#he doesn’t have to do anything can he just show up

[luveline]

please can i rq clark seeing shy!r naked for the first time? :) luv u

fem, 1.3k cw suggestive “Like a sleepover?” Clark asks.

You wince. “Uh, yeah. I guess so.” 

What you’d been trying to propose was your first proper boyfriend-girlfriend night together, but sleepover is aptly childish. Fitting, and it makes you wonder if Clark thinks you’re an idiot. Because maybe you’re supposed to clash into one another after the perfect date and just— just suddenly be staying the night. But it hasn’t come naturally. 

See, Clark’s too polite. Too afraid of pressuring you into things you’d love to do.

His courting has been similar to the sort of stuff you see on mildly inaccurate regency tv shows —he’d one day, out of the blue and completely unbeknownst to you, developed strong feelings for you. A few weeks later he was sharing the news with you like some sweet reenactment of Mr. Darcy —I like you, honey. I– I have strong feelings for you, I want to take care of you, and I need to tell you before it drives me crazy. 

How crazy could he really have been? Still, what were you supposed to do, say no? As awkwardly shy as you may be, the zing you get when Clark touches you, looks at you, says enough. You hadn’t needed convincing. Clark would take very good care of you if you’d deign to let him, and so far… 

“Honey?”

You turn in the mirror. “Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

You know he won’t ask you to hurry. He probably won’t ask what you’re doing, too scared to startle you. Maybe you’re sneaky shaving or trying to pee and he knows that, so he’s careful. 

You’re trying to get over the way you look in your bra and panties. The bra doesn’t fit you nicely, the panties are too plain. It’s stressing you out, thinking he’ll see you in this bra with the fat of your armpit pinched weirdly and the grody little straps and end up wrinkling his nose. 

“How about I go make us something to drink?” 

“That would be nice!” you call, clearing your throat. “Yes, I mean. Please.”

“Don’t say please. I’ll be right back.”

You frown at your ugly bra and reach behind yourself to unhook the clasps, letting it fall away. That’s not… awful. You put your pajama shirt back on, a dark blocky thing that stops a quarter of a centimetre above your plaid pants. When you move, it shows your skin. 

They’re sort of ugly pajamas, aren’t they? The bottoms have seen better days. 

Your head pounds. 

“Shit,” you mumble, kicking out of your pants. “Oh, no, shit.”

“Baby?”

“Huh?” 

“You okay?”

“Yeah!”

“You sure?”

“I’m fine. I’m just– I just–”

Clark’s footsteps warm the floor outside of the bathroom. You’d left the door ajar unthinkingly, but Clark doesn’t push it open fully. “What’s wrong?” he asks nicely. 

“Clark…”

“What can I do?” 

You shrug out of your stupidly short t-shirt and hold it to your naked chest. “Sorry. Don’t… I just need a minute.” 

A silence bends. It’s nearly the whole minute, when Clark is clearing his throat, still waiting at the door. “You know I’m not expecting anything from you, right?”

“I want to give it to you, though,” you mumble, knowing his keen ears will pick it up. “Just nervous.”

“Don’t be. You’re already the most beautiful girl in the world–” You snort loudly. “I’m serious. I’m not kidding.” 

You sober. Scrunched up t-shirt trembling ever so slightly in your hands, you let it fall on top of your pants and try to be cool. Calm, collected, you channel the steadiness you keep for your most terrified moments. You probably won’t look half as unbothered as you're hoping for, but all you need now is to stop your hands from shaking. 

“You sure?” you ask. 

“You’re beautiful. I’m sure it only gets better.”

“You’re one to talk,” you say, trying to be the teasing, funny girl instead of a tangible ball of nerves in need of coaxing. Clark Kent is the most beautiful guy you’ve ever met, point blank. He can’t understand what it is to look at him and feel like you’re being touched by the sun when he smiles. His little black curls and the wrinkles beside his eyes, his lashes. Prettiest man you’ve ever met. 

“Can I come in?” he asks. 

You cling to the hopefulness in his tone and approach the door. Slowly, you peek out from behind it, hiding the bulk of your chest and your legs. 

You meet his eyes. He’s looking right at you. 

“Promise you won’t laugh,” you say under your breath. 

“Baby, that’s the last thing on my mind.” 

“Promise.”

You feel silly asking, but Clark lets you act this way. Like, he takes you as you are, always, with gumption, like every second he gets to spend with you is one he’d planned on anyhow, no matter what you want from him, or what you want to give. It’s why you can murmur stupid question at him on the ride home (‘cos yeah, he’d still like you if you were a worm), and take his hand at inopportune times. It’s why you asked to spend the night, before he brought it up himself. 

“I promise,” Clark says emphatically. “I won’t laugh at you.” 

You cover your chest with one arm and let the door open. 

Clark lets out a funny breath, and it DOES sound like a laugh, but the look you give him is so wounded that he immediately bites his tongue, “No,” he says, breathless, “I’m–” Clark takes a step back. “Honey, I wasn’t expecting you to be– is– I’m trying so hard not to swear right now.” 

“You can swear, Clark. You’re twenty nine.”

“Such a mouth on you,” he says without any heat. Then he’s quiet, and his fingertips reach for your arm. He brushes the length of your forearm to your elbow, your skin all hot and warm, waiting impatiently for something new. “So soft…”

“My bra was stupid, and my pajamas are so old, and I just– just wanna be pretty, for once. For–” you, you’d have said, if he didn’t cut you off. 

“You’re pretty all the time,” he says, grasping your arm tightly. His eyes flick down to the valley of your chest, the slight curve of your side, your hips, your thighs. His eyes seem darker. The dim lighting must do you some good. 

“Kiss?” you propose. It’s the only way you’re ever gonna be able to move your arm. 

Clark nods surely. Eyebrows kissing in a pinch, like he’s pained, but good pain, his eyes scrunching shut tightly as he ducks his head for a kiss. It’s different from any other kiss he’s given you before, not for want of gentleness. You’re open to him, for this. He’s meeting you halfway, and he’s careful, but he isn’t shy like you are. His lips are sweet and then parting. Tingling pleasure, your hand straying slowly from your chest to hold his abdomen, fingers downward. 

“Hey,” he gasps quietly, almost lost to your mouth. 

“Sorry–”

He clasps a hand over yours to hold it there. “Hey,” he says again, “please. I was just gonna ask if you wanted to move. It’s not exactly warm in here.”

