#ex!reader

[cigarettesuga]

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

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

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

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

word count: 14.3 k

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

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

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

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

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

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

and just like that, it was over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

no one asked anything else.

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

not to cry.

just to breathe.

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

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

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

but the way steph had said his name…

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

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

she checked her phone—reflex. no messages.

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

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

she did miss having him around.

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

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

i miss having you around.

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

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

the warmth never hit her chest. it just sank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i miss having you around.

still there. still blinking.

she didn’t delete it.

but she didn’t send it either.

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

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

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

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

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

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

6 unread messages. none from him.

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

and there it was.

the text she swore she didn’t send.

i miss having you around.

right beneath it:

read 4:17 am.

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

but no.

he’d read it.

and that was it.

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

just silence.

the kind that wrapped around her like cold water.

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

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

it was just a text.

just a ghost.

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

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

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

she didn’t check her phone again.

not right away.

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

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

like text him again.

maybe something casual. ironic. a recovery joke.

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

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

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

still…

she thought about it.

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

what if he wants her to chase him?

what if he’s just being cautious?

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

what if.

what if.

what if.

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

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

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

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

how pathetic. how raw.

and he hadn’t said a thing.

the knock came just after seven.

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

(y/n) didn’t move from the couch.

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

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

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

a beat.

then: “...oh.”

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

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

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

“kinda.”

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

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

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

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

(y/n) didn’t answer at first.

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

then, finally: “i texted him.”

amara didn’t blink. “namjoon?”

(y/n) nodded.

“when?”

“last night.”

“what’d you say?”

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

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

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

“...and?”

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

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

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

(y/n) blinked. “i don’t know.”

“yes, you do.”

“i didn’t expect anything, i just—”

amara gave her a look.

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

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

a beat.

“again.”

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

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

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

“sure feels like it.”

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

(y/n)’s throat tightened.

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

that was when the tears finally came.

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

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

and maybe they had.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(y/n) wiped under her eyes. “always.”

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

“holding onto what?”

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

“you remember Still Moss?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“that beanie was iconic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“okay,” she said. “i’ll go.”

amara raised her brow. “with me?”

“obviously with you.”

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

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

-----

she stared at her closet like it had offended her.

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

because this was his band.

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

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

and now she was going without him.

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

what was she doing?

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

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

i miss having you around.

read. still no reply.

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

who was she kidding?

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

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

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

still.

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

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

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

she stood up.

grabbed the mesh top.

and started getting ready.

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

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

no sign of amara yet.

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

and then her phone buzzed.

a text.

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

(y/n) stared at the message.

read it again.

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

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

she looked up at the venue entrance.

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

she hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

to namjoon.

to the past.

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

no fucking way.

she took a breath.

pushed her phone back into her bag.

and stepped into the venue.

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

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

a flicker of excitement.

this was her night.

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

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

it helped.

for a second, it helped.

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

Still Moss would go on soon.

she could feel it.

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

want.

not for him. not for the past.

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

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

but she stayed.

she didn’t flinch.

the lights overhead flickered once. twice.

and then they dimmed.

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

she smiled.

just a little.

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

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

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

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

the room answered with a scream.

(y/n) screamed with them.

and for those first few songs, she let go.

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

she was alive.

she was alive.

and that’s exactly when it happened.

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

she turned her head.

and there he was.

namjoon.

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

her pulse stuttered.

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

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

but she could feel it.

his stare.

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

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

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

she didn’t dare look back.

but she knew.

he was still watching.

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

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

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

and god, she almost believed it.

almost.

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

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

and she danced.

not for him.

but in spite of him.

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

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

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

her breath hitched.

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

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

and then—

a hand.

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

she froze.

looked up.

and there he was.

namjoon.

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

his hand was warm.

his grip steady.

and his face—

god, his face.

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

she didn’t know what to say.

she couldn’t say anything.

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

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

she didn’t answer.

she couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

by anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but they weren’t okay now.

they hadn’t been in a long time.

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

namjoon’s mouth parted slightly.

she didn’t wait for him to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

he froze.

the silence between them was immediate, electric.

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

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

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

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

her mouth opened. then closed.

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

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

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

they stared at each other.

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

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

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

and fuck, she hated how familiar he still felt.

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

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

hers did the same.

and it was like time held its breath.

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

but they didn’t kiss.

neither of them moved.

and the restraint hurt worse than any breakup ever could.

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

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

she blinked, throat thick. “what?”

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

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

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

because she should say no.

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

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

god, it wanted to say yes.

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

they didn’t have to speak to feel it.

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

and she hated how natural it felt.

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

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

they stepped inside.

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

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

the fight.

the guilt.

the aching, unbearable want.

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

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

“i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the silence between them? it wasn’t empty.

it was full. heavy. breaking at the seams.

they weren’t done.

not even close.

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

she blinked. slow. disbelieving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

her breath hitched.

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

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

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

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

and just like that—the thread snapped.

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

there was no going back now.

not after this.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he didn’t answer. didn’t have to.

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

they were already past the point of no return.

and neither of them gave a damn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

something in him snapped at that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

then he got to her underwear.

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

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

and then—rip.

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

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

and then he was between her legs.

not teasing. not easing in.

devouring.

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

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

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

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

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

he didn’t stop.

if anything, he smiled against her cunt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

he licked his lips once.

his chin was glistening. soaked in her.

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

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

and then she dragged him down.

no hesitation. no time to breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t you fucking dare.”

he slammed into her in one deep, brutal thrust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then he really let go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and then she shattered.

again.

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

he couldn’t hold it anymore.

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

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

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

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

but then—he kissed her again.

soft this time.

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

and then—he slid back in.

slow.

gentle.

soothing the ache he’d left behind.

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

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

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

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

and he kissed her again.

not fast. not hard.

just full of everything they’d said without words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and for a moment, they did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

neither of them spoke for a long while.

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

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

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

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

but there wasn’t any.

not in her eyes. not in her touch.

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

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

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

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

and god—she could feel herself starting to unravel.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“me either,” he said.

and yet… the silence said everything else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

just something closer.

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

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

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

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

like this had been enough.

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

he turned slowly, met her eyes.

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

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

his throat worked. like the word caught there.

and then, finally—he nodded.

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

because maybe she still did.

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

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

just truth. in its rawest, sleepiest form.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he kissed her then.

slow. deep. different.

like he heard her.

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

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

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

and they stayed.

no promises.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“me too,” he murmured. “so much.”

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

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

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

it was safe.

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

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

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

again.

and this time, they meant it.

quietly always, cigarettesuga.

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

[msfantasy-comics]

The Ex gets Married

Bruce Wayne x Ex-Girlfriend!Reader

Summary: Bruce breaks up with Y/n and ends up in a tumultuous relationship with Selina. Bruce finds out about his ex-girlfriend moving on and is heartbroken.

Warning: Bruce does not have a happy ending.

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Many years before, Bruce, had to make a life altering decision.

Should he follow his head or his heart?

He loved both Selina and Y/n dearly for very different reasons.

But there was no use pondering the decision further. Selina was a safe bet.

Selina, whilst fickle, was still a woman capable of handling the rough and tough life style that accompanied his alter-ego. Selina’s life parallels his own; their secret life, their deep rooted trauma, their years of personal growth together.

When considering these factors, it was indisputable, he had to follow his head, and in the end he got exactly what he asked for.

An unbridled romantic companion that was only ever present when it suited her.

Selina was never consistent in supporting Bruce. Only being present at the worst of times, and never being available to celebrate the best of times.

Selina was incapable of bonding with his sons. It’s not like she didn’t try, the boys were just utterly disinterested in bonding with a woman who seemed to sail in and out of Bruce’s life on a whim. Dick, Jason, Tim and Damian felt Selina was not going to be around long, so they always turned her down or avoided Selina when possible.

Selina was uncomfortable with the mundane. Drama followed her where ever she went. Her constant blow outs strains Bruce beyond measure.

As usual, Bruce retreats to his cold and lonely bed. It’s been weeks since he last heard from Selina. He stares at the ceiling and wonders what his life could’ve been like had he followed his heart.

You were always the first to hold Bruce and comfort him in his times of need. You were always pushing to celebrate ridiculous milestones and insisting it was important since it was an achievement.

You put in so much effort bonding with his sons. You’d spent days in Bludhaven, looking after Dick in hospital when no one else could. You drove to Jason’s favourite dive bar, drank beer with him every Friday. You attended all of Tim’s extracurricular events. You would drink tea with Damian and listen to him vent his frustrations with his teammates.

Better yet, you were always in bed waiting for him. Arms always spreading open, ready to embrace him after a difficult night out.

Bruce missed you dearly, but he knows he made the right decision. Selina was capable of protecting herself- you weren’t.

Bruce constantly reminds himself of that time Joker almost took your life as you helplessly dangled from the building. Your survival from that encounter was pure luck. If Bruce wasn’t your boyfriend, you would’ve been safe.

So, Bruce made the right decision following his head. Following his heart would’ve brought nothing but heartache.

The house seemed unusually quite. There was no noise, no movement. He hasn’t heard anything from anyone.

“Alfred, where are the boys?” The older gentlemen continues to assemble the cucumber sandwiches, pretending he didn’t hear a single word. “Alfred?” The older man sighs as he contemplates telling the truth, to honouring the lie fabricated by the boys. At last, Alfred opts for the ugly truth.

“The young masters are attending a wedding ceremony.” Alfred answers bluntly, unwilling to be the barer of bad news.

“A wedding ceremony? Who’s wedding is it?” Alfred places the plate in front of Bruce, continuing to avoid eye contact. “Alfred, answer the question.”

He sighs as he pours a glass of water. “John Constantines wedding.”

Confusion crosses Bruce as to why his sons are attending that man’s wedding. “I didn’t know he had a significant other, who is he marrying?”

