the night.

But for just a second, she feels seventeen again.

And she lets herself miss him.

Just for a moment.

Just enough to remember he was real.

[enjakey]

One Life

PAIRING: Jake x Fem!Reader

TW/N | (6.3k) AFTER POPULAR DEMAND, this is a sequel to ONE NIGHT so please go read that. this part is very different ofc it’s a lot of missing each other and yearning. Please enjoy! This fic is long overdue it’s been sitting in my drafts and I keep hesitating to post it but it’s finally here! Enjoy! Please live and reblog and comment and tell me your reactions it makes my day!!

SMUT TAGS: oral (fem receiving), fingering, p in v (protected sex), yearning, lots of talking (communication in general is great guys)

SUMMARY: after spending the night with Jake, an idol you’d been keeping up with since his debut, you realise that you now have to face the consequences of it. The netizens never found out, sure, but you also didn’t see him after that night. He’d left before you had woken up. What else were you expecting? But Jake had a way of coming back- he always did, and he would always stay.

Part 1: ONE NIGHT

You sat at the edge of your desk, a cubicle at a marketing firm you hated working for. But they paid well and sponsored travel expenses- you feigned loyalty. 

An excel sheet sat open in front of you, a full mug of coffee cooling beside you. Employees walked up and down the office isles, greeting you; greeting them. Even the manager waved at you and you waved back- then immediately went back to biting the cuticles of your nails.

You were on the verge of combusting.

It didn’t matter how many times you’d tried distracting yourself- loud music, reminding yourself of the list of piling chores you had to complete, deadlines looming closer- nothing seemed to work. It was eating away at your time, at your goddamn sanity.

Jake- his lips, the way he looked at you, the way his hair fell as soft curtains, the way he whispered your name like you were the only thing that mattered to him, the way he held you like he wanted you to stay- kept you awake and distracted from the reality of your life for two weeks now.

It’d been two weeks since you’d come home from that business trip, two weeks since you’d met him in that fated elevator, two weeks since you walked around the neighbourhood with him in the dead of the night, two weeks since you let him into your bed, two weeks since he kissed you and had his hands roam your skin in heat- two weeks since you gave him your hair tie.

That damn hair tie.

You didn’t mean to, it just sort of happened- falling down the rabbit hole of ENHYPEN, of Jake.

It started with an innocent edit that showed up on your recommended- that cowboy edit the internet went crazy for. And then, it was watching edit after edit- the old ones, the new ones and everything else in between.

Fan signs, performances, interviews, promotional content.

His smile, his laugh, the way he spoke, his hands, the way he made fun of his band members- everything ingrained into your head like an ache, like a bruise that’d never heal.

In everything that you watched- everything that was recent, at least- he had that damn hair tie on his wrist. Your hair tie. 

And when it wasn’t on his wrist, it was in his hair, pulling the strands back into a half up-do. Exactly the way he did that night with you, sitting at the edge of a bridge. Your idea. 

So what? What could you possibly do? Even if you knew they were coming to your city as their next destination of their tour, even if you could buy tickets to their next show, even if you wanted to desperately see them- him. 

Jake- despite that mundane night, where he just felt like a normal human being, where he felt like he could be more than just a person on your phone screen- was famous. 

There was nothing you could do about it.

Jake leaned back on the green-room couch, phone dangling loosely between his fingers, leg bouncing up and down like it had a motor of its own.

He was tired. He was always tired these days. Tour life was a relentless carousel of soundchecks, interviews, screaming crowds, and hotel rooms that all smelled faintly of stale air freshener. But beneath the exhaustion, something else had been simmering for weeks- a quiet, gnawing ache that he couldn’t seem to shake.

You.

He hadn’t been able to get you out of his head. Your laugh, your nervous little smiles, the way your eyes had softened when he’d handed you his jacket that night. The way you’d touched his hair. The way you’d touched him. 

He could still feel your fingers threading through his hair. He could still taste your skin on his tongue. He could still feel the weight of your body under him.

Jake squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a breath through his nose. God. It was driving him insane.

He’d thought time would blur the edges of that night, but instead, it burned sharper with every day.

He saw you everywhere- when Jungwon bought ice cream at a convenience store, the same one you got that night; when Jay sprayed his perfume and it somehow held scents of you; when Niki mentioned a movie he wanted to watch and he was sure that you’d mentioned it that night too.

A burst of laughter erupted across the room. The members were goofing off, half-dressed in stage outfits, hair still damp from rehearsal. Staff bustled around, prepping makeup tables, zipping and unzipping wardrobe bags. Amid the chaos, one of the stylists dropped a stack of clipboards on the coffee table, paper spilling everywhere.

“Ah, shit, sorry,” she called, scooping up the documents.

“It’s fine,” he murmured, eyes glancing down.

A logo on one of the sheets caught his eye. Bold, crisp letters. He blinked, brain lagging for a moment, then he leaned forward and tugged the clipboard gently from the pile.

He stared at the name. It poked at something inside his brain like a paperclip jamming a lock.

It sounded too familiar- he just couldn’t figure out why.

He looked down at his wrist. The hair tie was there- black, simple, delicate. Yours. The one you’d slipped off your wrist and handed to him that night under the stars. The one he hadn’t taken off since.

Suddenly, everything clicked- the name of your company, your job in marketing, the meeting you’d told him about, the business trip you’d been on.

His pulse skyrocketed. He could practically feel the blood roaring through his ears.

They were in your city- he realised. You were here.

His focus for the rest of the day had slipped past him. His mind, everything that he was- his energy, his conscience, his attention- was with you.

He kept losing his place in practice, stumbling over lyrics, forgetting his marks on stage. At one point, someone joked that he and Jay must have swapped bodies, because it was usually Jay who messed up, not him.

Jake barely laughed. He just dragged trembling fingers through his hair and tied it back with your hair tie, pulling it tight enough to hurt.

He kept asking for the time- 3pm, 4pm, 5pm, 6pm… 6:10… 6:15.

What time did people usually get off work?

He tried recalling if you’d mentioned anything about your work timings that night- eyes squeezing shut, trying to relive that conversation.

Nothing.

His breath turned ragged. 

They’d moved into a break. Everyone else had collapsed onto the studio floor, breathless and trembling, wet towels thrown over their foreheads as sweat dripped onto the polished wood.

Jake couldn’t join them.

While the others lay sprawled in exhaustion, he slipped away, his steps quiet, shoulders sagging under a weight no one else could see. He approached their manager, head hung low, every part of him radiating defeat.

Moments later, the manager signaled for the driver to take him back to the hotel, offering him a soft pat on the back and an understanding smile.

He slid into the van, pulse rattling like a trapped bird. His eyes stayed fixed on the darkened city as neon lights streaked past the window.

Instead of the hotel address, he gave the driver another one- the address he’d memorised in the green room earlier that day. The one he’d repeated in his mind during dance runs, between song verses, as though reciting it might magically pull you closer.

Your office address.

You were tidying up your desk, trying to pretend your day hadn’t felt a million hours long. You slipped stray pens into a mug, stacked your papers into a neat pile, and checked that your laptop was tucked safely into your bag. Outside the office windows, the sky was already slipping into dusk, a soft wash of orange and purple.

You glanced at the time and let out a groan, dropping your head forward for a second.

“I was just about to go home,” you muttered to yourself. “Please don’t let there be more work.”

You were reaching for your coat when you noticed Mia, the front desk receptionist, weaving through the rows of cubicles toward you. She looked flustered, like someone had asked her to explain quantum physics with zero preparation.

She stopped in front of your desk, clutching a small notepad in her hand. “No, it’s not work,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “There’s… a visitor here for you.”

You blinked at her, thrown off. 

“That has to be a mistake,” you said, squinting at her.

Mia lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “Well, he says he’s here for you. He wouldn’t leave until I checked.”

“Who is it?” You demanded, your pulse already picking up speed for reasons you couldn’t quite name.

She glanced down at her notepad again, like she still didn’t quite believe what she was about to say. “He said his name is Jake? Didn't give me a last name.”

Your heart practically stopped.

The name hit you like a punch to the chest.

Jake.

There was only one Jake your brain could conjure. The same Jake whose hair tie was probably still around his wrist. The same Jake whose lips you still felt on your skin, whose voice haunted your thoughts every night.

Your eyes widened, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe. Your mind whirred through a dozen explanations- maybe it was Jake from Accounting, or Jake from Legal, or literally any other Jake on planet earth- but you knew. 

Deep down, you knew.

Mia was still watching you, eyebrows lifted. “Should I… send him away?”

You swallowed hard, your voice caught somewhere in your chest.

You didn’t bother saying anything to Mia.

Your heart was thundering so hard you thought you might be sick. Clutching your bag and the stack of loose files you’d just gathered, you pushed past her, your steps brisk and uneven as you made your way out of the cubicle maze and through the glass doors of the office.

And there he was.

Sitting on one of the waiting room couches, hunched forward, elbows balanced on his knees as his fingers twisted and fidgeted in his lap.

Jake.

He looked almost exactly as he had that night, two weeks ago- the night he had unraveled you entirely.

He was wearing a black cap pulled low, a mask covering half his face, drowning in a baggy outfit with the same puffy jacket he’d draped over your shoulders in the cold. Only his eyes were visible, and even those were half hidden under the shadow of his cap. But there was no mistaking him.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Jake was almost convinced you weren’t going to show.

He kept glancing at the glass doors, willing you to appear, but as the minutes dragged on, the weight in his chest only grew heavier. It was past 8 p.m. Most sane human beings would have been home by now, curled up on the couch, maybe halfway through dinner or an episode of some drama.

But Jake couldn’t tell what counted as normal anymore.

The receptionist had fought him for a good ten minutes, insisting he couldn’t just barge into an office building unannounced, especially looking the way he did- hood pulled up, mask tight across his face, hands shoved into the pockets of his oversized jacket. He could practically see the questions in her eyes. Either he was a celebrity… or someone seconds away from robbing a bank. There was no in-between.

In the end, all he could do was lean forward, voice low and desperate.

“Just… get Y/N. Tell her Jake is here. She’ll know who I am. Please.”

And now he was here, sitting on the lobby couch, hands twisting over each other until his knuckles went pale, his heart beating so hard he felt it in his ears and throat. He thought he might actually combust.

But then-

He saw you.

You came through the office doors, arms full of your things, eyes wide as they landed on him.

For a second, Jake forgot how to breathe.

You looked almost exactly the way you had that night in the elevator. Except now, your expression was taut with confusion and shock, and your outfit was pure corporate polish- a fitted shirt tucked into a black skirt, heels clicking softly against the tile floor, your hair swept up off your neck.

Beautiful. God, you were beautiful. Just a little more tired around the eyes than two weeks ago.

And then he heard it. Your voice, small and incredulous. “You can’t be real.”

Jake pushed himself to his feet, each step careful, as though afraid he might scare you off if he moved too fast.

“Hey,” he said softly. His eyes squinted into that familiar smile, even if half his face was still hidden beneath his mask and cap.

“How are you here?” You asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jake rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “I, uh… remembered the company you work for. Realized I was in your city.”