“And it’s warmer in your bed?”

He’s smiling as he goes in for another kiss, his teeth against your lips. “‘Xactly,” he mumbles, breathing in hard, turning his head, “you’re such a dream. So…”

His hand slips down your back. You cant your chest toward him, soft pressing into solid, begging to be held. 

Clark drags you into his arms.

“Pretty,” he says.

[zeka-maki]

hii! may i request some scenario with phainon in which reader got jealous bc someone is hitting on him but phainon is so oblivious to it + reader thought they look good together? so, reader avoid + ignore phainon for like... days cuz they thought he deserve someone better. phai couldnt take it anymore cuz he misses reader so he confront them & then they made up. fluffy happy ending please! ><

sorry if its too specific but i just love scenarios like this >:3

tysm!!

ʚɞ I wouldn't know what to do without you ʚɞ

Pairings: Phainon x Reader

Summary: Jealousy isn't your forte, but when you saw someone else attempting to flirt with him, something snapped inside you. Days of your avoidance, Phainon is desperate. He doesn't know what he has done wrong, all he wants is you back to him.

Tags: Fluff, slight angst, Phainon is oblivious to flirting, Reader is avoidant at times, miscommunication, happy ending.

A/N: TYSM FOR THE REQ! Phainon is js a silly guy who happens to enter the torture city. Top 5 hottest things a man can do: yearn, yearn, yearn, plan dates and yearn. Ngl that's my next fic idea. Anyways, hope you enjoy!

In Okhema, people walk like the world is watching. Every movement is measured. Every glance calculated. And Phainon — Chrysos Heir, esteemed Flame-Chaser, child of radiance and prophecy — somehow floats through it all like he’s never known gravity.

He greets everyone. Offers compliments he probably doesn’t realize sound like confessions. And when someone leans in too close and asks him to lunch — eyes warm, voice low — he tilts his head and says, “Oh! I already promised [Name] I’d help them archive the library wing. But thank you!”

It’s innocent. But it burns.

You’d watched from the other end of the hall, sorting crystal samples for Aglaea's Garmentmakers. Watched them touch his arm. Watched him smile like the stars blinked for no one but them.

You weren’t jealous. You were… protecting him. That’s what you told yourself.

He could do better than someone like you — someone who flinches when praised and stumbles when near his warmth for too long. Someone who isn’t made of gold.

So you stopped sitting with him during morning readings. Stopped lingering after missions. Stopped walking home the long way through the bloom-lit streets of Okhema, where you always used to joke about retiring together in a palace made of moss.

Three days pass. Four. Five.

He leaves you notes — folded neatly, in his careful handwriting.

"Did I upset you?"

"Are you hurt?"

"Please tell me what I did."

You never answer.

Until he shows up in your lab at the end of the week, out of breath, dust on his gloves, eyes wide like he’s chased you across realms.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

The words come out desperate. No formality, no restraint — just Phainon, shaken, with his soul in his throat.

You straighten from your seat at the observation console, stunned. “I’m not,” you say weakly.

“You are,” he says. “You don’t even look at me anymore.”

His voice softens. “I miss you. I don’t care if you’re busy or tired or mad at me — just tell me what I did wrong. I’ll fix it. I’ll do anything. Just don’t… don’t disappear.”

You flinch. His words hit too close.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you say, barely audible. “I saw someone flirting with you, and you were smiling, and I thought— I thought maybe they were better for you. Someone who doesn’t mess up around you. Someone who shines like you do.”

Phainon stares. Like you’ve just told him the stars are fake.

“They were flirting with me?” he says, appalled.

You squint at him. “...Seriously?”

“I thought they wanted to ask about the antique birdsong scroll in the east vault.”

You groan. “That was a date invitation, Phainon.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Was it a good one?”

You almost laugh. Almost.

He steps forward. Carefully. Gently. Like you’re something breakable — not because you’re weak, but because you’re important.

“You think they shine like me?” he says. “You are my shine.”

You look away. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I’m not saying it to be kind,” he replies, voice steady now. “I’m saying it because I mean it. Because when you left, everything felt dim. I don’t want polished. I want you.”

You finally meet his eyes — and his expression is open, luminous, unguarded in a way it only ever is with you. He takes your hand. Holds it like it’s the key to something ancient.

During the Parting-Hour, you're both slouched on the balcony of your home — feet dangling over the edge, sunlight brushing your skin like silk.

“Are you really that bad at flirting?” you ask.

“Am I supposed to be good at it?”

“You’re terrible at it.”

“Excellent,” he says. “That way I only accidentally fall in love with you.”

You smile. You don’t look away this time. He leans into your shoulder like he belongs there. Like he’s home.

[sunniques]

— 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨

everyone in sunghoon’s life knows that there’s one person he will never let go of. his girlfriend finds this out too late.

❥ PAIRING: park sunghoon x female reader

❥ GENRE: best friend au, smut

❥ WORD COUNT: 8k

❥ CW/TW: yandere themes, infidelity, sunghoon can lift reader, vomiting, drinking, jealousy, possessiveness, nipple play, fingering, pussy job(s), oral sex (f), unprotected sex, riding, squirting, creampies, having sex while another person is in the room

NOTE: don’t like, don’t read.

Everyone knows Sunghoon has someone he’s madly in love with. His acquaintances know that it’s an amazing girl who he’s known for most of his life. His friends know it’s the girl who’s all over his social media and usually by his side. His closest friends know that it’s not his girlfriend, Song Jihyun.

No one ever brings it up because it’s obvious that Jihyun (and every girl before her) is a placeholder until he gets what he really wants. It’s not right, but Sunghoon never feels guilty. He’s never hidden how important you are to him, and he never will.

That’s why he doesn’t care that his girlfriend is eagerly waiting for his call like she does every night. Instead of acting like a caring partner, he’s more interested in drinking with you after bar hopping all night. It’s not like he can be fully to blame for his disinterest in Jihyun. You are, without a doubt, the prettiest, most alluring girl Sunghoon has ever seen. He would do anything to spend more time with you even if it meant disregarding his girlfriend’s feelings.

Even just drinking and talking with you is more exciting than any time he spends with her. That’s why he always keeps a bottle of wine for when you come over. You two have gone through a full bottle, and Sunghoon hopes you’ll be too tired by the end of the night to go home.

“You know how pretty you are?” Sunghoon sighs dreamily as he watches you drink the remainder of his favorite wine.