Alfred looks off to the clock as Bruce waits impatiently for the long drawn out answer. The clock strikes twelve, which floods the house with a melody to notify half the day has passed. Finally, Alfred speaks. “As of 12’oclock John Constantine has married his beloved wife Y/n Constantine.”

All colour in Bruce’s face drains, his mouth goes dry and he’s not sure if his heart is beating. “Y/n… she’s married?” Alfred nods unsympathetically.

“The women you love has married someone that isn’t you.” Alfred’s words rubs salt in Bruce’s already wounded heart. “Incase you were wondering Master Bruce… Selina Kyle had introduced the two around the time you had broken up.” Bruce’s head turns to mush at the news.

It’s not like he intended to get back together with you or anything- so why is he so upset?

Of course you would move on eventually, he knew that. That’s just common sense. Why would you be single for the rest of your life?

Yet despite all common sense Bruce’s heart continues to squeeze painfully, his head thumping away as a growing migraine takes place.

The love of his life has gone on and married someone else.

God.

Is it too late to win her back?

What was he thinking ? Of course it is.

There’s no going back.

Bruce will just have to accept his decision.

[miaoua3]

Moth To A Flame

Pairings: bf! dk x f!reader x ex! mingyu, friend! dk x friend! mingyu

Genre: angst, no comfort, exes to enemies, secrets from the past, hatred, unspoken promises, breakup talk, insinuation about the break up being set up, unfinished business, inoccent! dk

Description: no matter how many men come after him…he will always be on your mind, a part of your past haunting your present. (or you go on a date with your newly secured boyfriend dk when you run into your ex, mingyu, the one who broke your heart, and yet is still the one you refer to as “the one who got away.

Author’s note: inspired by this tiktok and also the whole younghee live😭

you thought you had it in the bag.

you thought that after years and years of having a broken heart, that you finally started mending the pieces together. thought that you grew up and finally started forgetting about him.

oh how wrong you were.

because no matter how hard you try to get away from the past, to forget him, he always comes to haunt you in one way or another.

you were having a wonderful time with your boyfriend, seokmin, enjoying the day despite the gloomy weather.

seokmin, although you haven’t been together for that long, just 3 months, has been the best boyfriend you could’ve asked for.

after many failed attempts at dating since him, many times where they were straight up rude and misogynistic, many that were so self centred you had to resist the urge of rolling your eyes, you finally found the one good guy.

seokmin was all smiles and positive energy, always bringing a bit of sunshine to your gloomy days. he was good, kind, he genuinely cared for you.

seokmin was the type of guy to open all the doors for you, give you his jacket when you were cold, and who your mother loved. the type that treated you with nothing but gentleness, like you were a fragile flower, fearing that if he touched you any harder, that your petals would fall off.

he was a good guy, the type of guy you needed after 5 years of lingering feelings for him, 5 years of not allowing yourself to move on, 5 years of keeping out the hope that he would come to his senses and come back to you.

he was truly what you needed.

and yet…

seokmin was sitting opposite of you, telling you a story about one of his friends, a cheerful smile grazing his sharp features, all while cutting and feeding you a piece of cake you two order and decided to share.

although you had to hide your grimace every time he put a fork with a piece of cake in your mouth, as you absolutely despised the blueberries. which, of course, was his favourite fruit and what the cake was made out of.

but instead of telling him that you would eat literally anything else, you just smiled a fake smile, saying that you had no problem with ordering it.

he was getting at the height of his story, the build up reaching almost it’s peak, when he stopped and looked behind you, a look of surprise and happiness overcoming his features.

in retrospect, had you known who he saw, you would’ve bolted right through the window that you two were sitting by.

“ggyu! over here!”, seokmin called out, hand raised to signal the person where he’s calling from.

ggyu?

you looked and your boyfriend confusedly, ready to look back and see who it is, when you heard his voice, the voice you knew too well even after all this time, making you freeze in place.

“oh, minnie! what are you doing here?”

you heard his steps approach your table, a sense of dread and anger overcoming your whole being as you sensed his dominating and strong presence.

before you knew it, he stood right beside you, looking at seokmin, not bothering to even look at you yet.

seokmin reached out his hand for a handshake, all too cheerful considering that he was the one on the receiving end of the said handshake.

“oh nothing, ynnie and me decided to make the best out of this gloomy day and come here for breakfast!”

it’s only when seokmin said your name that mingyu slowly looked over to you, shock and surprise on his face clashing with anger and disgust on your own.

he just looked at you, the big brown eyes flying over your features, drinking up the sight of you after not having seen you since your break up, 5 years ago.

somewhere in the distance, you hear seokmin speak out, his clueless voice all too cheerfully ringing inside your ears.

“love, this is mingyu, one of my good buddies. and mingyu, this is yn,” seokmin stops for a second that it takes him to grab your hand across the table, before he finishes “my girlfriend.”

the shock and surprise on mingyu’s face disappears the second the word “girlfriend” leaves seokmin’s mouth, something colder and emotionless masking his real emotions, the brown eyes that usually looked at you with nothing but adoration looking at you with this…emptiness, almost like he doesn’t feel anything for you anymore.

and it pissed you off.

almost like he can sense the tension in the air, seokmin asks with an unsure tone “um, do you two know each other? because it looks like you do…”

after another second of looking at mingyu with anger and hatred, you finally look back at your boyfriend, a fake smile grazing your lips. in the corner of your eye you can see mingyu opening his mouth, ready to spill the truth and probably ruin everything you and seokmin have built up until this point. but before he can say anything, you answer for you both.

“just old acquaintances, baby. nothing much, we just know each other from mutual functions.”

at your smile, seokmin smiles in relief, his worries melting away at your words.

“oh, okay. well, didn’t know you knew each other, had i known it, i would’ve brought you to one of out group hangouts much earlier. maybe you could’ve reconnect with ggyu then.”

you smile fakely, your thoughts going from i would rather die than reconnect with him to had i known you two were friends i would’ve never gone out with you.

mingyu shifts beside you, catching your attention. you quickly look over to him, his jaw set in annoyance, eyes looking only at your hand that is being held by seokmin.

and it pisses you off, so much.

who does he think he is to get annoyed at you for having moved on? for having found the happiness in the kindest man there is? for having finally forgotten of his existence after he accused you of cheating and breaking up with you?

who does he think he is to sit there and act like he has any right to look at you with the eyes of betrayal?

before you can even register, seokmin pulls his hand away in the name of getting up.

as he stands beside mingyu, he smiles at him and pats him on his shoulder, pure happiness on his face as he says.

“well, since you are here already, i’ll let you two catch up while i go go the bathroom.”, he steps around mingyu before he stops beside you and bends down.

all too unexpectedly, he lands one brief kiss on your lips, shocking you to the core. you feel your whole blood turn cold in panic for the one millisecond it takes seokmin to kiss you, before he says lowly.

“i’ll be right back, okay? just have to go to the bathroom and pay.”

you just nod in response, his words barely registering in your brain before he walks off.

you immediately look out of the window, making it a point to ignore the man that stands beside you in silence.

after a few uncomfortable seconds of silence, he finally speaks out in the most condescending voice ever.

“ ‘just old acquaintances’, huh?”, he pauses for a second it takes him to sit down in the booth opposite of you, where your boyfriend sat just a second ago.

you snap your eyes to him, jaw set tight in anger, looking at him like he’s the last person you wanted to see.

he smiles condescendingly, a bit of his own anger mixed with it.

you start panicking, the way his smell has stayed unchanged and is now filling your senses, the way he still wears his glasses the same, the way he still hasn’t changed at all, yet he looks so unfamiliar, in the most familiar way.

before you can stop yourself, you snap back.

“fuck off mingyu. we obviously have nothing nice to say to each other so let’s spare ourselves the energy.”

his smiles dims a bit, tongue poking the inside of his cheek in anger like he always used to do. in a hoarse voice, he almost whispers back to you.

“oh, i have a lot to say to you. planning on screwing with seokmin like you did with me, huh?”

laughing in disbelief, you snap back just as quickly.

“i see nothing has changed with you. typical. should’ve known you would always believe her. tell me, did she try getting together with you yet? like i told you she would?”, you finally look back to him, eyes stormy, meeting his own.

he stops for a second, hesitating to answer your question.

hook, line and sinker.

you scoff as you look away yet again, muttering to yourself.

“so i was right after all. should’ve known from the minute she sent me those messages.”

mingyu’s anger disappears for a second, looking at you with confusion.

“what messages are you talking about?”

you are ready to call him out, to tell him to stop pretending because he probably knows. but when you look at him, you only see genuine confusion on his face, eyebrows furrowed and eyes slowly filling with a bit of fear.

huh.

making it your turn to smile condescendingly at him, you answer.

“the messages she sent me the night before. y’know, where she told me im not good enough for you and how- and i quote, ‘you will be hers, one way or another.”, you stop for second so you can lean in closer and drop the final bomb “y’know, the messages i tried telling you about while you were accusing me of cheating and breaking up with me. the messages i tried telling you about while you were packing my stuff.”

mingyu looks at you with genuine shock, guilt swimming in his big brown eyes.

but you don’t stop just there.

“you know mingyu, i always knew that you were a bit gullible, that you trusted the first thing you heard, and that you never checked the truth…” you stop as you look down at the table before you finish “…i just never knew that you would’ve believed her over me, your girlfriend. guess that just shows that i was always your second choice, ever since the beginning.”

you can see his mouth opening and closing, trying to form an answer, but to no avail.

luckily for you, you see seokmin slowly walking back to you, making you quickly get up and gather your things. but unfortunately for you, seokmin walks over to the counter first so he can pay, making your chance to get away void.

your foot taps impatiently, looking around as you wait for seokmin to come back.

suddenly, mingyu asks you a question, a question that makes your back freeze in panic.