Your eyes darted around the room, a faint panic shimmering in them. “How are you- you’re not gonna get in trouble for this?”

Jake let out a breathless laugh, lifting his hand to scratch the corner of his eye with his pinky. Even though you couldn’t see his grin beneath the mask, you saw it shining in his eyes.

As his sleeve shifted, the cuff rode up just enough to reveal his wrist- and there it was.

Your hair tie. Still looped snug around his skin like a secret. Like a silent brand that marked him as yours.

And he allowed it- he wanted it that way.

Jake swallowed, his voice softening. “I… I couldn’t stop thinking about you, Y/N.”

You blinked at him, trying to process everything all at once. “We… we can’t talk here.”

Jake didn’t even hesitate. “Then take me back to your place.”

He said it so smoothly, so casually, like there was no other option in the world. Like it was the most obvious answer.

You stared at him, lips parting, but no words came out.

For a moment, you could only hear the dull thud of your heartbeat and the faint hum of the office lights overhead.

Then you sighed, defeated, and pulled out your phone to book a cab.

The ride back to your apartment was quiet.

Outside, the city blurred past in streaks of neon and headlights, but inside the car, the silence pressed down on both of you.

You sat rigid, your bag clutched in your lap, your mind racing with confusion and shock. Every so often, you’d glance at him, your brows pulled together, your chest aching with something you couldn’t name.

Jake, for his part, seemed perfectly content just to be there beside you. He leaned into the corner of the backseat, watching the passing streets, though his knee wouldn’t stop bouncing up and down.

Your hands itched- the phantom memory of his skin against your fingertips tormenting you. You wanted to touch him, to feel the heat of him again, to confirm that he was real and not just another sleepless fantasy replaying in your head.

When the cab finally pulled up outside your building, you climbed out in a daze, barely remembering to thank the driver. Jake followed close behind, his eyes scanning the quiet street, the glow of streetlamps catching on the edges of his cap.

You fumbled with your keys at the l door, your hands trembling so hard you nearly dropped them twice. Jake just stood there behind you, saying nothing, waiting.

The moment you stepped into the apartment, he reached out and curled his fingers around your wrist.

You turned toward him, startled, and before you could even ask what he was doing, he tugged you forward- hard enough that you stumbled right into his chest.

His arms closed around you instantly, wrapping you in the thick fabric of his jacket. His hands splayed across your back, pressing you close, his head dipping down so his face was buried in your shoulder.

You stiffened at first, shocked by the sudden contact, your bag hanging awkwardly from your arm. But his warmth seeped into your skin, his scent- clean soap, a faint trace of cologne- flooding your senses.

Your body went slack against him.

Jake let out a shuddering breath, his voice muffled against your hair. “I’ve been wanting to do that for two weeks.”

“Jake…” you whispered, your voice small against the echoing quiet of your apartment.

He didn���t let you finish. He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his breath brushing across your cheek.

“You don’t understand what you do to me, Y/N,” he breathed. His voice was raw, almost ragged, like he was confessing something dangerous.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he began peeling away his layers.

First came his cap, tossed carelessly onto your entryway table. Then the mask, pulled down to reveal his lips, the familiar curve of his mouth that had haunted your dreams for weeks. And finally, the jacket- your jacket, the one he’d given you that night- slipped off his shoulders and laid over a chair.

And just like that, he was Jake again.

No disguise. No barrier between the idol and the man.

Your breath caught in your chest as you looked at him- the carve of his jaw, the elegant lines of his cheekbones, the deep brown of his eyes shining under your apartment’s soft yellow light. His hair was slightly messy, long enough to brush over his lashes. God, you’d missed him.

Jake glanced around your space, curiosity flickering across his face.

Your apartment was small, but cozy. A single bedroom, pale walls, warm lamps. Trinkets littered the corners- little souvenirs from places you’d visited, a collection of shark figurines on a shelf, a messy pile of books on the coffee table. The hallway led straight into your tiny kitchen, right beside the front door.

He set his things carefully on your table, as though he’d been here a hundred times before. He moved so naturally in your space that it made your head spin.

You could only stare at him, half in shock, half afraid that if you blinked, he’d vanish again. Like a ghost that somehow knew its way around your home.

“Jake?” You managed, voice catching.

He turned to look at you over his shoulder, a soft grin tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Yeah?”

“What happens now?” You asked him, your voice trembling despite how hard you tried to steady it.

Jake’s eyes softened as he looked at you. “Anything you want, baby.”

The way he said it- low, certain, like it was the easiest answer in the world- made your entire body feel like it might liquefy. You wanted to melt. Onto the floor, into his arms, into the memory of that night two weeks ago. 

Your head was spinning.

Jake stepped closer again, closing the space between you, his hands finding your waist as he gently pulled you further into your apartment. It was like he’d claimed both your space and you in the same breath. Like this was his place, and you were his.

“I don’t know if I can handle it,” you whispered, the words trembling out of you before you could stop them.

Jake tilted his head, brows drawing together just slightly. “Handle what?”

His breath mingled with yours, warm and sweet, filling the inch of air between your lips. Your eyes fluttered shut, and your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, desperate for something to anchor you.

“You leaving again,” you managed, voice barely a whisper.

Jake let out a soft, shaky laugh, one hand coming up to cradle your cheek.

“Who said anything about leaving?” He murmured, leaning closer until his lips just barely brushed yours.

Your heart stuttered. That barely-there touch sent a jolt straight through your spine. Jake’s thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, and the other hand tightened slightly at your waist, pulling you flush against him.

You felt him everywhere- his warmth, his scent, the slow, heavy thud of his heart syncing with yours.

Your grip on his shirt tightened. Your knees weakened. You didn’t trust your own body.

His lips brushed yours again, softer this time, then firmer- pressing, parting, testing. You gasped softly against his mouth, and Jake took it as permission.

Suddenly, the kiss deepened- no hesitation, no nerves; just heat. His mouth slanted against yours with purpose, with hunger, like he’d been starved of you for weeks- and he was. His hands slid down your back, anchoring you in place as his body pressed into yours.

Your fingers were in his hair before you even realised, tugging gently, just enough to make him groan into your mouth.

“God, I missed this,” he whispered, breath hot against your lips as he broke the kiss just long enough to catch his breath. “Missed you.”

You didn’t answer. You just kissed him harder.

Jake walked you backward, blind and instinctive, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of your couch. He broke the kiss only to let his mouth trail along your jaw, down your neck, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.

“I thought about you every night,” he murmured against your throat. “I almost lost my mind wondering if you were thinking about me too.”

“I was,” you breathed, head tilted back, voice shaky. “I never stopped.”

Jake’s hands moved- confident now, exploring. One rested at your hip, the other sliding beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers grazing your skin like he’d earned the right to touch you again.

You let him- you wanted him.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark, chest rising with heavy breaths.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, voice low, hoarse. “And I will.”

But you didn’t. You reached for him again, pulled him back in like you were done pretending you could forget him.

Jake kissed you again, slower this time but deeper, his tongue brushing yours, tasting, teasing. You felt dizzy, drunk on the heat rolling off his body.

He pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, breathing hard.

“Bedroom?” He rasped, voice low and edged with a plea.

You could only nod.

Jake didn’t wait for you to lead him. He caught your hand in his and gently tugged you past the couch, through the short hallway, until you reached your bedroom door. You fumbled the handle open, pulse hammering so loud you thought he could hear it.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Jake pushed you gently against it, pressing his body flush to yours. His mouth was on yours again, more urgent, hands sliding up under your shirt, fingers splaying over your bare waist like he needed to feel every inch of you.

He pulled back just long enough to unbutton your shirt, slipping it off your shoulders and letting it pool at your legs. His eyes roamed over you, dark and hungry, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run miles.

“Fuck,” he breathed, fingers brushing lightly over the swell of your breasts still hidden by your bra. “I missed you so much.”

You reached for his shirt, tugging it up, and he lifted his arms to let you pull it off. The soft glow of your bedside lamp caught on the lines of muscle along his chest and arms, the familiar warmth of his skin drawing you closer.

Jake dipped his head, kissing a slow trail from your jaw down your throat. He mouthed at the spot where your neck met your shoulder, biting gently before soothing the sting with his tongue. You gasped, gripping his shoulders for balance.

“You’re real,” you whispered, half dazed, fingers threading into his hair. “You’re actually here.”

Jake pulled back just enough to look at you, hair falling over his forehead, eyes blazing. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “Not unless you make me.”

Then his hands were on the waistband of your skirt, fumbling just slightly in his rush. You let out a shaky laugh, helping him push it down and you stepped out of the mess. You caught a glimpse of your hair tie on his wrist and it just made you more impatient, whining and writhing.

Jake dropped to his knees in front of you, pressing hot kisses along your stomach, his hands skimming over your thighs. You felt yourself tremble under his touch.

“Jake…” you murmured, voice trembling as you carded your fingers through his hair.

He looked up at you from under his lashes, pupils blown wide.

“Let me take my time with you,” he said, voice thick, breathless. “I’ve been thinking about this every night.”

He pressed another soft kiss just above your hipbone, his breath warm against your skin. Then his fingers slipped under the waistband of your panties, thumbs brushing your hips as he slowly tugged them downward.

You shivered as the cool air hit your newly exposed skin. Your panties dropped to the floor, joining your skirt, leaving you bare from the waist down.

Jake’s eyes flickered over you, heat blazing in his gaze.

“Fuck… you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing gentle circles over your hips as he leaned in and kissed the inside of your thigh.

Your fingers tightened in his hair, a small gasp escaping you as his mouth trailed higher.

He paused just shy of where you were aching for him, looking up at you from his knees.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, voice a husky rasp. “Or if you want me to keep going.”

Your chest heaved as you tried to find your voice. “Don’t stop.”

A slow, wicked smile curved his lips. “Good.”

Jake leaned in and pressed a soft, teasing kiss over your clit. The gentle contact made your hips jolt, a sharp breath tearing from your throat. He chuckled softly, the vibration sending another shiver up your spine.

Then he flattened his tongue and licked you firmly, from the bottom of your slit up to your clit, lingering there to circle it slowly.

“Ah- Jake…”

Your head fell back against the door, eyes squeezing shut. You felt him smile against you. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he did it again- long, deliberate strokes that grew wetter, deeper, each one dragging a soft moan from your lips.

He slipped one arm around your waist, tugging you closer so your legs were bracketing his shoulders. His tongue flicked faster, alternating between soft laps and firmer pressure, as he hummed low in his throat.

Your hips rocked forward helplessly.

Jake pulled back just enough to murmur, “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you.”

Then he sucked your clit into his mouth, gently at first, then with more pressure, his tongue flicking rapidly as he kept you pinned in place.

Your entire body shuddered. Heat coiled low in your belly, winding tighter with each stroke of his mouth. You buried your fingers in his hair, clutching him closer, unable to stop the ragged gasps spilling from your lips.

“Jake- fuck, Jake- ”

He groaned against you, the sound vibrating right through your core. One of his hands slid up between your thighs, and he slipped a finger inside you, slow and careful at first. You clenched around him, your breath stuttering.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he murmured, pressing soft kisses to your inner thigh as he moved his finger gently in and out. “God, I missed your voice.”