Endearing laughter fills the room as you nod. There’s a mischievous gleam in your eyes when you look back at your friend. “Yeah. I see how you and your friends look at me.”

Sunghoon’s gaze is lidded. He loves how confident and secure you are—how you’re not afraid to show it. Everything about you is completely mesmerizing, and he can’t help but want to have you all completely to himself.

“Me?” He tries to act surprised as he tilts his head.

You nod and give him a grin that has his heart pounding in his chest. He knows you can have any guy you want, and that’s why he has to push your buttons so he can get you where he wants you. 

“You couldn’t pull me.”

Sunghoon holds back a smirk when he sees that he’s successfully gotten under your skin. His cock starts to come alive when he sees you pause, eyes alight with a challenging look he recognizes all too well. 

“Is that what you think?”

You don’t let him answer. “I could, and we both know that. That’s why your little girlfriend hates me so much.”

It’s true. Ever since Sunghoon introduced Jihyun to you, she all but asked him to find another best friend. He was quick to shut that ridiculous idea down. There was a lot he was willing to do so he could be a decent boyfriend, but cutting you off was where he drew the line. If Sunghoon had any say, you would never leave his side.

Jihyun caught onto this almost immediately after she met you. The way her boyfriend’s eyes light up any time you enter a room or whenever he gets a call from you. How attentive he always is to your needs and how he practically drops everything to run to you—even when he’s balls deep in her. Obviously, Sunghoon is obsessed with you. It killed her to realize it, but Jihyun still refuses to let Sunghoon go. After all, no matter how much he likes you, he’s still hers. She is the winner in this, not you.

“You think I’m that easy?” Sunghoon says with a faint blush.

You smirk at him, tongue swiping your bottom lip to capture the remnants of wine. His eyes are locked on your movements, and you have to hold back a laugh.

“So if I asked you to fuck me right now, you wouldn’t?”

Sunghoon smirks, and your fate is sealed.

Minutes later, you end up on your best friend’s bed in only your underwear. Sunghoon stares down at you like a hungry beast as his large hands smooth over the inside of your thighs. You can see the thick outline of his cock in his underwear, and you have to stop yourself from squirming in excitement. 

“Fuck, you’re already so wet,” he groans when he sees that your panties are starting to stick to your cunt.

Sunghoon savors the sight. He feels something insatiable burning inside him as he pulls your panties to the side. 

“Oh fuck me,” he whispers reverently. “You have the cutest pussy I’ve ever seen.”

His fingers delicately trace your slit before they circle your clit. Your best friend pulls away when you start to whine.

“So fucking pretty,” he moans before licking the juices from his fingers. “And you taste good. Fuck.”

Sunghoon’s pupils are blown wide when he finally pulls his heated gaze away from your pussy to meet your own half lidded gaze. “You’ll let me eat you out, right? Let me kiss and suck on this cute pussy until you cream on my face?”

“Fuck, Hoonie,” you whine, knowing you’ve gone too far, but feeling too good to stop. “What about Jihyun?”

Sunghoon’s fingers go back to toying with your wet cunt. You roll your hips up into the motion with a needy mewl. His brain hears you a second later, and he rolls his eyes. As always, you’re goading him into being honest for your own satisfaction. 

“What about her? She never has to find out.”

You smile and bite your lip as he slowly circles your clit until you whimper again. A mean grin spreads on your face. “Filthy boy. She must not be enough for you.”

Sunghoon doesn’t feel any guilt because this is something he’s wanted for a long, long time. His girlfriend is nice and sweet, but the intimacy between them is boring and unexciting. He’s never even fucked her raw.

“I knew it,” you laugh gleefully as your best friend’s fingers trail down your slit to gather more juices. “Don’t worry, baby. This’ll be our dirty little secret.”

Honestly, Sunghoon can care less if Jihyun does end up finding out. All he can think about is your pretty pussy as he presses his slick coated fingers down on your throbbing clit. He grabs you and tugs you closer until you’re straddling his lap. 

“Oh fuck,” you whimper, aroused by his display of strength. 

Your best friend smirks as he goes to nip at your collarbone. “Our little secret? I like the sound of that.”

With that, he dips his middle and ring finger into your soft pussy. You moan and clench around his fingers, eagerly bouncing on his lap. His bulge presses against you and makes your mouth drop open with a sigh. 

“Yeah?” You breathe out harshly. “You like that I’m gonna let you fuck my tight little pussy?

“That’s so—fuck. You’re so hot,” he scissors his fingers slowly in and out of your cunt. “I’m gonna treat this pussy so good, baby. Way better than I treat Jihyun’s.”

Your cunt clenches down on his fingers as you go to tangle your own in his hair. A loud whine escapes you as you ride his fingers, pussy wet and dripping all over his lap. 

“God, Hoon,” you mewl as he grinds his long fingers across your g-spot. “Right there, fuck.”

Shuddering, your eyes roll back as his fingertips rub the spongy spot at the front of your cunt until your arousal gushes around the digits. Sunghoon licks a stripe up your neck, eager to have you fall apart for him.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this, baby. Fuck. You always get me so hard every time I see you. Just want to shove my face between your thighs and eat you out until you’re crying.”

Your head is swimming as he tells you all his dirty desires. You’ve always known it, but hearing it out loud just makes it so much better.

“Hoon,” you sigh into his mouth when he goes to kiss you heatedly. “God, you’re so hot.”

“Fuck. I need to taste you before I fill you up,” he murmurs against your lips. “Need to kiss your sweet little cunt until you’re soaking my sheets.”

It shouldn’t sound this hot—him cheating on his girlfriend with absolutely no remorse—but you’re kissing him again as arousal pools in your abdomen. Sunghoon eases you off his lap before he spreads your legs and wedges himself between your thighs.

He slowly takes off your underwear, groaning loudly when he sees the clear strings of arousal connecting to your pretty lips and panties. His eyes are dark when you take off your bra and toss it somewhere in his room.

Sunghoon’s dark gaze drags up and down your body. It makes you clench and drip with more arousal. He drops to his elbows and pushes your thighs up to your stomach. He whispers another sweet praise before he licks a broad stripe up your slit with his tongue. You cry out loudly when the wet muscle circles your clit softly before pulling away. 

“So wet,” Sunghoon moans, kissing your pussy lips sweetly. “Fuck. I can’t wait to get my cock in this pretty pussy.”

“Hoon,” you moan when he goes back down on you. 