“you let him order a cake with blueberries? even though you hate them?”

slowly, you turn your head around, his eyes challenging you to answer it.

but you stay silent.

he chuckles dryly, muttering to himself.

“and here i was worried for nothing. turns out, he doesn’t even know you that good. because you won’t let him.”, he pauses before he looks up at you through his eyelashes.

“won’t allow him know you…not like how i did.”

you freeze, eyes wide in panic, out of words at how right he actually is.

luckily for you, seokmin walks over at that moment, wrapping an arm around your waist. snapping you out of your panic, you see him smiling at you gently.

“ready to go, love?”

you swallow dryly, smiling a bit awkwardly as you nod your head at him.

you turn away as the two friends say their goodbyes, sighing in relief when seokmin intertwines your hands together and leads you to the exit.

in the moment of weakness, the one that you will cuss yourself out for later when you are laying in your bed in the middle of the night and staring at your ceiling as you think back about the sight, just as you and your boyfriend reach the exit, you slowly look over your shoulder to where your ex is sat.

only to see him looking directly at you.

his eyes are very serious as they observe, dark and full of emotions. you watch as he slowly plucks one of the blueberries from the leftover cake and puts it in his mouth.

like he always did whenever there were blueberries and he ate them for you.

you swallow dryly.

and you see it.

see how his eyes look directly back at yours.

see the unspoken promise that floats in them.

see the promise that reads out:

this isn’t over yet…love.

[memoirofasparklemuff1n]

an obx smau + irl!!!

"there are secrets you won't mutter,

while dancing at midsummer.

oh, but what a bummer...

that i know what you did last summer!"

synopsis: the summer after graduating highschool was the dream. after years of tedious hours at school and of nonsensical drama, you are finally an adult, but most importantly? free. or so you thought. after a tragic incident the night of midsummers, the four of you decided to never, ever speak of it again. everything was going to be okay because only those present that night knew the truth, right?

pairing: exbf!jj x exgf!reader (2nd chance?); rafe x reader (friends to lovers??) LOVE TRIANGLE, YEARNING!!!! who cheered? I DID

cw: violence, murder, love triangle, trauma, ANGST, idk what else to put lol but you get the idea

profiles!

prologue

part 1

part 2

[coolgrl111]

Waaait idk if this makes sense but you could do a text au with art x reader who broke up but they still lowkey like eachother

[rafescherie]

✮⋆˙ ex!reader can’t bear to see rafe treating his new girlfriend so badly — she’d be there to pick up the pieces of his broken heart, though!

warnings — angst ! rafe mentioned but not in the fic, manipulative reader, mentions of toxicity and manipulation.

cherie's note — i hope this is giving amy dunne my beloved.

she was gorgeous — really, she was. sleek brunette hair that kissed just above her shoulders, a tight little body that could keep any man’s undivided attention, and a personality so warm and inviting it was impossible not to like her. sweet, generous, kind — the perfect package. she had that down-to-earth charm, growing up on the cut and still somehow managing to stay humble about it. you could see why he liked her. she mirrored the same version of you he had fallen for years ago, back before everything crumbled.

her hesitation had been palpable at first, sneaking out behind her boyfriend’s back to meet with his ex-girlfriend. the forbidden allure of the situation must’ve been too tempting to resist. curiosity killed the cat, after all. and now here she was, perched nervously in the chair across from you, eyes wide and glistening with apprehension as she absorbed every word. you weren’t sure if it was horror or disbelief reflected in her gaze, but you knew she was listening.

“i don’t want this to affect your relationship, obviously,” you said, voice heavy with practiced sincerity. “i just think you deserve to know what i’ve been through. there’s a pattern here, sofia, and it’s glaringly obvious from a mile away.” you leaned back, pressing a hand against your temple as the headache brewing at the base of your skull flared.

sofia swirled her bright orange drink with the thin straw, taking slow, deliberate sips as she nodded. her face softened with an apologetic expression, one so genuine it made your chest loosen. you hadn’t expected her to seem this understanding — it was disarming, really.

“i’ve been through hell with rafe cameron,” you admitted, voice low and laden with the weight of memories. the name alone seemed to steal the air from the room. her boyfriend. the words sat unspoken between you like an undeniable truth. “and i can’t stand the thought of you going through the same thing i did. i know how it starts.”

she shifted forward in her chair, chin propped on her hand, as if urging you to go on.

“months of not seeing him because he was off on one of his impulsive escapes — running after those stupid pogues to god-knows-where in south america. screaming matches in the middle of the night over nothing, to the point my voice cracked and gave out the next morning. and his addiction…” your voice faltered. “that was the worst of it. cocaine, sofia. it consumed him. no matter how hard i tried, no matter what i did, he always chose it over me.”

her lips parted slightly, her eyes flickering with disbelief. “i had no idea,” she murmured.

you let out a humorless laugh. “nobody does. he’s good at hiding it when he wants to be. but trust me, he’s not the perfect man he pretends to be. and the worst part? he was the one who broke up with me.” you shook your head, the absurdity of it all still bitter on your tongue.

sofia’s brow furrowed, and she leaned in closer. “everything you say will stay between us,” she reassured, her tone steady but laced with sincerity. “i promise.”

could you trust her? that question lingered in your mind, but the truth was, you didn’t need to. this wasn’t about loyalty; it was about planting the seed.

“i don’t even know where to start,” you sighed, resting your chin on your palm. “i should’ve left the first time it happened, but i didn’t. i was in love, you know? and every time i tried to bring something up — anything, really — he’d turn it around with some sob story about his childhood. i’d feel guilty, and i’d let it go.”

her expression shifted — a flicker of recognition. she knew exactly what you were talking about.

“he’d compliment other girls right in front of me,” you continued, voice cracking as your emotions began to swell. “and then when i told him it hurt, he’d call me insecure. and if i got upset? suddenly, i was ‘too sensitive.’”

sofia’s face twisted in discomfort, her lips pressed into a thin line. it was clear she wasn’t just hearing you; she was feeling it too.

“he’s done that to me too,” she confessed, her voice quiet but laced with something heavy — shame, maybe, or realization. her hands fidgeted in her lap as she looked down, avoiding your gaze. “he did that with hollis.”

your heart skipped. that was new information. “and let me guess,” you said, leaning forward slightly, “he said it was just work partners or some nonsense like that. made you feel like you were crazy for even questioning it?”

her head snapped up, and she nodded quickly. “exactly. god, it’s like you’re reading my mind.”

“i’ve been there,” you said, voice low and somber. “i tried to leave so many times, but every time i did, he’d pull me back in. he’d remind me of all the things he did for me — made me feel like i owed him something.”

“jesus.” sofia’s voice cracked, her composure slipping as her emotions bubbled to the surface. “i thought that was normal with him. god, i feel like such an idiot.”

“don’t,” you cut in quickly, shaking your head. “don’t blame yourself. manipulators like rafe… they know exactly how to get to you. it’s not your fault.”

you reached across the table, offering her a small, reassuring smile. it felt natural, comforting. “i just want you to know the truth. you don’t have to go through what i did.”

she nodded, her expression resolute now, and in that moment, you felt a quiet sense of relief. she understood. she believed you. that was all you needed.

because in the end, this wasn’t just about warning her — it was about planting the seed. the doubt you’d carefully sown would fester, weaving its way into every little moment, every fight, every lingering glance that didn’t feel quite right. it would grow until it was too big to ignore, cracking their perfect little relationship wide open. and when it all came crashing down?

you’d be there. waiting. rafe cameron would come crawling back, brokenhearted and betrayed, just like you had been. and this time, you’d be the one to pick up the pieces.

you hadn’t told sofia the truth to hurt her — it wasn’t about that. you just couldn’t stand to see her go through what you had. and when it happened—when she left him for good—he’d see it too. he’d realize that you’d been there all along, that no one could love him the way you did.

sofia might break his heart, but you’d be there to put it back together. one piece at a time.

[hearts4hughes]

I just saw a TikTok where the girl was like “ex just broke no contact to tell me his dad passed. I did some digging and his dad’s still alive”

And I just know that ex!Rafe reached out to reader about Ward’s actual death but bc reader knows Ward faked his death before she’s just like “for real this time?”

literally exactly how it goes 😭

no bc ex!rafe absolutely sends some dramatic “you don’t have to respond but… he’s gone” text at 2am with zero punctuation and a smidge of vulnerability and reader just stares at it like mm, deja vu. part of her wants to believe him. the other part is like you sure? so yeah, she texts back…

“fr this time?”

and in his messed up mind he’s like i think that means she wants me again

[wonwoosthetic]

Saw you're taking request for thunderbolts bucky and I don't even know what I want to read, I just know I NEED to read something from itttt. Was thinking that gala scene (it's in the trailers so I guess it's not spoilers right), maybe reader is part of his campaign too or whatever and they're just there together? (Maybe already a couple, maybe not)

Idontknow sorry I just wanted to sent you something you maybe could use as an "idea" so sorry to bother you

Hiii!! Please, never ever be sorry for sending something into my inbox!! I get so happy about each message I receive, ESPECIALLY NOW IF IT’S ABOUT BUCKY👏🏼🥰

I let myself get inspired by your prompt, but I hope you like it where I took it :) I wanted to include the “flirting” of a couple but I wanted a bit more tension, hope everyone enjoys it!😊

This. Movie. Is. Incredible. That’s all I want to say. I’ve always loved Bucky, I will always love Bucky, but I need some tension and some badass characters, so here you go!🫶🏼

Old Habits Die Young, Or Whatever

pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

word count: 3.4k

warnings: mentions of dead characters, cursing, tension, implied past relationships

masterlists

You could've looked up at the balcony. Just one glance up and you know your gazes would've met. You've been feeling his eyes on you ever since you stepped into the mansion. Knowing you've reached your goal made you grin to yourself. What you had come for had found you, and you didn't even have to do anything. Just look good and play along.