Your knees nearly buckled. He slid in a second finger, scissoring them gently as his mouth returned to your clit, licking you in rhythm with each thrust of his fingers.

You cried out, hips jerking as the heat in your belly exploded outward.

“Come for me, baby,” Jake whispered. “Come on. I need it.”

A broken moan ripped from your throat as your orgasm crashed through you, white-hot and overwhelming. Your body seized, trembling violently as waves of pleasure rolled over you.

Jake didn’t stop until your thighs were shaking and you were gasping for breath, his tongue and fingers drawing every last ripple of pleasure from your body.

Finally, he pulled back, pressing one last gentle kiss to your sensitive skin before rising to his feet. His lips were wet, his pupils blown wide as he looked down at you, his chest heaving.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his voice hoarse. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Your legs felt boneless beneath you. He scooped you up without warning, one arm around your back and the other under your knees. You let out a soft gasp as he carried you across the room.

He set you gently on the bed, following you down immediately, bracing himself over you with a knee pressed between your thighs. His hands roamed over your bare skin like he couldn’t decide where he wanted to touch first.

“Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this every night,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours as he kissed you hard.

You tasted yourself on his lips, and the realization made heat spark low in your belly all over again.

Your hands fumbled at the zipper on his jeans, fingers trembling as you tugged them down over his hips. He hissed softly as your knuckles brushed against him, already hard and straining against the fabric.

Jake pulled back just long enough to shove the rest of his clothes off, tossing them aside carelessly. The soft lamplight spilled over him, highlighting every sharp line of muscle, the smooth golden skin of his chest, the trail of veins disappearing lower-

You sucked in a shaky breath.

He caught the look in your eyes and grinned, a flush creeping up his neck. “Don’t stare at me like that.”

“Jake…” you breathed, reaching for him, your voice trembling. “I want you.”

He exhaled sharply, as if those words had physically knocked the air out of him.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Okay. Okay.”

He leaned down to kiss you again, slower this time, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he pressed closer. His body was warm, solid, the weight of him pinning you deliciously against the mattress.

One of his hands slid between your legs, fingers teasing gently through your folds. You moaned, hips arching into his touch.

“You’re still so wet,” he whispered, lips brushing yours as he spoke. “God, you feel like heaven.”

You reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. He groaned into your mouth, his hips stuttering forward as you stroked him, feeling the silky heat of him pulse under your palm.

“Condom,” you gasped out, your mind barely clinging to reason.

Jake nodded quickly, breathless, leaning off the bed just far enough to grab his wallet from his discarded jacket. His hands were shaking slightly as he tore the wrapper open.

You watched him roll it on, the muscles in his forearms flexing, his jaw clenched as he tried to keep himself under control.

Then he was back over you, positioning himself between your thighs. He paused, one hand cupping your cheek as he searched your eyes.

“Are you sure?” He murmured, voice rough, eyes blazing with both heat and something impossibly tender.

You nodded, voice trembling. “Please, Jake.”

He let out a ragged breath and guided himself to your entrance, the thick head of him nudging against your slick folds.

Slowly- agonizingly slowly- he pushed in.

Your back arched, a soft cry tearing from your lips as he filled you, stretching you open inch by inch. Jake dropped his forehead to yours, breathing harshly, his hands framing your face.

“Fuck… you feel so good,” he rasped, his voice shaking as he bottomed out inside you.

He held still for a moment, letting you adjust, pressing kisses to your cheek, your temple, your jaw.

“Jake,” you whimpered, rolling your hips up into his. “Move. Please.”

A broken groan ripped from his chest.

And then he did.

Jake pulled back and thrust into you again, slow at first, savoring every drag of his length inside you. But soon his rhythm grew faster, harder, each stroke hitting deeper.

The headboard began to thump softly against the wall, the sound mingling with your gasps and the low, guttural curses spilling from Jake’s lips.

“God, baby… I can’t believe I’m inside you again,” he groaned. “I fucking missed you… missed this so much.”

Your nails raked lightly down his back, hips lifting to meet his thrusts. Stars danced behind your eyes as pleasure coiled tighter with each movement.

“Jake- oh God-”

He caught your mouth in a messy, breathless kiss, swallowing your moans as he drove into you, relentless and desperate. His hips snapped forward, deeper, faster, until all you could do was cling to him and let the sensation crash over you.

“I’m so close,” you choked out, your voice trembling.

“Come with me,” he panted, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. “Please, baby… come with me.”

And when he reached down between your bodies to circle your clit with his thumb, it sent you flying over the edge.

Your vision went white as your orgasm hit, pulsing through your body like a shockwave. You cried out his name, body trembling, clutching at his shoulders as the pleasure tore through you.

Jake followed a heartbeat later, groaning your name into your neck as he buried himself deep, hips stuttering as he spilled into the condom.

He held you tight through the aftershocks, both of you shaking, breathing hard, your limbs tangled together.

When he finally pulled back to look at you, there was a soft, disbelieving smile playing at the corners of his lips.

“Hi,” he whispered, voice hoarse and tender.

You let out a breathless laugh, brushing his hair off his forehead. “Hi.”

You hadn’t expected to see him the next morning.

You’d braced yourself for the usual aftermath- a cold, empty bed, the faint imprint of his weight on the sheets, all his things gone as though he’d never been there. No trace of him left except the ghost of his touch lingering on your skin- your mouth, your chest, your thighs, your legs.

But then you woke up, and he was still there.

Jake lay curled against your side, his head tucked into the curve of your shoulder, one arm locked firmly around your waist like he was reminding you of who you belonged to. His breath was warm against your skin, slow and even.

For a moment, you just stared at him, hardly daring to move.

Then you shifted to face him, and he stirred, brow crinkling as his eyes fluttered open. A sleepy grin spread across his face, soft and boyish, like he’d been caught doing something mischievous.

“Good morning,” he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder.

You blinked at him, your voice coming out small and disbelieving. “You’re still here?”

Jake’s grin widened, his hair falling messily over his forehead. “I’m not leaving until I get your number this time, Y/N.”

A soft laugh slipped out of you, despite the swirl of emotions tightening your chest. You looked at him, truly looked at him- his hair a rumpled mess, his lips pink and swollen from sleep (and from you), his eyes crinkling in that way that made your stomach flip.

You reached up and brushed a stray strand of hair off his forehead. “You make it sound like I purposely didn’t give it to you.”

Jake raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you?”

You hesitated, biting your lip. “I… didn’t know if you’d want it.”

A crease formed between his brows, and he pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. His arm stayed snug around your waist, fingers splayed across your hip.

“Y/N… I’ve thought about you every single day since that night,” his voice dropped lower, roughened by sleep and emotion. “I didn’t come all this way to disappear again.”

Your heart twisted, caught between hope and fear. “I don’t know how this… works. With you. With your life.”

Jake exhaled slowly, brushing his thumb over your side, tracing gentle circles into your skin. “I don’t either,” he admitted. “But… I want to try. I don’t care how messy or complicated it is. I just want to be around you.”

You swallowed, your voice barely a whisper. “Even if it’s long distance? Even if people find out?”

He smiled- a softer, almost shy smile- and dipped his head to kiss your temple.

“Even then,” he murmured. “I’m pretty stubborn, you know?”

Your chest ached at how warm he felt pressed against you.

“So…” Jake continued, eyes flicking back to yours. “Maybe… we take it one step at a time? I give you my number. You give me yours. We figure out how to see each other again. And we just… go from there.”

Your lips curved, slow and hesitant, but genuine. “One step at a time?” You repeated.

Jake nodded. “One step at a time,” he nudged his nose against yours. “And right now, step one is breakfast. Preferably with you wearing my shirt and nothing else.”

You let out a startled laugh, swatting at his chest. “Jake!”

“What?” He said, feigning innocence as he pulled you closer, rolling you gently beneath him. “Gotta make the most of my time here, right?”

Your laughter dissolved into soft giggles as he kissed you again, the morning sun streaming through your window, catching in his hair like gold.

And for the first time in two weeks, you let yourself believe that maybe… this could be real.

[cherrydriver]

Sobbing from your "I'm alive" Saja boys post. Can we have a part of something where they ACTUALLY do come back alive but because of the first time, reader thinks it's just a hallucination again </3

If not that's ok! Sorry if your requests are closed, I checked and I did not see anything about requests sooo

Have a good day! And if you do plan on doing this, please remember to take breaks! Love your writing so far ❤️ (even if it makes me cry)

Hi!! This is my very first request so I was so excited to write this, also because I wanted to do a part two to "I'm Alive"! Thank you so much, btw! <3 (I apologize in advance...)

Aftershocks - (I'm Alive, I'm Alive, I am so Alive pt 2.)

CW: Angst, mentions of insanity

Find part one here!

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

ABBY -

He was alive, really truly alive but how could he get you to believe that? The last time you saw him, you were so happy and then Mira pulled you away, claiming that you were seeing things. Abby was determined to make you believe that he was really alive and back for good. 

Abby had been waiting a few days, waiting for a good moment to finally show himself again. He knew that you were finishing up your shift so it gave him the perfect moment to see you alone. He waited till all the customers were out of the store before he headed inside. 

You heard the quiet ding of the door, indicating that someone had come in. “I’m sorry but we’re closed.” You said before turning to face the person, dropping the box in your hands as you saw who it was. “Abby..,” you murmured under your breath before shaking your head and looking away. 

“No…no I can’t do this. Not again.” You told yourself as you picked up the box you had dropped, trying to ignore the presence by the door. Abby wasn’t actually here, you knew that now. Mira had made sure that you knew that you were hallucinating that night in the kitchen because of grief. 

“Y/n, it’s really me. I promise…I’m alive, baby.” Abby told you quietly, stepping cautiously towards you since he knew you were vulnerable right now. Your face tensed and you shook your head once more. “Leave me alone…you aren’t really here and this is just making everything worse.” Your voice trembled as you spoke, setting the box down on the counter. 

You gathered your things, trying not to look at Abby who seemed so real and alive but you knew better now. Abby wasn’t giving up though and he could tell that you didn’t really believe this was happening which only broke his heart more. “Y/n, I’m really here! I’m right here and alive!” He raised his voice a little, reaching out and grabbing your wrist, tears filling his eyes. 

You gasped and pulled your hand away so quickly like he had burnt you with his touch. “No! I said leave me alone! I can’t do this anymore! Please!” You yelled, assuming you were yelling into mid air. “Abby is dead! You aren’t really here so please go away!” You sobbed, hurrying out of the store, leaving Abby alone. He felt completely broken, seeing the way you had pulled away from his touch, seeing you sob…it tore him apart. He didn’t know how to get you to believe that he was back for good but he wasn’t giving up. “I’m not giving up, y/n…I’m alive.” Abby said to himself, wiping the tears from his eyes as he turned and headed the opposite way. 