Lewd slurping noises mix in with your filthy moans as Sunghoon devours your pussy like he’s never tasted anything better in his entire life. His tongue spears you open before fluttering against your walls. He repeats the delicious motions until your toes curl and your eyes cross. Your best friend pulls away with a grunt, licking and sucking his way back up to your swollen bundle of nerves. Another loud moan tears from your throat as he starts to kiss and suck on your puffy bud.

One last swipe of Sunghoon’s skillful tongue has your thoughts slowly turning into mush. His tongue flattens and he laps at your cunt with broad stripes until your hips start to move to roll your pussy against his mouth. 

With a devious laugh, Sunghoon pulls back and moves his hands to spread your cunt. His cock throbs as your pussy pulses and glistens with your juices and his saliva. He groans at the erotic sight.

“So fucking pretty,” your best friend murmurs before he gently kisses your clit.

You whine desperately. “Please, Hoonie. I’m so close.” 

As always, he’s eager to give you what you want. Sunghoon fucks his tongue back into your pussy with a low groan that sends vibrations up your cunt. You mewl out his name as he buries his face into your pussy. His thumbs hold your pussy open, nose bumping and grinding against your clit with every toe-curling movement. Sunghoon fucks his tongue in and out of your clenching hole until you’re making a mess all over his sheets.

“Fuck! I’m gonna cum!” You moan as your hips roll into his face.

Licking back up your pussy, Sunghoon sucks your clit into his mouth and runs his tongue around the swollen bud until you’re writhing and yanking on his hair. You let out a loud cry as you toss your head back and soak Sunghoon’s face with your orgasm. Your best friend moans and drinks up all of the slick gushing from your pussy.

“That’s it, baby,” Sunghoon hums fondly. He kisses your messy pussy before straightening up. “You came so hard. Did it feel that good?”

You give him a fucked out grin before yanking him down to give him a sloppy kiss. Sunghoon swallows your moans as he gives you a taste of yourself. He grins before sucking your tongue into his mouth. Eventually, he pulls away and gives you the prettiest smile.

“My cock’s going to feel even better.”

That’s how you end up in his lap with your bare pussy grinding down on his clothed bulge. Your juices and his precum have soiled the fabric of his underwear, and you’re becoming more desperate with each grind. Sunghoon is patient enough to savor the moment as he watches you with hooded eyes.

“Wanna sit on my cock, pretty girl? Want me to stretch this cute little pussy out?” He coos as you continue to rub your needy cunt all over him.

“Yes,” you hiss when he moves his hips to meet your movements. “Let me sit on your big cock, Hoon.”

Sunghoon grins victoriously and lets you tug his underwear down to free his aching cock. He raises his hips to slip them off completely before settling you right back on his lap. You both moan in sync when his girthy cock presses against your dripping pussy.

“God, Y/N. You drive me crazy,” Sunghoon groans before he leans forward to take one of your stiff nipples into his mouth.

You whine when he sucks it into his hot mouth. “Fuck, Hoon.”

His dark eyes watch you as his tongue circles your nipple before he nips it with those pretty fangs of his. The sight has you dripping with more arousal as you slide your cunt up and down his throbbing dick. He switches to the other one, giving it the same treatment before he starts to leave gentle bites all over your pretty tits. The more he teases at your nipples, the more juices drip onto his dick. Sunghoon groans at the feeling of your pussy parting around his cock perfectly. 

“You’re soaking my cock with that cute pussy,” Sunghoon whispers against your heated skin. “You love having my mouth on your tits, don’t you, baby?”

“Yeah,” you whine. “I fucking love it.”

Sunghoon grins when you press his face against your tits, forcing him to suck your nipple back into his mouth. Your best friend groans when as he runs his tongue over your stiff bud until you’re tugging on his hair.

“Fuck, Hoon. I want your cock,” you mewl desperately. “Need to feel you inside me.”

“Soon, baby,” Sunghoon grunts as he continues to lathe his tongue over your sensitive nipple. “Let me finish having my fun first.”

You moan again, pussy leaking even more juices. To have Sunghoon worshipping your tits makes you feel a pleasure you didn’t think was possible. You run your nails across his scalp and down his neck, watching with a satisfied grin as his eyes flutter from your touch. His eyes lock with yours, and they’re completely dark as his hand slides down your body to thumb your slippery bud.

“Whose pussy is this?” Sunghoon wonders as he pinches your clit to make you cry out. “It’s mine, isn’t it, pretty girl?”

You nod through a needy whine. The sharp smack to your clit that follows makes you moan his name. Sunghoon smirks deviously as he repeats his actions until your cunt soaks his palm.

“Of course it is.” Sunghoon laughs in delight.

Then, he drags the leaking head of his cock up your slit to smack against your puffy clit. Sunghoon groans when he notches the head of his dick against your hole. You moan quietly when he sinks the tip inside your cunt. Your best friend laughs and pulls out of you completely. His grin is devious as you whine in protest. Once again, his leaking cockhead teases your fluttering hole.

“So hot and tight,” Sunghoon’s dark eyes seem to be sparkling as he looks up at you. “So fucking pretty.”

With that, he sinks the fat head of his dick back inside your fluttering walls. Your eyes roll back with a loud moan as you slide down his cock. The stretch is delicious, and you’re eager to take him down to the hilt.

“Gonna fuck this cute pussy until my balls are empty. Keep you stuffed full and dripping with cum.”

“Fuck, yes,” you moan as you bounce down to try to get Sunghoon to bury his cock all the way inside your pussy. “Want your cum, Hoonie.”

His large hands squeeze your ass as you lean down to kiss him. Sunghoon readily welcomes the messy kiss as he sinks you down on his cock. A loud plop fills the room once you sit on it completely. 

“Goddamn,” he groans. “You’re so fucking tight, baby. Feels like your little hole’s never had a cock in it.”

You whine at the praise, happy that your pussy is clamping down on the biggest cock it’s ever taken. “Never had a cock this big, Hoonie. I love it.”

“Yeah?” Sunghoon grunts as he rolls his hips up into you until his fat tip is hitting the deepest part inside you. 

You miss the pleased grin on his face when you slump against him with a fucked out nod. Sunghoon takes the opportunity to ram his girthy cock into your hot little cunt. His hips pump into you in a punishing rhythm, loving how you’re clearly already addicted to his cock.

“Want me buried as deep as possible, pretty? Want me to rearrange your guts until you cum all over my cock?” Sunghoon hisses against your ear.