And boy, did you look good. A long black dress might still be simple, but the slit up your leg most definitely wasn't. Smiling at the people passing by, some greeted you as they recognised you, some you knew as well, but most of them, you didn't.

Galas hadn’t always been your thing. Although you enjoyed the idea of getting dressed up and doing something good, then you were all there for it. Just not this time. Glancing around, seeing weapons and valuables that you had fought for, now behind glass and just being presented to the public, did not feel right. And it shouldn't. Especially not if they were put on display in the name of none other than Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

It was easy to get on your nerves, yes. But that woman had a special super power in just her being feeling like nails on a chalkboard in your head. You had avoided her all evening, and so far, you had been doing well.

The Avengers were gone. You understood that. As hard as it was to come to terms with it, you were there first hand. But now, to have some politician woman step out and put out everything you had worked for, only to make herself look good... that's where you drew the line at being a good person. Because two people could play that game. And you were never made to be good in the first place-

"Miss Thompson." A deep voice made you turn around. Thank God you had already downed your glass of champagne the minute you stepped foot through the door.

"Miss Thompson?" You wondered with a grin, looking at the older man in front of you. Gary and you were on a first-name basis, so the sudden politeness in his voice surprised you. "Well then, Congressman-"

"Alright, cut the act," he stopped you with a smile.

You laughed. "You started it."

A moment of silence filled the space between the two of you before Gary's soft voice spoke up again. "Didn’t expect to see you here, Y/N." It was so unlike the tone he used with Valentina.

You shrugged with a sigh, "Just trying to help my conscience, I guess?" Maybe only a part of it was a lie. But some of it definitely held truth. There was one reason you were sure of as to why you were here. But would you still had come if HE hadn't been here?

"Your conscience?" The politician looked at you in pure confusion. "You already helped us enough with de Fontaine. I hope you know that. You can sleep tight, knowing you brought us everything you could. You worked hard. You deserve some time off."

'Some time off.' You could only scoff. You had heard that sentence one too many times. Your type of people don't just get 'some time off'. If you do, you're missing something. You'd be failing at the one job you were confident in.

"I don't think so." Trying to avoid his gaze, your eyes darted upwards, finding a woman now next to Bucky. You scrunched your eyebrows.

"You helped enough," he tried to assure you some more.

Softly, you shook your head. "Is there ever enough help?"

Gary let a sigh fall from his lips. He wasn't annoyed. He couldn't be after all you had done for him and the right side of the impeachment. But he knew how hard you had been on yourself for the past few months, and he couldn't understand why.

"Self-employment really isn't doing you any good."

You switched back to look at him, your mind now elsewhere and suddenly in a rush. "Yeah, well... maybe that's also why I'm here."

"You know, I'll always be able to find you a seat right next to me." It wasn't the first time he had offered to help you take your first step into the Capitol. And it wasn't the first time you had turned it down.

"I know," you smiled at him before your eyes went back to the now laughing couple on the balcony. "But politics isn't really my thing."

-

“You can’t sneak up on me. I thought you knew that.”

You had excused yourself from the crowd on the ground floor, passing even more people who seemed like they wanted to speak to you, starting their approach with 'Thank you for-' before you politely brushed them off to continue your way upstairs. There wasn't much time you had spent behind the stone pillar before he had found you. Even with his back still turned to you.

With a sigh, you gave in. “A girl can try.” Turning around, you made your way to the suited-up former Winter Soldier, who was still looking straight ahead, the big A shining directly towards the two of you.

Glancing down at your feet with a smile before he shook his head. "Not in those heels," Bucky commented.

"Jeez," you joked, "can't even dress to impress anymore."

You got a chuckle out of him, making you grin, yet you hid it behind the rim of another glass of champagne you had snatched from a waiter's tray.

The former soldier bit down on his lip, thinking twice before letting a compliment tumble from his lips. "You look beautiful." Sounding as easy and light as it did every time before.

You couldn't help but smile. "Thank you." Turning your head towards him, you were immediately locked in his gaze. You had almost forgotten how piercing his steel blue eyes were.

His hair had gotten longer. Much longer ever since you had last seen him. Sam had told you about his changed looks in your last phone call, which was... also quite a while ago. Shit, close to a year. He had told you about the suit and tie Bucky showed up with and with 'the old long mane, but not that shit he had back in Wakanda'. You never realised how much you had missed his long hair since he had decided to keep it short for some time, but now that you saw him again with this, it brought you back. Back to when you had met him, which, sure, wasn't the perfect first meet, but he still looked as good as ever.

And you looked even more stunning than ever before, he thought to himself. Also, he hadn't seen you in a good two years, and he had to hold onto the memory of your beauty for that time.

"What are you doing here, Y/N?" His voice was close to a whisper, with the non-existent crowd on the upper floor, he didn't need to speak much louder, yet it felt all that much more intimate.

You could lie again. Tell him the same thing you had told Gary merely minutes ago. But Bucky knew you. Too well. You knew he would see right through you. So you decided to keep quiet for just a second too long, which made him continue.

"I thought you were still in Louisiana."

Louisiana... where you were promised a somewhat normal life. A new beginning. A fresh start. Clean air. A clear past. Turns out that just wasn't for you. After all, he had also decided it wasn't right for him, so who was he to suddenly throw that at you? Almost two years after he was last there.

"I was," you answered him, going back to avoiding his gaze, rather looking straight ahead at the big warm light right in front of you. "For a bit. Then D.C., Brooklyn, Wakanda-"

"You went back?"

"Had to," you simply told him. "Shuri..." God... there was so much you wanted to tell him. So, so much. But you decided otherwise. "Just a few things I had to finish there."

Bucky must've noticed your drift away, but he didn't nag on it, but played along. "How's everyone?"

"Good. They asked about you." Maybe there was still some part of you that wanted him to feel remorse. To feel hurt. To feel bad.

He took a deep breath, fixing the hem of his pants around his waist. They sat perfectly, you had to admit.

"What did you tell 'em?"

"That I was worried."

"Worried?" He wondered in confusion, his eyes still trained on your side profile. "Why worried?"

"Well," you started. You had prepared the following course of conversation in your head. You weren't about to spill the content of the past few months of your life apart from him when you had just seen him again. You didn't come to catch up with him. You just wanted him to know that you were still there. And that you were being and looking good as ever. Even if it was just an act.

"It is quite... worrying. You know... You... in politics. Alone. Worrying about this... very worrying issue." You teased him, slowly turning your head towards him at the sound of his chuckle.

“So I guess you watched the news.”

You raised your eyebrows, taking another sip from the champagne. “Oh, did I.”

While he may have been an okay politician during his term, he, by no means, was a natural when it came to speaking in front of the camera.

“And? What do you say?” Bucky continued to conversation almost too easily. Either he truly didn't care about the past, or he had become a phenomenal actor in the time you had spent apart.

His eyes made it hard to look away once again. You remembered why you always loved looking at them. While everyone would falter under his stare, give in and confess, you were intoxicated by them, lured in, and brought to your knees.

With a grin, you took a step closer, noticing, there wasn't much space left between you. “I think you might need a new speech writer. Or just somebody that helps you with speaking in public, really.”

“Really?” He taunted you, raising only one eyebrow.

“Yeah," you had joined him in the hushed whispers you were now sharing.

“You might know someone like that?”

You could only grin. “I might.”

“You think they’d wanna help out an old man?” There he was. The flirt from the 40s you had managed to melt back in the day. You knew he wasn't all that strict and stoic. Not how the outside world saw him. No one really knew just how much of a real playboy bachelor flirt he could be. No one but you.

“Caring for the elderly has always been really high up on my list, you know?”

“You don’t say," he smirked, knowing you could feel his warm breath on your lips.

“Mh." You copied his facial expression. "You don't remember?”

“Guess I’m quite lucky then, huh?” In the close distance you had created, Bucky easily lifted his metal hand to take the almost empty glass from your grip, downing the rest in one gulp before setting it down on a plateau next to you.

“You are.”

You both smiled at each other. Possibly for a few seconds too long. Longer than people who haven't seen each other in months probably should. Even if you hadn't ended on bad terms, you still shouldn't be all that close to him right now. Well... technically you didn't even end on... any terms...

You caught Bucky's eyes going down to your lips for just a split moment before coming back up again. You know he hoped you hadn't caught it. “It’s good to see you, Y/N.”

You grinned. Got him. "Mh," you nodded, tilting your head in the way you remembered him always liking. The way little animals would as they tried to read you.

Once you realised you still had just as much power over him, you chuckled to yourself, straightening your back and fiercely locking gazes with him again.

“So, Mister Congressman-”

“Oh, please.” He quickly broke the ban, rolling his eyes and taking a step back.

“What?" You mocked him. "You fought for that position, you think I won’t play into it?”

The former soldier shook his head, “You’re still quite the smartass, you know?”

But you just shrugged, choosing to lean your backside against the stone railing and crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Old habits die young, or whatever they say.”

“Die hard," he chuckled, shaking his head.

“That makes more sense.”

You were never good at remembering expressions, but oh well, that's what he had always been there for. Bucky was one of the few people who didn't tease you because of it; he'd just chuckle, correct you, and move on. Sure, he'd remember it secretly forever, but he would never mention it again. Unlike some others back in the Tower all those years ago.

"How are Sam and Rhodey?"

You noticed how he didn't ask about Jaoquin - he never really liked how much of a fan the soldier was of you. He must've thought you were in closer contact with the two men than he was. After all, he was the one to leave first.

"Good," you took a deep breath, glancing down at your hands in shame at your next confession. "I think..."

Bucky's scrunched eyebrows snapped towards you. "You think?"