—---------------------------------------------------

ROMANCE -

Romance needed to convince you that he was alive. When he saw you in the kitchen, you looked so surprised and happy to see him until Zoey pulled you away, telling you that he wasn’t really there. He was there though, and he needed you to know that for good. He gave you a few weeks to process everything, hoping that the next time you saw him, you’d be just as happy as the last time. 

Romance decided to leave you a note on your apartment door so that you’d see it when you got back home after being out all day. It just simply said to meet him at one of your favorite spots, the park you guys would go to all the time. 

When you got home from work that day, you noticed the pink note on your door. You hesitantly took it off and read the words, a small gasp leaving your lips. It was signed off by Romance and it looked exactly like his handwriting but it couldn’t really be him. Romance was dead. What had happened in the kitchen had just been a hallucination from grieving. Whoever thought it was funny to put this up was sick. 

Still, you decided to go to the park anyway, needing some fresh air and maybe the person who decided to write this would be there. You still couldn’t believe someone could be so cruel to write this note. You made the walk to the park, the note crumpled up in your pocket, and headed to the spot that had always been special to you and Romance. 

When you entered the hidden area, you noticed pink hair almost instantly. “No…no not again.” You said quietly to yourself, turning away. Your heart started beating quickly as you convinced yourself that Romance wasn’t actually there. You hadn’t hallucinated him since the kitchen and you weren’t about to start again now. 

A hand on your shoulder made you gasp out loud and you turned to face Romance, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Y/n, listen to me, my love. I’m here. I’m really here, okay? I’m alive, I promise.” Romance told you in a serious voice, searching your eyes in hopes that you’d believe him. You didn’t believe him though and you shoved him away from you, still believing that this was all a hallucination. 

“No you aren’t! I can’t do this again…please.” You begged yourself, your hands on your head as you took in shaky breaths, tears filling your eyes. “You aren’t here…you aren't alive. Romance isn’t alive. Zoey was right…I am hallucinating." You told yourself, feeling the panic begin to rise even more. 

Romance’s heart shattered at the sight of you panicking, seeing you there with your hands in your hair and tears streaming down your face. He reached out towards you again but you just broke out into a sob, running from the spot and leaving him alone once again. “One day you’ll see, y/n…I really am alive.” Romance told himself quietly as he left out a defeated sigh, blinking back tears. 

—--------------------------------------------------------

MYSTERY -

Mystery couldn’t get your reaction to him out of his head. Ever since that night in the kitchen…he needed to see you again. He needed to prove to you that he really was there and alive, but how could he do that when Rumi had pulled you away that night and told you that he was really dead. He decided to leave you alone for a few weeks after the kitchen incident, knowing that you needed some time. 

He was growing impatient to see you again though, needing you to see him back and alive. That’s how he ended up in your apartment, still knowing where the spare key was. He wasn’t sure if this was the best idea or not but he was desperate and couldn’t wait any longer. 

You knew something was wrong when you got home and your door was unlocked. You held your breath as you slowly opened the door, walking into your apartment. You were hoping it was just Rumi coming by to check on you but this felt different. You quietly set your stuff down and walked towards the kitchen. 

You instantly paused in the doorway when you saw the figure inside, recognizing him instantly. You felt like you stopped breathing. A few weeks ago you found Mystery in the kitchen but he wasn’t really there…so why was this happening again? You felt like you were going insane. Your breathing became quicker and more shallow, feeling the panic rising. Mystery heard you walk in and turned to look at you, seeing the panic on your face. His eyes widened in concern and he quickly ran over to you, holding onto your shoulders. 

“Y/n! Breathe…I’m here, sweetheart. I promise, I’m really here. I’m alive, okay?” Mystery begged you, hoping that you’d believe him but you weren’t making eye contact with him. You just kept your head down, small sobs now coming from you. 

You pressed your palms against your eyes, shaking your head quickly. “I’m going insane! I can’t do this…I can’t do this again. Leave me alone!” You yelled out at the figure that you assumed was all just a hallucination. Mystery wasn’t there. He wasn’t alive. 

Mystery was starting to get more panicked. He needed you to believe him but you were so convinced that he was just a hallucination. He stepped back from you to give you space, looking at you with a pained expression. He could feel himself getting more worked up the more he watched you freak out. “Y/n, I’m here! I’m right here in front of you! I’m alive, you need to believe me!” He yelled out in a frustrated tone, shocking himself because he never once spoke to you like that. 

Your eyes widened and you were now looking at him like you didn’t even recognize him which was even worse. Mystery’s expression instantly dropped and he reached out. “Y/n, I’m so sorry.” He said quickly, trying to save this but it was too late. You were already running out of the kitchen, calling Rumi, and soon you left your apartment all together, leaving him alone and broken. 

—------------------------------------------

BABY -

Baby knew how much of a toll his death had taken on you, especially after seeing you in the kitchen a few weeks ago. He was alive again though…and he needed you to know that, needed to convince you somehow. He didn’t try to see you right away because he didn’t want to put too much on you right away so he started off small. He started texting you again. Every day, he’d messages like: 

“I’m alive…Y/n, please. You have to believe me.”

“I know it’s a lot to take in but I’m really alive again.”

“I want to give you time to process, but I want to see you soon. Please…” 

He never got a text back though and eventually his messages stopped going through to your phone. 

When you started getting messages from Baby again, you figured someone had gotten a hold of his phone somehow. The messages were awful…making you break down every time you received one. It felt like someone was playing a sick joke on you and you couldn’t do it anymore so you blocked and deleted the contact. 

You thought you were free from it all…from the hallucinations that Mira made you realize were from grief until you turned a corner to head to your apartment and saw him standing there. Tears instantly filled your eyes as you stood there frozen. 

“I’m going insane…this can’t be happening again, I thought it was over. Why can’t it be over?!” You yelled to yourself, hearing movement as Baby walked towards you. You felt him tilt your chin so you’d look at him. He felt so real, standing right there but you knew better now. “Y/n please…those messages were from me. I’m here and I’m alive! For real this time, I promise.” Baby told you, begging you to believe him because it broke him seeing you like this. 

You didn’t respond very well to that and shoved his hand away, surprised by how realistic these hallucinations were. Mira was right…maybe you really did need to speak to someone because you felt like you were losing your mind. “No you’re not! Just leave me alone…please go away.” You sobbed, assuming you were just speaking to yourself. You felt like you were going crazy, which was the last thing you needed especially when you were still grieving his death. You covered your face with shaky hands, moving past Baby like he wasn’t even there. Because he wasn’t. 

Baby could only just watch you leave, feeling his heart split in half watching you break down like this. He watched you enter your apartment building, feeling his own eyes sting. He wanted to go after you but he knew that he couldn’t push you any further. “I’m alive, y/n…” He whispered to himself before he pulled his hood up and walked away, feeling a tear go down his cheek. 

—--------------------------------------------------------------------------

JINU -

Jinu needed you to see. Needed you to believe…that he was alive, fully alive. He knew that it had been a fright for you, seeing him in the kitchen. When he watched Zoey pull you away from him, convincing you that you were exhausted, he knew that he would have to work hard to get you to believe that he was fully back now. He knew that he needed to be cautious about this in order to not risk scaring you away. It would take some time but he was determined. 

Jinu didn’t mean to follow you but when he noticed that you had gone into the aquarium, one of your favorite places, he couldn’t help himself. He kept his distance for a while, just watching you from afar and seeing the sad, closed off expression on your face that made his heart break. 

You had gone to the aquarium to hopefully feel a little more normal but all it was doing was bringing back memories of Jinu. You let out a small sigh as you looked out the big window, staring at the water and the different fish until you felt a presence. You felt your heartbeat pick up slightly as you slowly turned your head to look behind you and he was there. Jinu. You instantly looked away, closing your eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath, expecting him to be gone when you opened your eyes again. You looked behind you and he was still there, looking at you with a slightly concerned look. 

You shook your head and began to walk away, not wanting to seem insane in public. You could feel his presence following you which only made you feel even more uneasy. You thought the hallucination had been a one time thing but apparently it wasn’t. You picked up the pace as tears filled your eyes, not wanting to be seen having a breakdown. You hurried out of the aquarium, turning down a side street that was empty as you began to sob. 

“Y/n…please listen to me. I know this is a lot, but I’m alive. I’m really here…with you.” Jinu told you, reaching out towards you which only made you break down more. You were shaking and Jinu could tell you were panicking hard. “Y/n. Y/n, baby…breathe.” Jinu said urgently as he stepped closer to you. 

You stared at him with wide eyes and yelled. “Leave me alone! Just go away! Oh my god…I’m actually going insane…I can’t do this.” You said between sobs, pulling out your phone to call Zoey. You glanced at Jinu once more with a terrified expression before you hurried away, still sobbing. 

Jinu felt frozen. He wanted to run after you so badly but he had a feeling it would only make things worse. His eyes began to sting with tears as he just stood there, staring at the spot where you once stood. “Y/n…I’m really here again…” He said to no one, feeling a few tears fall from his eyes. 

[whereifindsanity]

facebook.com ~ Things That Make You Think.

They buried her out by the west fence, just like the others — and this time, he didn't bother to wipe the tears off his weathered face.

The ground was still half-frozen, spring dragging its feet like an old man in snow boots. Earl McKinley had been up since before dawn, same as always. Only today, there wasn’t a bark at the screen door. No excited tapping of paws. No eyes watching him sip his coffee like it was holy.

Sadie was gone.

The last of them.

She’d died sometime in the night, curled under the bench in the barn like they always did, like they all did. She was twelve. He was seventy-eight.

Earl stood with his shovel sunk into the dirt, boots caked in brown slush, the Mississippi wind licking at his spine through the holes in his coat. He hadn’t bought a new one in twenty years. Didn’t see the point. Everything wore out — coats, tractors, knees, even the good years.

He looked down at the blanket-wrapped form and sighed. “You did good, girl. Real good.”

Sadie had come after Millie, who’d come after Buck, who’d come after Daisy, and before that there’d been Red and Shep and Scout and June. Each one a damn Border Collie. Each one smarter than the last, like they were born knowing the rhythm of this land — when to circle the herd, when to sit still, when Earl needed them close without asking.

They were workers. Partners. Family, maybe.

The world had shifted plenty since his first dog. The county paved the gravel roads, built a Dollar General right over the field where he and his brother used to set off bottle rockets on the Fourth of July. Folks stopped waving from their pickups. Kids stopped helping on weekends. And now, most of the farms were dead or sold to outfits with names like “AgriCore” or “GreenFuture.” Hell, even the church closed two summers ago.

But he still had his dogs. At least, he used to.

He came back from the burial stiff and aching, hands raw. His knees clicked with every step. The house was too quiet. One of those silences that buzzes. That reminds you how long it’s been since you heard a voice not coming out of a TV set or a doctor’s office.

He sat at the kitchen table, next to a wood-framed photo of him in his thirties — tall, sinewy, leaning on a fence post with a dog at his side and the whole damn sky behind him.

He remembered Daisy best.

She was his first — a gift from his father the year he turned eighteen and took over the herd. 1965.