“Yes, yes! I want it so bad, Hoon!” You moan as you start to roll your hips and clamp down on his dick.

Sunghoon lifts you up, letting his cock slip out halfway before thrusting up at the same time he drops you back down on his cock, plunging so deep in your pussy that it makes you scream. He repeats the actions with the most attractive smirk on his face. Your eyes roll back in ecstasy as he keeps using you like a fucktoy.

“That’s it, baby. Fucking scream for me,” Sunghoon groans as your pussy paints his cock with your juices. “Let everyone know how much you love my cock.”

Your cries of pleasure fuel the insatiable beast inside Sunghoon. He wraps a strong arm around your waist and flips you on your back while keeping his throbbing cock inside you. The carnal look you give your best friend has him pressing your legs to your chest. Your mind is dizzy with white hot pleasure as Sunghoon starts to drill his cock into your g-spot.

Filthy moans fill the room along with the lewd squelching coming from your cunt. Sunghoon pumps his cock into your greedy pussy, loving how your tits bounce with every thrust. The sound of skin slapping together mix in perfectly with your pretty cries of pleasure as he fucks you stupid. 

“You’re getting so tight around me, baby,” Sunghoon moans. His eyes are locked on where you’re connected, and just the filthy sight of being buried balls deep in your cunt pushes him closer to the edge. “Shit, Y/N. I’m gonna keep you on my cock until you’re cumming over and over again—fuck—gonna cream your little pussy until you’re full of me.”

Your eyes roll back at the promise, pussy clenching and dripping around his girthy cock. “Please, Hoonie. Fuck. Give it to me!”

Somehow, his thrusts get rougher. Loud cries spill from your pretty lips, and it makes Sunghoon drive his fat cockhead right into your g-spot. 

“I’m close!” You mewl, completely lost in pleasure. 

Sunghoon gives you a tantalizing grin before dragging his hand down your body to slap your clit. You writhe like you’ve been electrocuted, and Sunghoon laughs in delight as he goes to smack your clit again. He thumbs and presses into your clit as you grind into his movements. 

“Cream on my cock, pretty girl. Do it for me so I can fill you up with my load,” Sunghoon groans as he swoops down to give you a sweet kiss.

“Fuck, Hoonie. Fill me up,” you moan as he continues to run rough circles on your puffy bud.

Sunghoon pounds his cock into your squelching pussy so hard that it makes his bed shake. “I will, baby. Just tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

Even fucked out, you give him a teasing grin that he loves so much. “Yours, baby. Just yours.” 

“That’s right. All mine.” Sunghoon growls as he presses down on your clit until your toes curl. 

You cry out his name as the tight band of arousal in your stomach snaps. Sunghoon’s fingers and hips don’t stop even as your orgasm bleeds into a second one.

“Just like that, baby. Squeeze my fucking cock.”

“Cum inside me, Hoon,” you say deliriously. “You promised.”

Sunghoon’s moan is loud as he buries himself balls deep in your cunt, cock kicking and throbbing as your pussy milks him for every drop of his cum. You feel the hot spurts of his thick spunk filling your hole until it slowly drips out around his cock. He grunts and rocks his hips a few times, pumping the last ropes of his seed deep into your pussy before slowly pulling out. His dark eyes watch your messy pussy drip with his load, wanting nothing more than to go again.

Instead, he lays next to you and pulls you into his chest.

“You drive me crazy,” Sunghoon hums into your hair.

You grin into his collarbone. “I know.”

“Can you please answer Sunghoon’s messages?” Jay groans as soon as you let him into your house.

“Bro has not stopped bitching in the group chat,” Jake adds as he comes in right after Jay.

You try not to smirk as you lead your friends into the kitchen. It’s not like you meant to ignore your best friend, but after you two fucked you got unexpectedly busy and didn’t have time to hang out. After a few days, you realized unintentionally ignoring him made him react in a way that gave you a sick amount of pleasure.

“I did answer,” you say as you get some water bottles for them. “Told him I’d see him at Jihyun’s party on Friday.”

Jay raises a doubtful eyebrow while Jake zeroes in on the massive bouquet on the kitchen table. The size and detailed arrangement of the pretty flowers make it obvious that it’s expensive.

“Who are these from?” Jake wonders when he doesn’t see a card.

Luckily, you put the card in your room. It’s not like they couldn’t guess the flowers are from Sunghoon, but that card would go into details that you’re not ready to get into with them. Not yet, anyway.

“Don’t know,” you say casually. “There was no card.”

“You should throw them out.” Jay says.

“Yeah. What if they’re from some creep?” Jake exclaims as he recoils from the bouquet like it bit him. “Plus Sunghoon will actually crash out if he finds out some guy sent you flowers.”

“You don’t know that they’re from some guy!” You exclaim to cover the laughter bubbling in your throat.

“Guy or girl, it doesn’t matter. Hoon will still go crazy if he finds out someone is sending you flowers with romantic intentions.”

“He has a girlfriend,” you remind Jay with a small smirk.

Your friends roll their eyes at the same time. Everyone knows Jihyun is his girlfriend in name only. She doesn’t compare to you when it comes to where you stand in Sunghoon’s heart. 

“Sure,” Jake laughs. “Are you going to show us this dress or what?”

You squeal in excitement and lead them to your room.

The party is in full swing by the time you get there. You say hi to a few people before going to the kitchen to find Jake. As luck would have it, he’s in the middle of a conversation with Sunghoon. You try your hardest to keep the smirk off your face as you call their names.

You don’t miss the way your best friend’s eyes get dark once you reach them and give them friendly hugs. He doesn’t let you give him a side hug like you do to Jake. Sunghoon pulls you flush against his body and cages you against him.

“I missed you, baby,” he whispers in your ear. “You’ve been torturing me lately.”

You pull back just enough to look him in the face since he refuses to let you go. “I told you I was busy, Hoonie. Don’t be mad, okay?”

His arms tighten around your waist as he lightly sways you. The cute pout you’re giving him is irresistible, and he knows he won’t be able to pretend to be mad at you anymore.

“Park Sunghoon.”

Jihyun saying his full government name doesn’t make him let you go. Instead you two turn to her like she’s interrupting.

“Hey, Jihyun,” you say with a friendly smile.

Her glaring eyes flicker to you for a fraction of a second before they settle back on her boyfriend. “I need to talk to you. Alone.”