You brushed some of your hair out of your face before answering with a nod. "Haven't talked to them in a while." It must've been like... a good few months.

"What? Why?"

All you could do was shrug. There was a reason. Of course, there was always a reason. But you were still allowed to keep some things to yourself.

The congressman's entire body was now turned towards you. Pure fury and the beginning of a fire filled his eyes. "Do they know you're here?"

Sam and especially Rhodey had been adamant about your 'retirement'. Or 'break' as they had called it after you had repeatedly told them you weren't even close to thinking about putting your suit into a museum. Even though you knew it's what Tony would've wanted. What Pepper still begs you for. But after... everything, you had thrown yourself deep into work, harder than ever before. The Flag Smashers should've been your last mission. You had gotten hurt pretty badly and had almost been injected with the new Super Soldier serum, making all the alarm bells ring. But then you remembered Peter in Brooklyn, then Shuri called, and then came the impeachment, and suddenly there was no way out. There never was.

"What do you think?" You snapped back at him, suddenly triggered by the tone in his voice. "You think they'd let me be here? You think they'd be happy about this?"

"No." Bucky hissed at you, making you almost take a step back, but his hand had found your arm, tightly holding onto it. "That's exactly why I asked you what you're doing here."

"I was helping," you snarled through your teeth, snatching your arm out of his grip, knowing he'd never hold you too tight to leave a mark or trap you.

Your comment sparked Bucky's interest. "With what?"

There goes your wannabe mystery appearance. "With the impeachment." Well, at least he now thought that that had truly been the only reason.

The former soldier looked around in confusion. His eyebrows scrunched, leaving creases in his forehead that you used to straighten out in the past, telling him he'd grow older fast even with the serum rushing through his blood.

"You're here because of Valentina?"

You sighed in slight annoyance. "Not because of her. I helped Gary," you explained, making him shut his mouth and listen carefully to you. "I haven't heard from him in like a week. I thought the impeachment had gone through, and it was done. So you can guess how fucking happy I was, seeing she was throwing a first responder gala to 'honour all the heroes of this country'." You changed your voice to mock her. Turning around to glance back down at the crowd of people, you couldn't help but get sad. Everything you had ever owned or earned, now behind glass and put on show for everyone to see.

"This was ours. And she just... took it. Tony wasn't-" You forced yourself to hold back the tears forming in your eyes. "He didn't think about what he was doing, okay? He was... frustrated and... angry." Yes, it's been a while since everything happened, but the wound was still very much open for you. Especially since you hadn't allowed yourself to fully think about it until you were confronted with it.

Tony had sold the Tower, and Valentina was the first to accept the offer. Everything inside went to SHIELD. You never truly forgave him for that. Bucky held you throughout every night you confronted yourself with the past. While he was trying to get better in therapy, you chose to suffer, hoping it would be in silence, but living together gave you close to no privacy at all.

You could feel Bucky shift closer next to you. His hand was a shadow on your lower back before he decided against it and lowered it again, choosing to try to comfort you with words rather than a touch.

"They asked Pepper-"

"I know they asked her," you spat back at him. "I know they did. We've talked about this... they didn't ask us. They didn't ask me." Your voice got quieter with each syllable falling from your lips.

He repeated the words he had said to you oh so long ago. Sitting on the fire escape of your shared Brooklyn apartment, with Bucky waking up as soon as you had gotten up to get some fresh air, another nightmare haunting you and making you go back in time to remember all the things you didn't do and didn't say.

"You couldn't have done anything to stop this, Y/N."

You shook your head. "I could've and I should've. But-" you took a deep breath in, turning your body slightly to find Bucky a bit closer than before again. "It seems like getting Valentina out of the way is the best thing I can do for now."

"You've done enough," his whisper of a voice made you shiver as he lifted his hand, finding the courage to touch you again. Bucky placed his warm palm on your naked arm, his thumb caressing the softness of his skin he had missed.

Ignoring the rush going through your body, yet you didn't jump away from his gentle touch, but instead tried to swerve the conversation.

"You sound like Gary."

The super soldier smiled at you. "I'm sure some of him has been rubbing off on me." A few years ago, you would've joked about the double meaning behind his words, but now you stayed quiet.

Speaking of the devil.

"Buck- oh, sorry-" the Congressman jumped back as soon as he saw the missing distance between you two, making Bucky and you separate immediately. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

The faint feeling of his touch still lingered on you. You tried to brush it off, physically rubbing your hand up and down your arm.

"It's okay," you assured him, a fake smile appearing on your lips.

"No, no, I'll just stop by later," Gary tried to get away, but you stopped him.

"It's fine, don't worry. I'll leave you to it." Giving one last glance at Bucky. "Like I said, politicians aren't really my thing."

But before you could go, another grab by your wrist halted you and made you turn around. Again, those blue eyes that once felt like home.

“I missed you, doll," he breathed out.

You let a beat pass.

“I missed you too, James.”

It was the first time Bucky couldn't tell if you had truly meant it or not.

Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed it! My requests for Bucky are still open :)

[humpster35]

I just want you more. (and more?)

Chratt x ex!reader

|mentions of death, fire, unprotected sex, swearing, toxic tendencies, yelling and ptsd

Y/n shakily walked up the stairs, her body physically rejected coming back here. When she got a text from an old friend of hers from two years ago—telling her that he missed her and wanted to hang, she knew that she couldn’t deny him.

The only reason she had a falling out with Nick or more so, his brothers—is because of how complicated things became. Y/n has always stood her ground and been her own person, it just felt like she was trying to be controlled by someone and that’s not how she wanted to live.

Y/n glanced down at the scar on her arm, she had tried to cover it up with makeup but that didn’t go well. She sighed, looking at the door.

With a button press—Nick opened the door. He smiled at Y/n who was wearing a dress almost similar to the one she wore in Boston, when they first met.

“Y/n hii—I missed you so much.”

Nick cheerfully hugged his old friend. He smelt the same, like expensive cologne and home. She’s missed this—their hugs and friendship. It’s sad how things ended but it was for the best.

“Well come in. We wouldn’t you want to melt.”

Nick joked about the weather. It was extremely hot outside—plus the heels Y/n wore made her feet ache. She looked around the house, taking in every little detail and moment that could’ve been shared here. This was the first time she’s been over Nicks own house and not his parents. It was nice to see how much of a come up he’s had.

As Y/n and Nick reminisced on the old times—he glanced down at her arm. The air became heavy, Y/n knew how uncomfortable Nick felt about her scar. The pain of the past—dwelling on both of them. They’re suddenly pulled out of their own trance when someone suddenly yelled.

“Nick where the fuck did you put my keys?”

Y/n straightened up. Instantly the safe and welcoming feeling she felt—disappeared. She didn’t make eye contact with the all too familiar voice.

The room became suddenly deafened as Nick looked for the keys. Y/n could hear footsteps behind her as the person approached. Once he was close—she felt his warm body merely inches behind hers.

“Hey Y/n.”

The person said softly. She didn’t really wanna turn around but something in her—maybe a part of her wanted to just see. If she saw it then maybe it’s real, maybe she wasn’t imagining things again.

Y/n slowly turned around—her body moving with grace. When her eyes are met with the same blue ones that had once owned her—she shook her head no. Y/n turned on her heel, she headed straight for the door again.

“Wait—can we talk?”

Y/n kept walking to the door, she could feel her eyes starting to tear up again.

“We don’t need to talk Matt.”

Nick watched in silence—this played out in an all too well deja vu moment for him. The dress, Y/n meeting Matt first—leaving the house early and his brothers face. Nick watched as his brothers face turned red, he was gonna cry. Nick knew he couldn’t intervene, this was bound to happen at some point—so with a sigh, he grabbed Matt’s arm and led him to the back room. Y/n slamming the door behind her.

As Y/n left the house and headed down the street, the tears couldn’t stop coming down. It felt as if her heart had just burst from her body—he was real. Seeing Matt shouldn’t trigger her so much, but it does. Y/n stopped on a nearby bench to catch her breath—using her old methods, she inhaled—then exhaled. This was the same technique he taught her. Matt was haunting her, he shouldn’t be alive.

In Y/n’s mind, she had killed him. She killed both of them—after that night in Boston…she couldn’t even fathom them being apart of her. Especially him…Chris was only a memory to her.

As Y/n walked down the streets, her heel started to give out on her—which caused her to just take her shoes off and carry them. The wind blew wildly through her hair, he always liked that about her—Y/n found herself thinking about Matt once more then shook her head to clear those thoughts.

Random blurb I made after I was listening to Tate. Idk man this was just something I did because I was bored, but enjoy🎀

tag list🎀

@mattsweethart @mattspillowprincess @mattsmedusa @mattswrinkleton @chrattvibe @chrissleftshoe @chrisbratt333 @chrissfavgirlie @chrismalfoy @stvni0l0 @sturniolofruitloop @sturnispider @hannahsturniolo @eeyoresturnz @ellbowmacaroni @eyesonmattyb @obsessedwiththesturniolos @owensbabygirl @lyingonchris @lezleeferguson-120 @liaisbroke @lifecansmd @gigiii1sblog @fawnquette @whore4chris @theyluvivi

[trashytracktales]

GIRL GIRL GIRL MY AMAZING TRIPLE T!!

the way you write !exlovers and situationships >>>>

no. one. else. i’m real. the way you can combine smut and angsts and tension GAAAAH HOW

and pls let’s agree that lando norris IS the guy you have a situationship with, before landing it on a real relationship. he just is. and if we have to give him tropes? she fell first but HE FELL HARDER!! it’s canon.