She’d run like the wind, tongue flapping, eyes locked in that trance-like focus. Never failed him once, not in twelve seasons. When a tornado touched down in ’73, it was Daisy who herded all twenty-seven sheep into the cellar barn without a single command.

He’d never felt more in awe of an animal. Not even his own kids had that kind of instinct — not that he blamed them. The boy moved out west. Something in computers. The girl married a bank manager and sent Christmas cards from Florida.

“You’re too sentimental,” his late wife Carol used to say, watching him carve the dogs' names into cedar plaques, hammer them gently into the fence post after each one passed.

“Maybe,” he’d answer. “But they stuck around.”

Earl stood slowly and grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey from the high shelf — not to get drunk, just enough to take the chill out of his chest. He poured a bit into his chipped enamel mug and a little onto the ground outside for Sadie.

He stared at the empty yard. The wind caught the edge of the screen door and creaked it open, then let it slap shut. That sound had once driven Sadie nuts. She’d bark at it like it was an intruder, then look up at him for approval, tail wagging in little hopeful arcs.

A man doesn’t cry when a dog dies. Not out loud. Not where anyone can see.

But he did today. He let it come.

Not because she was the best of them — though she was damn close — but because it felt like the final stitch had come loose.

No more dogs. No more sheep.

No more “Earl and his collie.”

Just Earl.

In the late afternoon, he took the old path out to the barn. The boards were dry and gray now, sun-bleached like old bones. The hinges groaned like they knew him.

Inside, everything waited in silence. The empty feed bins. The halters. The worn leather collar Sadie used to wear when she was still a pup and too scrawny to work the fields.

He sat on the overturned bucket where he’d once taken his coffee breaks. Back when there were lambs bleating and dust in the sunlight and someone to share the day with — even if it was just a dog who didn’t talk back.

Funny how folks thought dogs were the quiet ones.

They had a way of filling space, of keeping you company in the most sacred, invisible kind of way. They didn’t leave notes, didn’t send postcards. But they never left you either.

That night, Earl lit the wood stove for the first time in a while. He wasn’t cold — he just missed the sound. The crackle. The kind of warmth you couldn’t fake.

He pulled a quilt over his lap, poured another inch of bourbon, and opened the notebook he kept in the drawer. He’d written every dog’s name there. Their years. Little notes.

Daisy — 1965–1977

Trusted with newborn lambs. Barked only when needed. Saved my damn life more than once.

Red — 1978–1989

Had a crooked ear. Hated thunder. Wouldn’t let Carol walk to the mailbox alone.

Sadie — 2012–2025

Gentle soul. Understood when to sit still. Waited for me at the gate, every morning.

He stared at the page a long time before adding one more line under Sadie’s name:

The last one.

Then he closed the book, blew out the lamp, and listened to the wind tap against the window.

In the morning, he stood at the back fence, hands in his pockets, eyes on the pasture. Empty now. Still.

And yet, for a moment, just before the sun broke through the mist, he could swear he saw them all — ears perked, eyes bright, tails wagging — waiting at the edge of the field like they used to.

Maybe they were.

Or maybe it was just memory, being kind.

Either way, Earl smiled.

Because he knew one thing for certain:

He never farmed alone.

🪵

If this story stirred something in you, maybe leave a light on for someone who’s feeling the quiet tonight.

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

MIND GAMES

Prologue & Masterlist

➾In Which: Something is... off about Kai, but you seem to be the only one who can see it.

RATED X. MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY.

❥Huening Kai x fem reader

♡'･ᴗ･'♡genre: yandere, psychological ¿horror?, DEAD DOVE 

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: uuuuhm lets just say general warnings here and go into more detail in each chapter cause idefk: college au, childhood something to adult something, small age gap (reader 18/19, kai 22), size difference, gaslighting, mental manipulation, stalking, invasions of privacy, paranoia, potential for dub and / or non-con (i haven't decided yet), ill come back and add more 😭

➯a/n: psycho kai save me... save meeeee kkkk anywhooo i don't know exactly where im going to take this series but i know i already fucking love it

associate producer: @ramadiiiisme who is my dark fiction fairy atp <3

♡masterlist + navigation !♡

taglist ? -> open ! leave a comment on this post to be added

₊‧⁺stardust˖⋆ @sunnysidesins @onyxmango @devilzliaison @ateezswonderland @queenofdumbfuckery @emilysecresy @kyomiingi @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @klllerwaifu @seonghwasslytherin @yoonglesbae @wolviejex @estrnrea @lover-ofallthingspretty @willowwyy @jaerisdiction @peelingpaint-heavyheart @satsuri3su @bubbly-moon @hannahstacos @vipysl @life-is-a-game-of-thrones @prchiquita8 @bambiihee

18+, MINORS GO ON AND GET. 

Prologue

Something is odd about Kai.

It's not hard to notice. At least — not for you. Everyone else seems to think he's an angel on Earth; like he can do no wrong.

Ever since you were children, it's always been the same. You always had a gut feeling about him. He made you... uneasy.

You could never explain it, so maybe that's why your parents kept making you play with him when you played with his sisters. Thinking you were just being awkward or mean to the only boy. But that wasn't it. You didn't care that he was a boy — it was something in his eyes.

The way he looked at you. It always felt like he was gazing into your soul. You hated it.

His smile felt... uncanny. Too practiced, too perfect.

You were almost glad when your family moved away during your first year of high school. Of course, you missed his sisters. Lea had become something of an older sister to you as well, and Bahiyyih had quickly taken the title of your best friend.

You kept in touch with them, but not Kai. And your parents tried to tell you that you were being petty or rude, that he was your friend too. You didn't listen to them, and it's not like they could make you text him.

He was never your friend, not by your definition. Friends don't make your skin crawl.

You didn't speak to him, you didn't even bring him up.

Years passed. Bahiyyih is still your best friend even when you live on opposite sides of the country, and Lea still reaches out from time to time. You haven't spoken to Kai since you were fourteen years old.

You almost forgot that your best friend even has an older brother, but you remember as soon as she says she's at the airport to pick you up; and he's driving.

You remember what his gaze feels like before it even reaches you. You step out of the bustling airport and feel a chill trickle down your spine just thinking about him.

Maybe he's changed in all these years. Maybe he was just awkward as a child; maybe you weren't the problem at all. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

No. He hasn't changed. He sees you before she does. He smiles, but it never reaches his eyes — it never has. He's looking at you like he's glad to see you. Maybe, he is.

"(Y/n)!" Hiyyih yells as she sees you, running up.

Kai stays planted by the car, and that allows you enough ease to enjoy reuniting with your best friend; hugging her tightly and swaying back and forth with her.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're back! I can't believe it!"

You're back to stay, at least for the school year. It's your first year of college, and you couldn't be happier to be going into it with her.

Well... you could. If Kai wasn't there, stalking towards you.

He got taller. Of course he did- don't be stupid, he's grown up now. He's much taller than you. You don't like it. You used to be taller, that was one advantage you did have over him.

"Wow, you got hot," he laughs, making your face heat quickly with embarrassment.

"Kai," Hiyyih chastises him, slapping his arm as she pulls away from you.

He chuckles, taking her place to hug you. You hug back, very lightly.

"I'm just fucking with you." He says.

It sounds like an apology. But it feels like a threat.

He's just fucking with you. Like he always has been.

Why would he stop now?

m̸͔̒i̵͔͑n̸͕̍ḍ̸̇ ̶̮̀g̵̨͑ạ̷͒m̵̨̈ẻ̴̲s̵̹̀

¿ Chapter One ?

[batsandbirdbrains]

Thinking about this post again, but bc I thrive on Dick being put in Situations, what if he’s even younger than 13 when he gets kicked out. Let’s make him 11.

And Jason is 19 when Bruce brings him on as Dick’s replacement like immediately after. He dies after a year, when he’s 20, and then a month later 18 year old Tim takes his place.

Talia takes Dick in and trains him in the LoA from the ages of 11-13. Damian only 5 years younger than him, and the reason Dick leaves the LoA & Talis when he’s 13 is because Damian demands to meet his father. Dick refuses to let Damian go alone. He’s been back to Gotham a handful of times, enough to have met and clashed with both of his new “big brothers” who treat him like shit and like he’s a nuisance.

So when Tim tries to intimidate an 8 year old Damian, Dick is 13 and furious. He almost launches Tim across the room, one of the escrima sticks Talia gave him for his birthday digging into Tim’s sternum so hard it bruises.

Dick’s only been away for two and a half years, but it feels like a lifetime. He’s been mentored by Deathstroke. Talia took a personal interest in his training. Even Ra’s gave him lessons occasionally.

He’s a force to be reckoned with, but no one in the Batfamily besides Damian takes him seriously.

But he and Damian are thick as thieves. They do everything together. Dick trains him daily, and is always present on days when Bruce decides he’s going to take lead on training Damian.

He threatens Tim several times to leave them both alone. When Jason returns, Dick almost snaps his neck and is tempted to kill him again when he tries to hurt Damian. He thought harming the blood son would piss off Bruce the most. He doesn’t seem to realize that Damian and Dick are tied for Bruce’s least favorite people in general half the time, let alone least favorite children. Even when Jason was dead, he ranked higher than them.

“You’re using too much force!” Bruce barks at him in the field when it happens, still defending Jason even though he tried to shoot Damian in the head. “It’s clear you don’t give a damn about anything I’ve taught you!”

“And it’s clear you don’t give a damn about your actual children!” Dick screams back at him. He has Damian tucked behind him, and he’s panting, but he’s furious.

“They’re my children too!”

“They’re adults!” Dick shouts, sounding desperate. “They’re adults who have tried to kill us, and you don’t care! You always take their side! Always!”

Maybe Batman had called in the Justice League to help subdue Jason, maybe they’re just arriving and they’re witnessing the tail end of the fight. They just saw Red Hood try to kill Damian. They saw Dick save him. They saw Bruce blame him for it.

And now they’re watching as they lose their favorite little bird all over again. Because they loved Robin, Dick, when they first met him. When he was 8 and just starting out. They adored him.

And then he got hurt and Bruce replaced him with an older teenager and they never saw him since. There have been a few sporadic sightings, but now when they finally think Dick is back, he’s about to leave again.

And it’s all Bruce’s fault.

“I want to go back home,” Damian whispers to Dick, shaken. “I don’t want to be with Father anymore.”

“We’ll go home,” Dick promises him, keeping one hand back to hold Damian close to him. He tries to keep his voice low, so only Damian will hear him. “Everything’s gonna be fine. We’re fine. We’re going to leave and not come back.”

He uses a handful of smoke bombs then, and he picks Damian up and runs like hell. They pack light, and they use an emergency beacon for Slade of all people to pick them up just outside the city, about halfway to Blüdhaven.

And they escape back to the LoA, to Talia.

What happens next? Idk

Okay for the au where Tim and Jason are older than Dick and Dick gets kicked out/fired when he’s 13:

I thought someone sent an ask that involved Talia but I couldn’t find it again. Maybe it was a reply or a reblog? Idk. Anyway. I’m now thinking of adding Talia to this situation

I think Talia would’ve always been fond of Dick, even if he hated her. Because he was witty and sharp tongued and had a strong personality. He was very determined. Talia always saw the potential in him. She bickered right back at him, but she always thought it was playful, a game of sorts.