Sunghoon still doesn’t let you go, and you decide to have a little fun. “Go ahead, Hoon. I saw Hee earlier, and I want to go say hi.”

Sunghoon’s head snaps back to you, a dangerous anger already swimming in his pretty eyes. Lee Heeseung is a friend of Jay’s who you’ve hooked up with once before. The idiot thinks that he actually has a real shot with you. Everyone knows it, and Sunghoon thinks he’d rather break up with Jihyun right now than let you go anywhere near him.

“It’s okay,” you reassure him when you see that he still makes no move to let you go. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

Your words hold a promise and so does your gaze. It’s the only reason Sunghoon lets you go and wander off to find the boy with the stupidly pretty eyes. With a glare he turns back to Jihyun who’s red in the face and looks angrier than he’s ever seen her.

“What do you want?” Sunghoon asks, wanting to get her tantrum out of the way so he can go find you.

“I want my boyfriend to stop embarrassing me in front of all these people,” she hisses, close to tears.

Sunghoon rolls his eyes. He can’t believe he let you get away just for Jihyun to bring up some bullshit like this. “Here we go again. When are you going to stop being so fucking insecure?”

Jihyun sucks in a sharp breath like she’s been hit. Up until now, Sunghoon had never been mean or disrespectful even if he did things that bothered her.

“You looked like you would’ve literally kissed Y/N if I hadn’t walked in!” She exclaims hysterically.

Sunghoon rolls his eyes. “And what if I had? Don’t act like you don’t know how I feel about her—how I’ve always felt about her.”

Jihyun’s heart is pounding and her throat is tightening up. Yes, she’d known it, but she also thought he was starting to really like her. 

“So that’s it then? I was just a placeholder?”

Sunghoon rolls his eyes. “Think what you want, Jihyun. If you have nothing else to say, I’m going to go find Y/N.”

Before he can leave the kitchen, she stops him with tearful words. “You’re still mine, Sunghoon. I’m still your girlfriend no matter how you feel about her.”

There’s a tense pause, and just as Sunghoon debates breaking up with her, she says something that makes the most insane part of him snap.

“Y/N doesn’t feel that way about you. That’s why she’s never picked you in all this time.”

Jihyun lets out a quiet sob when her boyfriend walks away from her instead of responding.

Several shots later, Jihyun stumbles into her balcony where you and Lee Heeseung are talking and laughing. She scowls, hating that the second most attractive guy she’s ever met is also very enamored with you.

“Y/N, where’s Sunghoon?” She slurs as she stumbles into you.

Your eyes widen as you catch her. You help her stand, nodding back to the living room where Sunghoon is watching with the most predatory stare you’ve ever seen on him. “Over there.”

Jihyun unseeingly glances his way before settling her angry gaze back on you. “Is he watching me or you?”

“No idea,” you say placatingly. “Probably you since you’re his girlfriend.”

Even on the verge of blacking out, Jihyun catches the way you say that to her mockingly. She frowns again, stumbling slightly as she looks back at a watching Sunghoon.

“Will you get her some water, Hee?” You ask sweetly. “I think she’s had a little too much to drink.”

The boy gives you a pretty smirk. “Sure. Be right back.”

“Are you gonna fuck him?” Jihyun slurs as you settle her into one of the chairs. “He’s hot.”

You laugh a little as you watch her slump into an awkward position. “He is, but I don’t feel like fucking him tonight.”

“Then are you gonna fuck my boyfriend?” Jihyun wonders through a hiccup. “I know you want to.”

“It’s the other way around,” you say with a mean smirk. “You’ve always known that it’s the other way around.”

Jihyun scoffs, getting angry all over again. “You two really are best friends.”

It’s silent for a while until she looks at you with a determined glare.

“Why can’t you just leave us alone? Why can’t you go fuck Heeseung or Jake or–or anyone else that’s not my boyfriend?”

Jihyun sounds hysterical at this point, but you remain unfazed. After all, you’re not the third wheel here.

“Sunghoon is the one who can’t leave me alone. Why do you think he chose the same university as me? He’s the one who moved to the same city as me and always assimilates himself into my friend groups. You think he did all that just because he’s my best friend?” You laugh.

Only you know about his stalker tendencies, but you doubt Jihyun will remember any of this. Even if she does, you don’t care. You’re sick of her and her willful blindness.

“H-He did all that?” Jihyun feels like throwing up, and it’s not because of the alcohol.

You laugh again. “I think you’re mistaken about something, Jihyun. I’m not coming between you and your boyfriend. You’re the one who’s coming between Sunghoon and I.”

Jihyun’s head is spinning, and the last coherent thought she has gets in oblivion as darkness takes over her consciousness. You laugh again and go to help her up. Even though you don’t feel bad, you’re not mean enough to leave her passed out on her balcony.

“Let me help, baby.”

You let Sunghoon pick her up. He looks at you, waiting for his next orders. You smile and tell him to lead the way to her room. Sunghoon dumps Jihyun onto her bed, not caring to be gentle. You laugh and turn her on her side so she doesn’t choke on her vomit if she gets sick later.

Sunghoon stands behind you and settles his hands on your hips. “You look so good, pretty girl. I didn’t get to tell you earlier.”

“Did you break up with her?” You wonder through a grin.

“Not yet. Not until you tell me to.”

“You can do what you want, Hoon,” you say as he presses himself closer to you.

“What I want is to fuck you right here, right now.”

His nasty words send a thrill straight to your cunt. “Filthy boy. You want to fuck me on your girlfriend’s bed while she’s passed out?”

“She won’t know,” he says as he rolls his bulge into your ass. “And I’ve been wanting to break this bed in.”

You laugh in disbelief. Of course he wouldn’t have fucked Jihyun in her own bed. Instead he’s giving you that pleasure, and you can’t say it doesn’t please you. Arousal starts to make the fabric of your panties stick to your cunt. You bite your lip and let Sunghoon carry and set you down on the other side of the bed. He follows in suit and gives you a messy kiss. You moan into his mouth as he slips a hand under your dress to brush across your soaked slit.

“Fuck, baby. You’re already so wet. You want my cock that bad?”

“Yes,” you whine. “Probably as bad as you want this pussy.”

Sunghoon groans as he pushes your panties to the side. He uses his middle and ring finger to part your slick folds. You whine softly and roll your hips into his hand. 

“Gotta prep this tight little hole or I’m not gonna fit,” Sunghoon grunts. “Cute little pussy hasn’t had a cock this big in a while.”