Hey, I know you, hello 😏🤍!! Sorry for the late reply, life has been hectic, and my inbox looks like it’s been hit by a tornado. But thank you so much for appreciating my writing. Honestly, messages like yours make all the chaos of writing so worth it. I’ve been through my fair share of ex-lover situations, and instead of going insane, I channel all that angst and tension into my works. It’s cheaper than therapy, so 👍🏻

Now, about Lando… 100% yes. He’s the guy to have a situationship with before it somehow lands in real relationship territory. I think it’s the Scorpio energy... Don’t worry guys, he’ll tell us ALL about it.

He also IS the embodiment of “she fell first, he fell harder”. He doesn’t seem to have had a ton of serious relationships lately, but if/when he finds the right one? You know.

[crushpunky]

‘tis the damn season - rafe cameron x ex!reader

masterlist

based off of ‘tis the damn season by taylor swift. warning: smoking + mentions of addiction

The windshield of her mother’s car had already begun to fog up as y/n parked the car just between the old Methodist church and the high school she'd gone to only years ago. As she exited the car, she was immediately greeted with a frigid gust of wind that reminded her just why she’d moved away from here in the first place. Sure, it was never cold enough to snow in Kildare, but that didn’t mean it didn’t get damned close.

Y/n tugged her jacket closer, her grandmother’s overbearing perfume seeming to linger even on her own jacket. She peered around the small parking lot she’d pulled into, there only seemed to be one other vehicle: a muddy, red truck. From the rearview mirror dangled a seashell, the small bits of light leaking out from the neon sign of the bar reflecting off the edges of the shell. Y/n let out something between a sigh and a chuckle, memories of walking the beach late at night searching for shells coupled with the feeling of driving along the winding roads with the windows down washing up in her mind.

A bell chimed as y/n entered the bar, wiping her feet off on the map as she looked around the space. Only a few people littered the bar, some chatting amongst each other while others sat quietly, sipping their drinks. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting. It's not like it was going to be packed like the lavish bars back in LA with their glittering chandeliers, thumping speakers, and fake smiles.

“What can I get ya?” The bartender said as y/n slid into one of the barstools.

“Just a vodka soda. Thanks.” Y/n said as she slid a wad of cash across the bartop. Mere moments later, the bartender slid her a drink before sidling off without another word. Y/n took a sip, the alcohol helping to warm the bitter cold seeping into her bones. The quiet calm of the bar was a welcome departure from the chaos that she’d just left at her parent’s house. Even after sleeping in damn near half the day, she’d still spent too much time with too many people with too many questions, leading her to slip out the back door and drive until she found herself here: drinking by herself on the night before Thanksgiving.

The relaxing silence of the bar was cut off as the bell above the door chimed once more. Y/n turned her eyes to the doorway without even intending to, her gaze immediately locking onto a familiar set of icy blue eyes. She felt her heart skip a beat, blinking harshly as she stood from her barstool. Without another word, she hurried out the back door onto the patio.

Y/n took in a shaky breath, reaching into her pocket for a cigarette. She fumbled with the packaging, pulling out a cigarette before placing it between her chapped lips. Her fingers retreated back into her pocket for a lighter, only to be greeted with nothing but pieces of lint and a straw wrapper.

“Need one of these?” A voice said, causing y/n to look up to see Rafe Cameron standing in front of her. Where a mop of greasy, blond hair used to sit, a slightly outgrown buzz cut now framed his face. A mud smeared Carhartt jacket sat unzipped, showing off the deep blue flannel he had on underneath.

A smirk she never thought she’d see again danced along his lips as he offered a lighter out to her. Etched into the body of the gold lighter, in an intricate, swirly script, was a “C”. She’d gotten it for him as a birthday present, many years ago. Her stomach fluttered at the thought of him holding onto it all this time.

“Uh, yeah.” Y/n cleared her throat, reaching for the lighter. Rafe’s fingers danced around the lighter, flicking the lighter as he raised the flame to the cigarette that dangled from y/n’s lips. Y/n leaned forward, her hands trembling slightly as she shielded the flame from the cold wind. Once the cigarette lit, y/n pulled away, exhaling smoke into the night air.

“Thanks.” Y/n said, turning away from Rafe to lean against the rail of the patio. She stood there for a moment, inhaling and exhaling smoke, until another pair of hands rested on the railing next to her own.

“Surprised to see you still smoke.” Rafe said, his eyes darting over to trail along y/n’s silhouette. Y/n’s gaze remained forward, the feeling of Rafe’s observance weighing on her.

“There are worse habits to have.” Y/n said simply, causing Rafe to let out a low, knowing chuckle. Y/n turned to him wide eyed, realizing what she’d said.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t—” Y/n sputtered.

“It’s fine.” Rafe said, a gentle grin on his lips as he gazed at her. Y/n swallowed harshly, taking another drag of her cigarette.

“I’m… I’m clean now anyways.” Rafe nodded. “Have been for a while.”

Y/n looked at him more intently. Even under the dim glow of the porchlight, she could see that the hollowness of his eyes or the incessant clenching of his jaw was gone. Where so often a frown or grimace had taken hold, a warm smile adorned his face. Where his face used to be sunken, a soft, pink blush dusted his cheeks.

“That’s great.” Y/n murmured. Rafe nodded, his fingers curling into the wood of the railing. The Cameron family ring that used to adorn his forefinger now rested on his middle finger, the gold glittering gently with each flex of his hands.

“Back for the holidays?” Rafe said.

“Yeah.” Y/n said, ashing her cigarette. “I’m staying at my parents' house for the week.”

“Hmm.” Rafe hummed, tapping his fingertips against the railing as they fell back into an awkwardly weighted silence.

“How—” 

“What’s—”

The two of them chuckled, Rafe’s eyes lingering on the way y/n’s head fell back as she laughed.

“You go.” Y/n said, turning her head to face him.

“How’s LA?” Rafe exhaled, his hip against the railing. Y/n let out another chuckle, taking a deep inhale of her cigarette.

“It’s… interesting, to say the least.” Y/n sighed. Rafe cocked his head to the side, waiting patiently for her to elaborate.

“It’s, I don’t know, it’s just so different from here.” Y/n said. “Can’t tell if that’s a good thing or a bad thing yet.”

“But you like it?” Rafe asked, leaning in slightly. Y/n paused, mulling over her response.

“Yeah.” Y/n said, meeting Rafe’s gaze hesitantly. Her lips drew up into a quick, faux smile, which drew a hearty chuckle from Rafe’s chest.

“You don’t have to lie.” Rafe said. Y/n bit her lip, shaking her head as she took another drag of her cigarette.

“The city is fine, it's just… the people suck.” Y/n sighed. Rafe hummed, nodding along.

“Well the people here can’t be much better.” Rafe said, fiddling with a piece of wood splintered from the railing.

“Trust me there’s plenty of great people here.” Y/n laughed, stubbing her cigarette out. Her mind thought back to the familiar faces she’d seen on her late night, drunken Instagram scrolls. Pictures of weddings and baby showers, people she’d used to pass by in the hallways at school now proudly smiling alongside families of their own.

“Yeah well… the best moved away.” Rafe said, his voice a low but gentle murmur. Y/n felt her heart clench at the vulnerability of his tone. It brought back memories of the day she left. The day she packed her bags and drove across the country, putting three time zones between her and the warmest bed she’d ever known.

“Rafe…” Y/n said breathily before the soft chime of her phone cut through the quiet night. Rafe let out an exhale, turning to face off the patio as y/n dug into her pants for her phone.

“My, uh, my mom texted me.” Y/n sighed. “I should probably get going.”

“I’ll walk you out.” Rafe said, giving y/n a short grin as he pulled the backdoor to the bar open.

“Thanks.” Y/n murmured as the two of them cut through the bar before exiting back onto the sidewalk out front. They walked side by side on the pavement until they made it to y/n’s mother’s car. Rafe tapped his fists gently against the top of the car before pulling the driver’s door open.

“Thanks.” Y/n said again as she climbed into the car. Rafe rested his forearms against the top of the car door, gazing down at y/n. Y/n dug into her pockets for her keys, shuffling through her mother’s keychains. Once she found the one to the ignition, she tossed a small grin up to Rafe, who threw her one back. Y/n put the key into the ignition, turning it as the car began to sputter… and sputter and sputter.

“Shit.” Y/n swore, trying the key again. Rafe sighed, running a hand along the short hairs of his buzz cut as the car continued to struggle before failing to turn on. Y/n groaned, hitting her fist against the steering wheel.

“How ‘bout I take you home?” Rafe said, gnawing at his bottom lip. “We can get it sorted out tomorrow morning, yeah?”

Y/n looked up at him, her eyes twinkling under the moon and remnants of light from the bar. Her lips parted slightly as she nodded, tugging her keys out of the ignition before climbing back out of the car. Rafe closed the door before digging into his pocket for his own keys. With the press of his button, the truck parked feet away roared to life.

“You… drive a truck?” Y/n asked, furrowing her brows as she looked at Rafe. He let out a chuckle as he dug his hands into his pocket.

“Well, when you own a construction company you kinda have to, baby.” Rafe nodded, the nickname slipping past his lips despite what felt like lifetimes of not using it. He didn’t miss the small smile that spread across y/n’s lips out of the corner of his eye.

“Oh, congratulations.” Y/n said, moving to round the back of the truck as they approached. Rafe split off, rounding the front of the truck with a bit of a jog before opening the passenger’s seat. As y/n stepped towards the cab, Rafe offered his hand out. Y/n’s heart caught in her throat before she took it, the familiar warmth of his skin sending shivers along her skin as she climbed into the truck. With a silent nod, Rafe reluctantly let go of her hand before closing the door and rounding the truck once more.