So when she’s raising Damian in the LoA, she tells him stories about his big brother. About how heroic he is. How he stands on par with his father. How Robin soared through the skies of Gotham.

Then when her beloved kicks out her favorite little bird when he’s still a child, then takes on an older boy (who’s already an adult? she thinks it’s so odd, even if this Jason boy is still technically a teenager), she tells Damian that the new Robin is a fraud. A pretender. The same when the third Robin makes an appearance.

She tells him Nightwing is his real brother. That the original Robin grew up and soared away on his own.

But she’s still so pissed off about what Bruce did to him. Because she thought a Bruce adored Dick, that Dick was the light of his life. And if he did that to a child he loved so dearly, how might he treat her Damian?

Maybe she secretly kept in contact with Dick. Maybe he trained with her briefly. Maybe between couch surfing, he stays with the LoA for a few months when he’s 13. He’s alone and he’s scared and he’s devastated, and suddenly this woman he thought hated his guts is hugging him and telling him how foolish Bruce is for treating him so poorly, and he even if it’s a trick, he soaks in the comfort. Because he’s sad. He’s a kid and his dad all but said he didn’t want him anymore, and replaced him with someone bigger and better.

But Jason isn’t better. He’s untrained. He’s scrappy and he can defend himself on the streets, but he’s not a vigilante. And it’s why he dies after just a year. He got cocky.

And Dick is with Talia still when Jason dies. And even though he hated Jason, even though Jason treated him like shit, he still grieved him. Even if Talia tells him it’s a waste of his tears.

Dick and Damian bond while Dick trains with Talia. They’re 13 and 7, and Damian trails Dick like a little duckling. Talia thinks it’s precious.

But then Dick is 14 and he feels like he has to go back, like Bruce will find out where he’s been and he’ll be angry and he’ll take it out on Dick (he always takes it out on Dick, and when Talia finds out, she’s furious).

She makes sure Dick gets to a friend’s house safe and sound. He’s staying with Donna for a while. Bruce already has a new Robin just a month after Jason’s death, and Dick doesn’t want anything to do with it.

Talia keeps in touch. Sends him little gifts. Gets him special escrima sticks when she finds out one his original sticks broke in a fight with Deathstroke.

So when Damian is sent to live with Bruce, he and Dick already know each other, already love each other. But they play it off well. Because no one in the Batfam knows Dick spent a few months with the LoA.

But when Dick sees Tim go to grab Damian by the collar of his shirt to try and lift him, try to intimidate him like he did when he first met Dick – Dick won’t allow that. He’s between them so fast Tim stumbles back, then he feels the escrima stick digging into his sternum and he glares at Dick standing in front of him.

“Touch him and I’ll break every single one of your fucking fingers,” Dick threatens.

“Stupid little brat,” Tim huffs, but he pulls back, still glaring at both of them.

When everyone else is gone and it’s just Dick and Damian left, Damian hugs him tight.

“I missed you,” he mumbles into Dick’s shirt.

“I missed you too,” Dick says, hugging Damian tight. “I won’t let them hurt you, okay? If they ever do anything to you, if they ever even try, you come tell me. Even if it’s just words.”

“Okay.”

The only reason Dick moves back into the manor is because of Damian. He refuses to leave him there without any backup.

[renee-writer]

They buried her out by the west fence, just like the others — and this time, he didn't bother to wipe the tears off his weathered face.

The ground was still half-frozen, spring dragging its feet like an old man in snow boots. Earl McKinley had been up since before dawn, same as always. Only today, there wasn’t a bark at the screen door. No excited tapping of paws. No eyes watching him sip his coffee like it was holy.

Sadie was gone.

The last of them.

She’d died sometime in the night, curled under the bench in the barn like they always did, like they all did. She was twelve. He was seventy-eight.

Earl stood with his shovel sunk into the dirt, boots caked in brown slush, the Mississippi wind licking at his spine through the holes in his coat. He hadn’t bought a new one in twenty years. Didn’t see the point. Everything wore out — coats, tractors, knees, even the good years.

He looked down at the blanket-wrapped form and sighed. “You did good, girl. Real good.”

Sadie had come after Millie, who’d come after Buck, who’d come after Daisy, and before that there’d been Red and Shep and Scout and June. Each one a damn Border Collie. Each one smarter than the last, like they were born knowing the rhythm of this land — when to circle the herd, when to sit still, when Earl needed them close without asking.

They were workers. Partners. Family, maybe.

The world had shifted plenty since his first dog. The county paved the gravel roads, built a Dollar General right over the field where he and his brother used to set off bottle rockets on the Fourth of July. Folks stopped waving from their pickups. Kids stopped helping on weekends. And now, most of the farms were dead or sold to outfits with names like “AgriCore” or “GreenFuture.” Hell, even the church closed two summers ago.

But he still had his dogs. At least, he used to.

He came back from the burial stiff and aching, hands raw. His knees clicked with every step. The house was too quiet. One of those silences that buzzes. That reminds you how long it’s been since you heard a voice not coming out of a TV set or a doctor’s office.

He sat at the kitchen table, next to a wood-framed photo of him in his thirties — tall, sinewy, leaning on a fence post with a dog at his side and the whole damn sky behind him.

He remembered Daisy best.

She was his first — a gift from his father the year he turned eighteen and took over the herd. 1965.

She’d run like the wind, tongue flapping, eyes locked in that trance-like focus. Never failed him once, not in twelve seasons. When a tornado touched down in ’73, it was Daisy who herded all twenty-seven sheep into the cellar barn without a single command.

He’d never felt more in awe of an animal. Not even his own kids had that kind of instinct — not that he blamed them. The boy moved out west. Something in computers. The girl married a bank manager and sent Christmas cards from Florida.

“You’re too sentimental,” his late wife Carol used to say, watching him carve the dogs' names into cedar plaques, hammer them gently into the fence post after each one passed.

“Maybe,” he’d answer. “But they stuck around.”

Earl stood slowly and grabbed a bottle of Wild Turkey from the high shelf — not to get drunk, just enough to take the chill out of his chest. He poured a bit into his chipped enamel mug and a little onto the ground outside for Sadie.

He stared at the empty yard. The wind caught the edge of the screen door and creaked it open, then let it slap shut. That sound had once driven Sadie nuts. She’d bark at it like it was an intruder, then look up at him for approval, tail wagging in little hopeful arcs.

A man doesn’t cry when a dog dies. Not out loud. Not where anyone can see.

But he did today. He let it come.

Not because she was the best of them — though she was damn close — but because it felt like the final stitch had come loose.

No more dogs. No more sheep.

No more “Earl and his collie.”

Just Earl.

In the late afternoon, he took the old path out to the barn. The boards were dry and gray now, sun-bleached like old bones. The hinges groaned like they knew him.

Inside, everything waited in silence. The empty feed bins. The halters. The worn leather collar Sadie used to wear when she was still a pup and too scrawny to work the fields.

He sat on the overturned bucket where he’d once taken his coffee breaks. Back when there were lambs bleating and dust in the sunlight and someone to share the day with — even if it was just a dog who didn’t talk back.

Funny how folks thought dogs were the quiet ones.

They had a way of filling space, of keeping you company in the most sacred, invisible kind of way. They didn’t leave notes, didn’t send postcards. But they never left you either.

That night, Earl lit the wood stove for the first time in a while. He wasn’t cold — he just missed the sound. The crackle. The kind of warmth you couldn’t fake.

He pulled a quilt over his lap, poured another inch of bourbon, and opened the notebook he kept in the drawer. He’d written every dog’s name there. Their years. Little notes.

Daisy — 1965–1977

Trusted with newborn lambs. Barked only when needed. Saved my damn life more than once.

Red — 1978–1989

Had a crooked ear. Hated thunder. Wouldn’t let Carol walk to the mailbox alone.

Sadie — 2012–2025

Gentle soul. Understood when to sit still. Waited for me at the gate, every morning.

He stared at the page a long time before adding one more line under Sadie’s name:

The last one.

Then he closed the book, blew out the lamp, and listened to the wind tap against the window.

In the morning, he stood at the back fence, hands in his pockets, eyes on the pasture. Empty now. Still.

And yet, for a moment, just before the sun broke through the mist, he could swear he saw them all — ears perked, eyes bright, tails wagging — waiting at the edge of the field like they used to.

Maybe they were.

Or maybe it was just memory, being kind.

Either way, Earl smiled.

Because he knew one thing for certain:

He never farmed alone.

🪵

If this story stirred something in you, maybe leave a light on for someone who’s feeling the quiet tonight.

[ladykailitha]

Murder in the Heartland Part 14

Hey, everyone! Welcome back! After next week, this will alternate with the Heist AU, titled "The London Job". So that will be exciting.

In this we have Tommy in more hot water then we could have expected.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

~

Interviewer: But he flirted with Amelie, the Church justiciar in “Death of the Deacon”! They literally go into a room together and come out of it with tussled clothes and messed up hair. Everyone assumed they had sex.

Steve snorted: They go into the archives to look for evidence. They also come out with dust on their clothes and spider webs in their hair. She took her vow of celibacy very seriously. Amelie wouldn’t break it for a some man who would blow out her life as soon as the case was solved.

Interviewer: But that’s what made it so bittersweet. She loved him, but he couldn’t be a part of her life, not permanently. So they consummated their love in the archives so she could have something to remember him by.

Steve’s eye went wide: What an unplanned pregnancy, kicked out of the position she fought for, and being shut up in convent for the rest of her days? That doesn’t sound like a good prize for breaking her vows to me.

~

Jeff found out that Tommy had been sent to Chicago to set up the new office, but he was never intended to split his time there. But when the set up was completed after three month, he convinced his father that it would be better if he guided the new branch himself. But when his father offered to move him and his new wife out there, he balked and said that wasn’t necessary, he’d just spend two weeks there and two week here in Hawkins.

Mr. Hagan apparently thought that Tommy was just being driven and agreed. But when asked if he thought Tommy might have a side piece in Chicago, the man snorted and said that he better. A man shouldn’t go two weeks without sex.

And if Jeff had quietly passed along Senior’s sentiment to his own wife, that was neither here nor there.

Once they had that, Brian went digging into the county records to find out if he had been legally married to Maddy and he had been. In the Hawkins Post archive were the announcement of their engagement as well as wedding complete with photos from the day.

Then he went looking into Cook county records but hit a dead end. There was no Thomas Hagan on any of their records.

Eddie rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Maybe he’s living in company housing. That way it wouldn’t be under his name.”

Brian snapped his fingers. “Good thought!” He went digging through the files that had been sent over by the county clerk.

“Got it!” he cried after a while. “Hagan Consulting has three properties in Chicago. The office building where they house their operations, an apartment nearby that is for Hagan Senior when he goes to for business meetings and things that can’t be handled over the phone. And... drum roll please.”

Gareth began drumming on his desk with his fingers.

“A cozy three-bedroom house that was bought only a month after Tommy started working out in Chicago,” Brian said triumphantly.