He knows because he’s been watching to make sure it hasn’t. Arousal burns hot inside you as he fucks his fingers into your fluttering hole.

“Seems like you haven’t had some good pussy in a while,” you counter through a moan. “That loser doesn’t fuck you like you need, huh?”

Sunghoon groans when he finds the spot inside you that has your pussy squeezing down on his fingers. “No one compares to you, baby. Just look at this pretty pussy. It’s the best I’ve ever had.”

Your cunt clamps down on his digits again. A fleeting glance to the side confirms that Jihyun is still very much passed out. You grin and give him the look that drives him crazy.

Sunghoon slips his fingers out of you with a wet squelch and pops them into his mouth with a loud groan. “So fucking good.”

You watch with hungry eyes as he gets up and takes his clothes off. The tip of his fat cock drips precum down the length of it, making your mouth water for a taste. He grips the base and shakes his dick at you. Your clit throbs and your pussy drips with more arousal. He’s so big and thick. Just knowing he’s about to fill you up and stretch you out on his cock makes your pussy clench in eagerness.

You get up and push Sunghoon down on the bed. You slip your dress off, only leaving your panties on. He settles against the headboard as you straddle his lap, you trap his cock inside your panties, grinning as your dripping pussy rubs along his throbbing cock

“Fuck,” you whine as you grind slowly against Sunghoon. 

“God, baby,” Sunghoon groans as he watches your pretty tits bounce. “You know how to drive me crazy.”

“Yeah? You like feeling my pussy rub all over your fat cock?” You goad as you rock against him harder.

“You know I do,” Sunghoon groans as he tosses his head back when your clit catches in the tip of his cock. “Let me suck on your pretty tits, baby. I know you like when I do.”

Licking your lips, you lean forward and shove your tits in his face. Sunghoon captures one of your hard nipples in his mouth, sucking and licking like he can’t get enough. He groans deeply as his lips and tongue work one hard bud while his fingers tweak and pinch the other. Your hips keep grinding into him as arousal pulses in your clit. Sloppy sounds of sucking fill the room along with your moans and whines as Sunghoon lathes your tits with his hot tongue. 

“Fuck, Hoon. You’re so hot. Need your cock inside me,” you gasp as he bites your nipple and runs his tongue across it over and over until you’re squirming against him. 

“Think you deserve it?” Sunghoon wonders as kisses across your breasts, teeth nipping at the skin as he swaps to the other nipple. 

“Don’t I?” You wonder through a moan.

“I don’t know. You’ve been ignoring me, pretty girl,” Sunghoon says as he pouts up at you. “You know I hate that.”

“I’ve been busy, baby. Plus, you had your hands full with your little girlfriend.”

Sunghoon pinches your nipples hard until you’re grinding against him. “You know that loser means nothing to me.”

With that, he slides his girthy cock into your pussy. He’s so much bigger than you remember. The painful stretch has you arching your back in pleasure. You toss your head back with a loud moan as Sunghoon bullies his cock deeper into your pussy until he’s bottoming out. He kisses you sweetly as you sink down on his dick with a lovely moan.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Fuck. I missed this tight little pussy.”

You shove your tits into his face when his hands tighten on your hips. Sunghoon kisses across your tits, sucking bruises into the sensitive skin. With a deep groan, he suckles on one of your nipples eagerly until you’re bouncing on his dick. You let your hands hold onto his soft hair as you rock your hips down on his throbbing cock. Mewling, you tug on the silky strands as Sunghoon’s tongue laps across your swollen nipples. His hands move up to your waist as he fucks your hot pussy.

Your eyes cross as he pounds your fluttering hole. Neither of you care to be quiet even though Jihyun is lying next to you. That’s the last thing on either of your minds as Sunghoon buries his cock deep in your throbbing cunt. Sunghoon groans, suckling your hard bud deeper into his mouth. His cock kicks and throbs as you slump forward, messily smashing your tits into his face. 

“You’re gonna leave marks, Hoonie,” you whine as he nips at the swell of your breasts before pulling away. 

“But you like it, pretty. I can feel you squeezing down on my cock,” he grins, shaking the hair from his face as he tilts his head up. “Now give me a kiss.”

You whine in the back of your throat and drop your mouth down on his. Unlike most people believe, you’re just as weak to Sunghoon as he is to you. You’re just a little better at controlling it. 

Sunghoon moans in pleasure, licking into your mouth to run his tongue against yours teasingly. He tugs you closer, and the kisses become more sloppy. He laughs softly when your fingers drop from his hair to cup the back of his head, pulling him forward until there’s no space between you. 

Even after you pull away for a short breath, Sunghoon just tugs you back in for another messy kiss, his hot tongue licking into you once again.

“You have no idea how bad I missed you, baby,” Sunghoon whines as you keep rolling your hips into him. “You gave me the best sex of my life and then pretended like I didn’t exist after it.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” you say, pussy fluttering when his cock grinds against the spongy spot inside you. “I didn’t do it on purpose. You’ll forgive me, right?”

“You know I will,” Sunghoon coos up at you, letting one of his hands drop down to tease your swollen clit. “But to make it up to me, you’re gonna let this sweet pussy milk a nice thick load outta me, right?”

“Fuck yeah. I’m gonna milk your cock so good, baby,” you slur, arching your back so your tits brush against his mouth. 

He grunts and bites at your soft tits. “That’s it, squeeze my cock.”

You whine, body jerking as he pinches and rubs your pudgy clit. Sunghoon sucks each of your nipples between his teeth before running his tongue across them. The coil in your stomach is winding tighter and tighter as Sunghoon teases your nipples and clit at the same time. 

“Oh!” You gasp. “I’m gonna cum, Hoonie—!”

A loud cry spills from your mouth as you clamp down on Sunghoon’s dick, pussy walls fluttering and milking his throbbing cock as he fucks you through your orgasm.

“So fucking hot,” Sunghoon groans as he fucks his cock up into your squelching pussy. “Fuck. Gonna make me cum, baby. Ready to get your cute little pussy creamed?”

“Yes, yes, please,” you moan, digging your nails into his shoulders, making him curse under his breath and bury his cock deep into your sopping wet hole. 

You feel rope after rope of hot, sticky cum spurt inside your cunt. It doesn’t stop. You’re stuffed so full that it leaks out around his throbbing cock. 

“So pretty,” he places open mouthed kisses across your clavicle up to your neck, letting his tongue tease across your skin. “My pretty girl.”