Y/n gazed around the interior of the truck, her eyes falling onto the shell that dangled from the rearview mirror. Up close she could see it for what it was. It wasn’t just any regular shell, it was her shell. The shell Rafe had found after the two of them had spent hours scouring the beach. He’d said something cheesy when he found it, something about the gentle colors that reminded him of her sun kissed skin, the glittering edges that shone even in the moonlight reminding him of her eyes, and the scalloped edges that reminded him of the curves of her lips. She’d thought he’d thrown it back into the water, buried it back into the sand, left it on the surf like she had left him so long ago. Yet here it sat, swaying slightly as Rafe put the truck into reverse.

“Thank you, Rafe.” Y/n whispered, tearing her eyes away from the shimmering shell. Rafe’s focus left the road in front of him for only a moment, his eyes catching the subtle glassiness in y/n’s gaze before he looked back at the road.

“No problem.” Rafe murmured, his hand gripping the steering wheel casually despite the hammering in his chest. Rafe cracked the windows, the cool air blowing into the cab. Houses and shops they’d passed countless times flew past, their lights bathing the truck in the occasional glow as y/n leaned out the window. The two of them drove in quiet, the only noises the steady thrum of the engine and the occasional chirp of birds. Y/n found herself falling into a comfortable trance she hadn't felt in so long, so much so she didn’t even say anything as Rafe drove right past her road. Or the next road. Or the one after that.

[vapekingg]

Creature of Habit - Ex!Eddie x Fem!Reader

Hurt, no comfort Inspired by Dial Drunk x Noah Kahan Additional tags: mentions of past seggs, alcoholism, driving under the influence, break-up, 18+

Eddie's fingers grip the leather steering wheel of his van. It's only a ten minute drive back to the trailer park from The Hideout, but winter winds whip into his open window and snap at his face, making this the most uncomfortable ten minutes he's had since... Well, since the last time you broke up with him and he went on a bender.

His eyelids are drooping. Every time he blinks they take a beat longer to reopen. Not that it matters, Eddie doesn't even have the headlights on.

The radio though? That Black Sabbath tape you'd pocketed from your job at the record shop is the only thing keeping him from drifting off the road. Die Young vibrates the dashboard and rings in his ears, nearly drowning out the howling wind that's screaming at him to get it the fuck together.

Eddie swats his palm against his cheek. The quick, sharp sting electrocutes him for a second, wakes him up just enough to get within the lines — or at least he thinks he's between the lines. Faded yellow and white paint crawls up this backroad, winding across the pavement like a corn snake and making it hard for him to decipher what's real. Bald tires churn up dirt as he drifts toward the edge again. This time, he isn't given the grace of correcting his mistakes.

Blue and red lights flash in his rearview mirror. It's the first time Eddie has really been allowed to see in the past six minutes, and what he sees is Chief Hopper's Blazer riding his tailgate as if it's his job.

"Put it in park, Munson. Don't make me show up at Wayne's with a warrant for evading." Jim eventually says over his car's loudspeaker.

Not that Eddie was going to run. Sure, he'd considered it — but that would be so typical for a Munson. Wouldn't it?

Besides, he's gotten himself into enough shit lately. Eddie accepts that he's spending the rest of the night at the station, that he'll have to pay another eighty bucks to get his van out of impound in the morning, and slams his foot on the brakes.

Soon, the bright whiteness of a flashlight is burning his eyes. He shields his face as Hopper approaches his window and leans against it.

They don't say anything for a moment. This is the second DUI Eddie has caught in the past six months, the second time you've broken up with him, incidentally. And rightfully so.

Eddie can't blame you for breaking things off. He just... fucks up. Right? He's a Munson, it's in his blood. But he'd bleed himself dry for you.

"Eddie..." Hopper starts, his voice soft and disappointed.

That's the worst part. Eddie just can't handle being a disappointment.

"Yeah, I know..." He responds.

Hopper slaps his hand against the hood of the van and begins to go through the motions. Step out of the car, blow into this tube, walk this straight line and follow my finger with your eyes. Eddie's never been good at tests. He's especially worse when he's eight beers and a joint deep.

"Alright, well, I'll do you a favor and let you leave your car, but I gotta take you in this time, kid." Hopper reluctantly tells him while snapping a pair of cold, metal handcuffs behind his back. "You wanna use my car phone to call someone?"

Eddie lets Jim lead him to the Blazer by the wrists.

The only person he wants to talk to is you. The only name and phone number he can even remember are yours.

"Call my girlfriend," Eddie slurs.

He's wobbly on his feet, but the seat in the back of that patrol car is a hell of a lot comfier than the barstool he was just sitting on for three hours. Eddie settles into the back of the truck and listens while Jim dials those seven digits that he used to eagerly punch after school, after shows, after every single Hellfire campaign so that he could ramble to you about how it all went.

The line rings, and it keeps ringing. It's only ten o'clock, he knows you aren't asleep. Your shift ends at eight, so he knows you're home.

With each ring, Eddie sinks deeper into himself. He can't hear anything else. Not the angry wind outside or the Black Sabbath still blaring from his own radio. Just every long, eerie, unanswered ring.

After ten or so rings, Hopper ends the call. He's not good at these things — sympathy — and Eddie isn't good at receiving it.

"Do you want to... maybe, call your Uncle... See if he can—"

"Call her back," Eddie interrupts.

That fucking dial tone won't stop ringing in his ear.

But Hopper hesitates. "Son, I don't think that's such a good ide—"

"Call her the fuck back!" Eddie spits.

He's sweating, can feel it collecting beneath his messy bangs. Heavy heartbeats thump in his throat and his head is starting to spin.

Slowly, Jim dials the numbers again, and Eddie listens to it ring. And ring, and ring. He recalls that New Year's Eve party where he kissed you for the first time, how your lips tasted like vodka and how that was the only drink he would have for a month after. Eddie remembers when the two of you got your place, how you didn't have any furniture but you had a cheap bottle of wine so you celebrated by getting drunk and making love on the floor. He recalls it all. Every kiss, every screaming match, every goddamn ring that has never gone unanswered... until now.

Hopper ends the call one more time, and Eddie doesn't say anything.

"I don't think she's answering this time, Eds..." He eventually says. Cautiously, quietly, as if Eddie is an unpredictable dog.

He's not as unpredictable as people think, though.

When the phone rings on the side table next to your couch, it's completely predictable. No one calls you this late, no one besides Eddie. And you think about picking up the line. It would be so easy. Just give in to your aching heart and all will be right again. You're sick of crying yourself to sleep on the couch. Sick of hearing the fucking phone ring all. night. long. Sick of all those memories that keep plaguing your mind.

But you're strong, too.

You remember him taking you to your first show and sitting on his shoulders so that you could see, how he'd gotten way too drunk by the end of the night and you had to drive home. You remember the beer on his breath, thick and hot on his tongue whenever he kissed you. You didn't mind it at first, maybe you'd even liked it for a little while, but eventually it got stale.

Eddie isn't unpredictable. He's a creature of habit. Bad habits.

So instead of picking up the phone, you white knuckle the arm of the couch. You grit your teeth and clench your jaw. You let the tears fill your eyes. But for the first time, you recognize that you cannot save Eddie Munson from his own self-destruction.

Hopper flips off his lights when Eddie doesn't say anything. He pulls out onto the back road and starts toward the police station while Eddie rests his head against the inside of the door.

The shadows of trees stretch across the road, illuminated by silver moonlight. Eddie watches them come into vision and then disappear again, and it feels like you'd ceased to exist in his life just as quickly.

He's not unpredictable, Eddie is a creature of habit. Habitually getting himself in trouble, habitually letting you down, and habitually having to make it up.

Until now.

[avroravia]

exbf!dallas winston. x exgf!reader.

[eveninggstar]

my kink is karma ⊹ ࣪ ˖

charles leclerc x singer!ex!reader, unspecified driver x singer!reader

24.07.24

୨ৎIt's been six months since you and Charles broke up in April. Since he kicked you out, his team's performance has noticeably declined. Despite the breakup, you've kept up with the races and are often seen watching them. Some of Charles's fans have labelled you as jealous or worse, but in reality, you simply find satisfaction in seeing Charles fail after he proved to be an inadequate boyfriend. So much so you would joke its your kink.

୨ৎ back a page ୨ৎ back two pages

pretend monaco gp was in april, not may lol also the timeline is all over dont mind it lol (this isnt one of my best fanfics)

The roar of the crowd was deafening as Charles crossed the finish line, claiming victory at the Monaco Grand Prix. You stood by the sidelines, your heart swelling with pride as he emerged from his car, triumphant and glowing with sweat and adrenaline. As the celebrations unfolded, you finally found a moment alone with him in his driver’s room.

"Congratulations, Charlie!" you beamed, wrapping your arms around him. "What are we going to do to celebrate tonight?"

His expression shifted from joy to irritation in a heartbeat. He pulled away from your embrace, running a hand through his tousled hair. "I just want a moment alone," he snapped, his voice low but sharp.

The words stung, and you took a step back, trying to hide your hurt. "What do you mean?"

He sighed heavily, avoiding your gaze. "You're always around, always asking for attention. It's like you’re trying to piggyback off my success to boost your own career."

Your breath caught in your throat. "That's not true, Charles. I’m just proud of you and want to support you."

"Well, it doesn’t feel that way," he said, his tone colder than the champagne being sprayed on the podium. "You're annoying, and I need some space."

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away, refusing to let them fall. "Fine. I'll give you space." You brushed some loose hair behind your ear. "I’ll see you at home, I guess."

The following Tuesday, the apartment you shared felt colder than usual. Charles had been distant since the race, and you could sense something was wrong. As you walked into the living room, you found him waiting, his expression unreadable.

"We need to talk," he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

Your heart sank. "What’s going on?"

"I think it’s best if we go our separate ways," he said bluntly. "This isn’t working anymore."

You felt a lump form in your throat. "Charles, please, can we talk about this?"

He shook his head. "No. I’ve made up my mind. I want you to move out."