“That’s pretty suspicious,” Jeff said cocking is head to the side. “Who wants the pleasure of going up there and confronting the asshole in person?”

“I think it should be Ed and Gare,” Brian said. “You and I found the clues, now they get to nail him to the wall.”

Jeff nodded. “I’m okay with that. We got the fun part so they get to do the actual sleuthing.”

“Score!” Gareth shouted. Then he high-fived Eddie. “I hear Chicago is just miserable this time a year. Let’s make it extra miserable for Tommy, shall we?”

Eddie kicked his feet up on his desk and leaned back in his chair, fingers lacing together behind his head. “Indeed we shall.”

He started making plans in his head about what he was going to say to the bastard. It was going to be delicious.

~

Gareth and Eddie staked out the house for a couple of days and there could be a lot of yelling going on in the house, but their neighbors were far enough away that they probably didn’t hear them.

They got their big break when Tommy stormed out of the house and got into his car, to drive off.

“Mormons or J-Dubs?” Gareth asked rifling through the glove compartment for something that looked pamphlet enough.

“J-Dubs,” Eddie, said pulling his hair back in a neat ponytail. “I don’t look young enough for a Mormon missionary.”

Gareth nodded and pulled out a pamphlet he had been handed to him from a couple of J-Dubs on his last stake out.

Eddie straightened his clothes and they got out of the van. They went to a couple other houses on the street and got the door slammed in their faces. They grinned at each other. They were perfect. Then they got to the Hagan residence and they went soft touch instead.

Eddie knocked on the door and a woman with soft brown hair and green eyes opened the door. She looked tired and her eyes were puffy as though she had been crying.

“Hello, ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you,” Gareth said with a sincere smile. “I was wondering if you had some time, we have a very important message to share with you.”

The woman looked around her for a moment and then nodded, stepping back to let them in. Then she lead them to her front room. She indicated to sofa for them to sit and then she sat on the loveseat, hands clasped in her lap.

“I wouldn’t mind the company,” she murmured. “My husband has become paranoid in the last couple weeks, and tells me I need to stay in for my safety.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs.–” Gareth asked, tilting his head to side.

“Oh!” she cried. “Where are my manners? I’m Coraline Harrison. My husband Tom just left for work.”

Eddie and Gareth just shared a side-eyed glance. It took him a second, thinking that she wasn’t married to Tommy and hadn’t changed her name to Hagan. But then it clicked. Thomas Harrison Hagan. The little bastard told her his last name was Harrison.

Plus if Robin was right about the little asshole, then his crush on Steve Harrington would absolutely use a last name that sounded similar.

“I’m Teddy and this is Garth,” he said pointing to Gareth. “We’re new to the area. How long have you lived here?”

“In Chicago?” Coraline huffed. “All my life. But here in this house? About two years. Tom and me had a bit of a whirlwind romance and got married after dating for about three months.”

“That must have been nice for you,” Gareth said with a fake smile.

Coraline shrugged. “It’s not bad. It’s a little hard that he has to split his time between here and Indy, but he’s always so attentive when he is in town.”

Eddie’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t know Hagan Consulting had a location in Indy.” When she startled in surprise, he nodded at the mail on the coffee table. There were several bills and things addressed to Hagan Consulting.

“Oh!” she said when she followed his line of sight. “Gosh! I didn’t even realize he’d left those there.” She quickly pulled them toward her and then stacked them neatly to shoved them between the couch cushions.

Gareth glanced over at Eddie, who just leveled Coraline with a steady look. She blushed and ducked her head.

“He tells me it’s in Indy,” she murmured. “But you’re right, I don’t think there is one there either.”

“I hate to break this to you,” Gareth said with a grimace, “but we were hired by a woman in Hawkins, a small town just south of Indy and I’m afraid he’s been unfaithful to you both.” Gareth reached into his pocket and pulled out a newspaper clipping from his pocket.

He handed it to her and her eyes darted all over the paper, trying to make sense of it all. “He’s been married to her for four years? Do they have any kids?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Yes, and well...” Eddie cocked his head to the side, “almost. She found out she was pregnant two weeks ago.”

Coraline put her hand over her mouth as tears began to fall. Suddenly a baby cry rang out in the small house. She looked up in the direction of the cry in shock.

She ran out of the room and within moments came back holding a definitely older baby. Not a newborn, but not yet a toddler.

“What a sweet thing,” Eddie cooed, and stood up. He walked over to them and tickled the little one’s chin. “Well, hello little one.”

“Say hello, Charlie,” Coraline said softly to the baby.

But now that they were up close and personal he could see that she was wearing thick makeup. He closed his eyes. “He hit you, didn’t he?”

She refused to look him in the eye. “I was hysterical when he said I wasn’t allowed to leave the house until this all blew over.”

Eddie leaned down to look her in the eye, and lifted her chin. “This is just the first strike, darlin’. That was a warning shot for what’s to come. It won’t be long until he starts hitting that little one, until the crying becomes so bad he shakes him.”

“No,” Coraline whined, backing away from him. “He’s a good man, he just made a mistake is all.”

“You’re the side piece,” Gareth said standing up and walking over to them. “He gave you a fake last name, you’ve never met his parents. Didn’t even tell you he was rolling in the dough. This place?” he said indicating around him, “Is a hell of a lot smaller than the place he has with Maddy. He puts her in designer clothes, parades her at all the work functions all while keeping you as his dirty little secret.”

She looked down at her dress, then at the small ring on her finger. She looked back up at them. “Can you get me out of here?”

Gareth and Eddie shared a glance.

“Yes,” Eddie said. “Go and grab your things for both you and the baby. I’m going to make a phone call. Gareth, you watch the door for Tommy. I want to be able to make it out the back before he finds out she’s gone.”

“Roger that!” Gareth said, and then reached out for the little one. “I’ll hold him while you get ready.”

She nodded, handing over Charlie and the three of them split up to do what needed to be done.

Eddie made his way to the kitchen and crossed his fingers. He just hoped Maddy had more empathy in her right pinkie than Tommy did in his whole god damned body.

~

Eddie had them on the interstate back to Indiana before Tommy even realized they were missing. As soon as Eddie told Jeff to look for a Thomas Harrison, Jeff was able to find the marriage certificate in a heartbeat.

The stupid idiot was a bigamist.

Maddy had been pissed at Tommy for not only having a second wife, but that he had kept her prisoner for those two weeks.

About two blocks from the Hagan house in Hawkins, Coraline blurted, “I’m pregnant.”

Eddie slammed on his breaks and then turned to look behind him. “When did you find out?”

She looked down at the hands in her lap. “This morning. It’s what me and Tom were fight about before he left. He said it couldn’t be his because the dates didn’t add up. But I’m not the one who was unfaithful.” She raised her head to look him straight in the eyes. “I swear it.”

Eddie and Gareth shared a glance.

“Nope,” Eddie decided. “This changes nothing. It’s gonna have to be that your baby and Maddy’s are going to have to be Irish twins and Tommy can pony up all the alimony and child support for having some kind of baby making super dick.”

Coraline nodded once and Eddie began driving again.

Once he got to the Hagan house, he kept on driving. Because Tommy Hagan was outside the house, screaming obscenities at Maddy who it appeared to have had tossed his belongings on their front lawn.

When he made a second loop around the block he had stop then. Because there yelling at Tommy and Maddy was black gentleman and from what Eddie could hear?

Meet affair partner number two.

And hooboy was it a bombshell for everyone involved.

Eddie cursed under his breath. He owed Robin twenty bucks.

~

Tag List: THREE SLOTS REMAINING

1- @niniel-karenine @estrellami-1 @zerokrox-blog @sadisticaltarts @dolphincliffs

2- @gregre369 @gloomysoup @kultiras @maya-custodios-dionach @johannamry

3- @goodolefashionedloverboi @val-from-lawrence @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @bookbinderbitch

4- @bookworm0690 @forgottenkanji @dreamercec @blondie1006 @yikes-a-bee

5- @awkwardgravity1 @oopsallgender @fearieshadow @stedestielfrattficlover @dragonmama76

6- @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt @useless-nb-bisexual @disrespectedgoatman @counting-dollars-counting-stars

7- @tinyplanet95 @ravenfrog @swimmingbirdrunningrock @gutterflower77 @wheneverfeasible

8- @just-a-tiny-void @w1ll0wtr33 @beelze-the-bubkiss @steddieislife @bridget-malfoy-stilinski-hale

9- @stripey82 @kroymu09 @chaotic-waffle @tartarusknight @hattsy-likes-pretty-stuff

10- @themoonagainstmers @eternal-sunflowers

[melinoestale]

mmm I've seen some posts around here (positive ones, I love that!) about the theoi and I don't think some of you get Persephone. I don't mean it in a "I know her better than you" way, not at all. the posts I'm referring to are ones that say things like "Persephone doesn't get mad if you don't do this or that" or "Persephone encourages you to do x and y". I get the positivity you're coming from, it's totally okay, but if you're going to add her to a list of how gods encourage people, keep it in mind her nature. she's way more than a flower goddess, she's the Queen of the dead, she's way more darker than people think. when I started worshipping her a few years back, I was shocked to find how she acts sometimes. she can be the flower goddess, yes, but she's also dreadful. if she encourages something is to move, to change, to explore darkness and maturity. please, don't take her just as the spring goddess when she's actually so complex 🥲

[loganes]

the forged from steel vids haunt me! the ping pong vid, the one where all the boys say they would collect a Macklin Celebrini Hockey Card because it’ll be worth a lot some day, which is objectively nice but also shows how one of mack’s main issues will always be being liked for more than just his hockey, one staff guy saying mack would come in his office just to talk, the jayden of it all (whose personality genuinely is so ghostlike, he comes across as a main character’s dead wife)

mack not playing in the first playoff games because he went to worlds, coming back from worlds injured and immediately feeling his shoulder shift in a face off back with the steel, them not winning the cup without him.

ushl scoring leader even with 11 games less than the runner up, season mvp, breaking the u17 scoring record in the night he scored his 71st point of the season :)

one of mack’s fav things about the steel of course being that they showed interest in him. no one has ever wanted to be courted as bad as him.

also iconic mack quote about ignoring outside noise: ”you’re not as good as anyone says and you’re not as bad as anyone says“ okay king. tooth gap smiling through it all.

this is wonderful scholarship i think i need to suffer through these vids even though mack is soooooooo AHHHHH i can barely listen to him talk through the secondhand embarrassment lmfao

his 2 year glow up from the steel to the sharks was actually insane

this is all delicious to chew on god. mack coming to staff guy's office to talk makes me want to weep. he was LONELY. i won't even get into the rick + shoulder of it all. "one of mack’s fav things about the steel of course being that they showed interest in him. no one has ever wanted to be courted as bad as him." yeah i think about his "it's nice to be wanted" quote like every other DAY tbh. the mack thesis.

i have never seen that quote before and i'm sick about it! so interesting to me how mack sees his own skill. his ego really only comes in to play when he's losing when that drive to do it all (thinking about this post from @moondoggiestyle) and put the team on his back kicks in, because if they're not stepping up mack knows he can. but he doesn't want to have to.