Tears finally broke free, streaming down your face. "But where will I go?"

"That's not my problem," he said, turning away from you. "You have until the end of today to pack your things."

With those final, cold words, he walked out of the room, leaving you standing there, shattered and alone in the apartment you had once called home together.

The days following the breakup were some of the darkest you’d ever known. You found refuge at your parents' home, which once felt warm and inviting and a good idea to bring Charles to, but now felt hollow and cold. Even when he ditched you, he couldn’t help but ruin something you held so dear. But instead of succumbing to despair, you channelled your emotions into your music. Late nights found you in your makeshift home studio/childhood bedroom, writing and recording songs that poured out your heartache, frustration, and eventual acceptance.

You released your music under an alias, wanting the work to stand on its own and not attract the flood of F1 fans wanting to see how you were after the "golden boy" broke everything off. To your surprise, the songs quickly gained traction. The raw emotion and honesty resonated with listeners, and your music began to blow up. The overwhelming support and success of your songs helped you heal. You started to feel happier and more fulfilled, finding strength in your own achievements. And it had only been a week!

One day, you decided it was time to reveal yourself. You posted a video on social media, explaining the journey behind your music and how it helped you through the toughest period of your life. The response was overwhelmingly positive, with fans praising your bravery and authenticity.

Meanwhile, Charles's career took a downturn after his Monaco win and the breakup. Ferrari’s performance in the following races was abysmal, plagued by mechanical failures and strategic errors. His frustration was evident, both on and off the track.

In a desperate attempt to distract himself and perhaps regain some control, Charles decided to change his appearance. During an interview, he was asked about the patchy, orange highlights in his hair.

“I thought a change might do me some good,” he said, running a hand through his hair and forcing a smile. “But clearly, it didn’t turn out the way I planned.” He sensibly decided to wear a hat until his mother was free to fix it, yet she had very little free time that lined up with his busy schedule.

Maybe karma was real, and it was his turn.

The Canadian Grand Prix was a disaster for Charles. During the race, a miscalculation led to a devastating crash. The car spun out of control, smashing into the barriers. The crowd gasped, and the cameras quickly cut to the chaotic scene. Fortunately, he was unharmed, but the crash marked a low point in his career.

As the medics rushed to Charles’s side, the camera panned over the crowd. There you were, sitting in the stands with your sunglasses on, watching the scene unfold. A slight smile played on your lips—not out of malice, but as a quiet acknowledgment of how far you had come since that painful breakup. You had found your path and your peace, and seeing Charles now, it was clear you were better off.

As Charles struggled with his racing career, his personal life took a turn that left many puzzled. He began dating a string of significantly younger women, each relationship seemingly lasting no more than two weeks. The media and fans noticed the pattern, and speculation ran rampant. It seemed like Charles was desperately searching for something—or perhaps someone—to fill the void.

Meanwhile, your career continued to flourish. You were seen at a variety of high-profile events: fashion shows, music festivals, charity galas, and, yes, occasionally at races. Your rising fame meant your presence was increasingly noted, and the public couldn’t help but draw connections between your appearances and Charles’s chaotic love life.

Some of Charles’s more fervent fans took to social media to voice their opinions, accusing you of being jealous of his new girlfriends and of Charles himself. They claimed you were trying to stay in the spotlight by being seen in the same places he frequented. The reality, however, was far from their accusations; your success had brought you to these venues on your own merit.

One evening, you attended a high-profile charity gala. Dressed in an elegant gown, you mingled with other artists, philanthropists, and celebrities. The event was buzzing with excitement, but the atmosphere shifted when Charles arrived with his latest girlfriend, an 18-year-old model. Whispers spread through the crowd, and cameras clicked furiously as the couple made their entrance.

You found yourself near the press line when Charles and his date approached. Despite the awkwardness, you struggled to hold back your laughter, it coming out as a quick snigger. Charles’s eyes briefly met yours, and there was a flash of something—regret, maybe, or recognition of how much had changed. Your reaction caught the lingering eyes of another driver who was present at the same gala.

Later that evening, you were approached by a group of Charles’s fans when a different driver had so graciously offered to walk you home. Their faces were a mix of anger and curiosity. “Why are you always around?” one of them demanded. “Are you still hung up on Charles?”

You took a deep breath, maintaining your calm demeanor. “I’m here for my career,” you said evenly. “Just like everyone else. My presence here has nothing to do with Charles.” You turned to look at the man holding your hand. "Charles is the least of my concern." After you said his name wrong in front of these die-hard fans, their faces morphed into more disgust (if possible).

It had been another tough race weekend for Charles. His frustrations were evident not only on the track but also during the post-race interviews. Sitting down with a popular motorsports journalist, he was asked about the ongoing challenges with his team and his personal life.

"Charles, it's been a rough season for you. How are you coping with all the changes, both professionally and personally?" the journalist inquired, genuinely concerned.

Charles shifted in his seat, a hint of irritation flashing in his eyes. "Yeah, it's been tough. The car isn't performing as well as we hoped, and there have been a lot of distractions off the track too."

The journalist nodded, sensing an opportunity to dig deeper. "Speaking of off-track distractions, there's been a lot of media attention on your former partner. She's been seen with another driver quite frequently. Any thoughts on that?"

Charles's jaw tightened, and he forced a smile. "I think it's interesting how some people move on quickly and find comfort in familiar circles. It’s almost like they’re trying to stay relevant by associating with those still in the spotlight."

The journalist raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. "Are you suggesting that she's using this new connection to boost her own profile?"

Charles shrugged nonchalantly. "I'm just saying it's curious. I focus on my career and my performance. If others choose to spend their time differently, that's their prerogative."

The comments made by Charles quickly spread across social media and the news, stirring up a storm of speculation and opinions. Fans and analysts dissected his words, trying to decipher whether he was shading you and the other driver you had been seen with.

You had indeed been seen frequently with another driver, but it wasn't anyone's business, especially Charles's, if you "moved on too quick." Both of you had bonded over shared interests and the mutual understanding of life in the spotlight. The growing relationship had been a source of comfort and support for you, but now it was being dragged into the media circus.

Despite the media frenzy, you continued to thrive. Your music career soared, and your public appearances were met with admiration and respect. The relationship with the other driver remained a positive influence, untainted by the rumors and insinuations.

As for Charles, his comments eventually faded from the headlines, overshadowed by the ongoing drama and excitement of the racing season. The world continued to watch, always eager for the next twist in the tale, but you had found your peace and your path, no longer defined by someone else's shadow.

Please don’t steal my work, much love ᡣ𐭩

if this is your first time reading one of my fics i promise i can write better (i genuinely feel as if this was a flop) also if you saw this before i deleted the first version and had it copied twice no you didn’t

taglist: (comment if you wanna be added)

𝄃𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄀𝄁𝄃𝄂𝄂𝄃 eveninggstar

[writingroom21]

Text between ex!rafe and ex!reader

Taglist : @rafedaddy01 @rrafeswhore @10ava01

Let me know if you want to be added

[venuslcver]

jayj maybank struggled with constant, unwavering uncertainty that was entirely paralyzing. never relenting for even the briefest moments in time — a prime example of his environment.

however, after eleven, entirely too long months of an on-and-off relationship — a girl would lol her eyes when the same excuses were thrown at her when broken up with, every time.

"i-im like really fuck'n sorry. i just can't be do'n this, you know?"

the same look would be given when he would come back crawling to you after one, two weeks max of being broken up. to which you would inevitably cave — becoming putty to his touch. stuck in a constant, revolving loop.

on the occasional chance, the most recent time, you saw him well, happy. it had been longer than the standard few weeks, close to a month, maybe two.

unlike the others, this time you let go of the nagging heartbreak that took over you when the inevitable breaking up took place. feeling a lack of judgment towards him. see, you can't feel anger towards someone that you have a clean slate about. someone you let go of a long time ago. slowly you approach him a genuine smile plastered on your face, in contrast to the smirk he has when he catches you in his sight.

like always, jayj is the first to talk, not shying away from applying his confident facade, "you're looking real good, i didn't think you could get, well, y'know hotter. wanna get out of here?"

staring directly into his eyes, not making a peep. that was until he started fiddling with the neckline of the dress you were currently wearing. an agile scoff is tossed entirely into his cast, before completely ignoring his request, and his touchy nature altogether — "i just came over to tell you that you look better. happier."

"well, i think i would be doing a whole'lot better if you gave me some sugar"

besides the annoyingly obvious trait of self-destruction that possessed jayj at a constant rate. he always had impeccable timing for his dumbassry.

"n-nevermind. this was a mistake, you can't take anything seriously," you said, in an annoyed tone with swift movements to exit the situation entirely. it had been the first exchange since the most recent break-up, and all he could bring to the table was his unrelenting childish tendencies.

"wait i-i get this, you leave. i follow." jayj says with full confidence in his voice. though, quick to catch the glance you gave him. yet, he chose to continue.

"so-so no one suspects that we are leaving together"

"i swear you just hear what you want to, i was just coming to say you seem to be doing good, a-and that i have moved on"

let out a gulp as he attempted to nonchalantly catch his breathe at the confession. running his hands through unbrushed, light locks, he spoke asperated, "what? what could you possibly mean, you 'moved on',"

you barely had time to register his air quotes before he continued his rant, "i-if you 'moved on', then e-explain why were you come'n over here trying to y'know?"

a slight shake took control over him when the thought of you. with. another. guy.

"what?! i wasn't trying anything. at. all. i was just checking on you, and y'know i should've known that you would turn it into something it wasn't." "a-and honestly i felt real sorry for you — but, i won't allow myself anymore. you did this to yourself. i was there for you, and you blew it time and time again."

feeling completely hollow inside from the entire confession that took place, you only had it in you to push to walk away. leaving jayj maybank, standing alone, entirely by himself.