[spacetimeaccordionfolder]

Finished the episode walked in a circle and got a bowl of ice cream that I am currently eating brain is still screaming OH MY GOD

I did little doodles while listening and taking notes, i'll probably post at least one of those tomorrow (small concrete pillar crab thing)

YORICK

these thoughts are going to not be in order

the eulogy?? ohhh "died along side his friend and partner I'm also crying.

loved the Jack and the Bean stalk reference and also the Butcher

YORICK mouth tongue??? what. Harlan gave Yorick a mouth tongue. in the tentacle fandom??? I think I might be scared to go on yorick's tag on ao3 after this (NO judgement here. Nothing with that here. also just not my cup of tea. because it's Yorick.)

The "Kayne destroyed your body then?"

I wrote down several quotes that I gave me feelings and my notes are over there and I am over here and I don't want to move so. oops.

HEY do you think Kayne's jealous that John got to destroy;ijewf aerio fews fjFUCKING DESTROYED SEVERAL ALTERNATE ARTHURS "oh the things you did for me t make this deal" AF IOewf'o and like. so. John hunted and killed not at random and not innocent. He, after part 20 and the King trying to shove him back in place and it failing and landing in the dark world unsure if his friend is alive or dead (last he saw was him with a slit throat and broken legs falling into the snow) and having every emotion enflamed, found another Arthur from another world. And killed him. Over and Over. I need time to process that. but also do you think Kayne's jealous. And the JOhn and Kayne parallels keep going!

oi' erh[afr ij[oeoieihAND ON THAT NOTE there was another "SO WHAT DO I KNOW" last two have been in 20 after first talk with Kayne and the free will conversation and then in 50 after John says that if it comes between Lillith and Kayne he's siding with Kayne.

MAN seeing the ourthurchestra messed with John. God that was a stab at him. a horrible horrible stab. And here I was earlier thinking about the possibility of Kayne shapechanging into Arthur while talking to John in the Dark World and this happens. I need to bite something. Oh wait I have ice cream

you know this would have been easier if I were next to my notes

"I see" "be glad you don't"

Great episode I will have more thoughts later for now it's ice cream time

HE SAID HE WASN'T INNOCENT???

oh and "It wouldn't have been enough" or whatever he said??? "I'm too apathetic" someone get him a prescription for an anti-depression medication.

[devil-may-howl]

@lovelylixie requested:

g/n!reader vs. nero's workaholic behaviour like in that other post you made on devil-howl maybe a little bit of babying cuz gods know he needs it…

Word Count: 1'753

Another late night.

It's not like Nero is avoiding you, or... at least, you hoped so. When he was around, as exhausted as he was, he was cuddly, sweet, affectionate. Giving gentle headbutts that must've been something significant to him, and just innocently silly to you.

If you had less faith in him, you'd probably think he was cheating, or just wanted to break up and was trying to find a situation where... maybe it'd work out from you blowing a gasket at his absent behavior.

But that wasn't Nero. Not the Nero you knew, anyway.

He just worked. Like a slave. And it wasn't just for some self-serving purpose. Sort of. There were demons. Demons that people couldn't kill, or if they could, it'd have to be a hell of a fluke. Things he could handle easily, he could slaughter without hesitation. Even when he came home with a nasty gash or a deep wound, they healed by morning, at least mostly, even if the scarring tissue was a flustered pink.

Less and less, he came home.

Worse and worse, when he came home.

Hearing the old, squeaky front door open as he came in, you jerked awake. Can't miss a moment with him, so few of those, it barely felt like you were in a relationship anymore.

As you left the room that didn't feel like his anymore, he was in the kitchen, having put leftovers in the microwave, staring blankly. Not haunted- but there wasn't a thought behind those eyes. So fatigued, even the brain cried to rest.

You had to get close for him to react, and he jumped a little in surprise, despite that you were not walking quietly, and you were in his sight the whole time.

"Oh, hey baby," He said, smiling, but it was... haunting, in a way. Dark rings around his eyes. Chapped lips. He... reeked. A long day's physical labor [Fighting was labor, wasn't it?] and coated in putrid fluids and guts and whatever else Demons would spit out? Wasn't exactly appealing.

"... Why are you looking at me like that?" He questioned, his voice low and soft. A near whisper, but his features twisted in worry, brows furrowing, smile fading. Was that worse, or better, being haunted with a smile or a frown?

Both were terrible.

"You're scaring me."

He blinked. Once, twice.

"What?" He questioned. There was no malice, genuine confusion, like you asked why he drank coffee in the morning. Because it tastes good, and it helps me wake up, Nero would normally explain. But there was no explanation this time.

"You look awful. I miss you," You explained- small sentences. Any more and it's going to be too much for his overwhelmed mind to handle.

"But I'm here." He replied, smiling, "Aren't I?"

"And how long are you going to stay?"

Nero thought for a second, looking away, "Uh... was gonna get some food and shower... then I was going to pick up another set of orders from Dante."

"No, you're not. I want you to stay here. I want you to be around," You fought back. "You're killing yourself."

"Baby, baby... I know you're worried. But... I'm doing this for us. For everyone-"

"And what happens when you stop healing? When you're too hurt to come back? You can't save anyone when you're dead."

It was brutal, but... Nero wasn't always logical. His spirals were slow, gradual. Like the furthest rings of a whirlpool. You couldn't always tell they were happening, but little by little, they came, so gradual it was near impossible to notice- and then they got faster, the closer they got to the center.

You've seen him spiral, fall into the vortex.

It was a brutal sight.

You didn't want him to go missing for three days again, just for him to be more or less incapacitated for several more days, then desperate to get back out there, obliviously sending himself through the same spiral.

Again.

"Hon... I won't... I promise, just..."

"No!" Someone needed to put their foot down. And like how an attack dog was submissive, only to its handler, only yielding once its leash was pulled, he stopped. "You're not going out. You're going to eat. You're going to bathe. Then you're going to bed with me. And if you leave early, we are going to have serious issues."

Nero opened his mouth, but the look you gave him was enough to make him snap his mouth shut.

"... Okay," He said quietly. "Okay. That's... yeah. And, uh... I'll just tell Dante-"

"I'll talk to Dante." You interrupted. Can't give him any excuses. Any outs. He didn't mean to be troublesome, but that's the problem. Innocence so pure and bright and bold, it didn't understand its own shortcomings. "I'm sure he'll understand."

"Yeah... he's pretty good at that." Nero mumbled. Glancing to the microwave as it stopped many minutes prior.

"I'm going to go run you a bath, okay?" You said, "You eat."

"... You'll come back after?" Despite it all, now that he had you, knew he'd have you, was when he let clinginess show...

That's the Nero you fell in love with.

"Yes."

Getting the bathtub running was the easy part. Just fill it up, putting in some epsom salts for his aching muscles [it's one of the few things he was quite particular about, always insisting that he needed to get this specific brand, and he wanted them, it wasn't just the hot water, it was-]

Nero ended up finishing eating before you got things set up, and stood there. Watching. Awkward. A little too far gone, a little too fried to do much. But that was fine. You didn't want him doing anything. He was just like a life-sized doll to do with what you wanted.

An idea to shelve away when he wasn't so exhausted.

Helping him undress, you run your hand over his chest. He makes a soft trilling noise of confusion, as your hand goes over his soft chest- a belly that's not quite big, but just enough softness that you know there's health. Strong muscles underneath as you pressed, but he hissed. A bit bruised all over. Maybe his healing slowed again. But... then again, maybe he just got ragdolled right before this.

He didn't talk about it as much as you wished he would.

Down to the little patch of hair below his navel, a trail.

Another day, for sure.

Tugging off his belt, removing his prosthetic arm and the clamp and socking that went over what remained of his arm, you helped him sit. He hunched over a little, lost. Using a cup, you poured the warm water over his back, leaving him to shudder. Shake a little. Continuing the action, and prompting him to sit up, a hand tilting his chin as you poured it over his hair that was getting dull from the dust and filth that clung to it.

Nails scratching over his scalp- light- pouring a little bit of cold soap that made him shudder again, but he was such a good boy, he didn't complain. Just little movements. He'd never complain. Not when you loved him like this.

Rinsing his hair, and scrubbing his back, he got enough strength to help clean the rest of himself off, dripping wet as he stepped out, as you fastened a towel around his waist, using a second one to go at his hair, and to pat the rest of him dry.

"Would you be mad if I went to bed naked?" He asked, vaguely staring at nothing.

"No," You answered, honestly, "But don't get too handsy, okay? You're too tired for that."

A soft whine.

"... tomorrow?"

"Are you going to stay tomorrow?"

"... maybe."

"I guess I'll say maybe, then." You replied. He, once again, whined. But he was just being a petulant pup. He'd get over it soon, as you walked him to the bedroom, mindfully turning the lights off so he wouldn't have an excuse to get him, helping him sit down as he finished drying himself off. A one-handed toss of the two towels to the hamper.

One missed. One went in.

You'd put the other away in the morning. Pushing him back, he flopped back, staring up at you with only pure fondness.

"Get under the covers," You requested, and he grumbled, but obeyed as you turned the bedroom light off, seeing those eyes shine at you from the darkness.

It was still a little spooky, to be honest, but once you remembered it was your beloved Nero, it wasn't so scary anymore, walking slowly to avoid tripping, and crawling in.

He grabbed you, even with just one arm, it was demanding, and dragged you like you weighed nothing. Under the blankets, he held you close, pressing his face to where your neck and shoulder met. A long, held breath.

"... You okay?" You questioned. Was he smelling you, or was he going to cry?

"Missed you. Missed your smell." He said quietly.

The former, but the latter wasn't out of the question.

"I missed you too. Kiss?"

Nero lifted his head, nearly flashbanging you with those shining eyes, and he already felt his lips against yours. Kissing lightly. If he had his way, likely it'd be a lot more, but one of you needed to have a little restraint.

For tonight. While he needed to catch up on a lot of sleep, he'd probably be well enough to have a little more fun tomorrow. A little more kisses, a little more cuddling. More than just base needs being met.

Eventually, his kisses got weaker. Tired. Good. You peppered kisses all over his face, and sometimes he'd chase them. Sometimes, he'd just give up entirely. Then have a brief second wind...

And then it was gone. He faded away to somewhere else, mentally. You could see those eyes shining, just a little, beneath closed eyes. Faint.

Well, Nero wasn't human, after all. Not wholly. Some oddities are expected.

But at least in other ways, he was always the same, clingy, loving... chaotic.

Moving a little, to get comfortable, just for him to hold in a crushing grip, you had to silently reassure him you weren't leaving.

Insecure, too.

... finally. As you pressed a kiss against his neck, feeling the vibration of a sleepy trill from him, not awake, but still responding...

Now you could sleep easy.

Tomorrow, you would worry about how to get him to stop doing this to himself.

[ask-tom-buchanan]

I'll have you know that those are actually just riding boots. If you want gay boy boots, I suggest you take a look in Chester's closet.

No further comment.

No better duo than Tom and those fuckass gay boy boots