You sigh, feeling blissful and completely satisfied. He tugs your head down to kiss you softly at the corner of your mouth. You two kiss for a while until you have another urge.

“I want more.”

Sunghoon gives you a filthy grin and slips out of you to lay you on your back. He kneels in front of you and rips off your panties in one fluid movement. You mewl when he slides his aching cock between your messy pussy lips. His cock rubs against your slick folds and across your clit deliciously. With a whimper, you spread your legs to entice him.

“Please, Hoonie.”

His leaking cockhead presses against your hole but doesn’t sink in any further. He grips his cock and rocks the tip in and out of your cunt. Sunghoon slaps the fat head of his dick down onto your wet pussy. “I’m gonna stretch this little pussy out until you’re shaped like my cock.”

With a filthy moan, your eyes flicker over to Jihyun. She’s still passed out, completely oblivious to all the filthy things her boyfriend is doing to you on her bed.

Sunghoon clicks his tongue. “This pretty pussy wants my cock, huh? Look at how wet it is.”

“Just fuck me, Hoon,” you whine. “Please.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your head when Sunghoon finally sinks his thick cock into your hot cunt inch by inch. He buries himself to the hilt with a deep grunt.

Your pussy flutters and pulses around his cock as your juices coat his length. “Fuck, it’s so big.”

“Yeah, it is,” he laughs before kissing your temple. “And your cute pussy is a perfect fit. So tight and wet.”

You scream in pleasure when Sunghoon starts to fuck you with hard, deep strokes. Eyes rolling back in your head and toes curling in pleasure, you rock your hips against his thrusts. His pelvis grinds against your clit every time he bottoms out in your cunt, making your pussy grip his cock like a vice.

Just knowing his girlfriend right next to you as Sunghoon pounds into your needy pussy makes everything feel so much better. 

Sunghoon drops all his weight on you, pinning your body to the bed and grinding the fat tip of his cock into your cervix. Tongue feeling heavy and useless, you babble out his name. That’s his cue to pump  his cock in and out of your greedy pussy so fast that it sounds obscene. Loud, wet squelches and the slap of skin are barely heard over your own cries and screams as Sunghoon fucks you stupid. 

“I’m gonna cum inside you,” he whispers with a grin. “Gonna fill up this slutty pussy.”

“Yes!” You cry out. “Do it, baby. Cream this tight little pussy!”

Sunghoon swivels his hips, the fat tip of his cock rubbing against your g-spot hard enough to make you squeal. “Just look at you. Fucking gagging to have me stuff you full. Fuck. You love my cock rawing this sweet little pussy.” 

You tangle your hands in his hair and bring him closer for a dirty, tongue-filled kiss. Your pussy grips his dick tightly as you whine impatiently. “Want you to cum in me.”

“Fuck, baby. What if Jihyun wakes up and hears you?” Sunghoon laughs in your ear, dick harshly rutting in and out of your squelching cunt. “This cute pussy’s so loud. You’re gonna get us caught.”

“Don’t care,” you whine, nails digging into his bare shoulders. He hisses in pleasure, thrusting harder into your clenching heat. “She knows you belong to me.”

Sunghoon’s cock throbs in delight. “That’s right. And you belong to me. That’s why this tight pussy can’t stop creaming my cock,” He coos in your ear. 

Eyes fluttering closed, you moan loudly, legs wrapping around his waist to lock behind his back. Sunghoon groans as his hips roll against yours, cock plunging deeper into your dripping hole. “Gonna blow my load in your greedy cunt until you can’t handle it.”

Pulling out suddenly, he grips your hips to manhandle you over onto your front. He yanks your ass back, pressing his palm on your shoulders to push your head onto the pillow. His cock bullies back into your sopping wet pussy. Filthy plap plap plap sounds fill the bedroom along with your cries of pleasure. 

You moan into the pillow, drool soaking the material as Sunghoon rails you into the bed his girlfriend sleeps on every night. Eventually he slows his pace, dragging his dick halfway out before sinking back in. “Whose cock is better, mine or Heeseung’s?”

“Huh?” Your brain is mush at this point, your thoughts concentrating on cumming all over his cock while he creampies you. 

“I said, ‘Which cock is better?’” Sunghoon punctuates his question with thrusts deep enough that his tip bumps your cervix, making you moan weakly. “‘Mine or Heeseung’s?��”

You stumble over your words, not able to think until he reaches under your body to play with your clit. 

“Better question,” he purrs into your ear. “Which cock do you love more?”

“Yours, Hoonie,” you cry out when he fucks his cock deeper into your cunt. “Love your cock. It’s the only one that makes me cum.”

Sunghion smirks as he pounds his cock into your drippy hole. “And? What else?”

“A-and it’s the only cock I want to creampie my pussy,” you mewl, thrusting back against him. “Please, Hoon. I want you to cum in me. Cum in my little pussy.”

“Goddamn,” he groans, fucking you so hard and fast the bed shakes. He slips his hand around your hip and begins rubbing your slippery clit in quick circles. “Good fucking girl. So fucking good—fuck! Cum for me. Need to feel this slutty pussy creaming my cock so I can fill you up. Cum for me, so I can give you what you want.”

He slaps your clit with the flat of his fingers, and it pushes you over the edge, climax overtaking your body. You squirt with a loud cry of his name. Slick gushes from your hole and completely coats his pelvis until it’s running down your thighs and ruining Jihyun’s sheets

“Fucking shit. That’s it, baby. Show me how much this pussy likes my cock,” Sunghoon moans. 

You tremble and cry out, burying your face in the pillow to muffle the noise. Fireworks explode behind your eyes while your pussy milks his cock over and over, dripping slick all over the two of you. 

“That’s it, fuck, gonna cum inside you nice and deep like I promised,” Sunghoon curses under his breath and thrusts against you a few more times before sinking his cock inside you to the hilt. 

Hot, thick spurts of cum fill your fluttering walls until it spills out around his cock. Rutting against your ass, he grinds his cock in your pulsing cunt. After a few minutes, he takes in a deep breath and pulls out with a low groan. You lay there, panting heavily into the pillow, body completely spent. 

He smacks the head of his cock against your sensitive and puffy cunt, “Since this naughty little pussy is just pushing out all my cum, guess I’ll have to stuff it again.”

You wiggle your ass in agreement.

Jihyun wakes up with a terrible headache. She recognizes her room, and she has faint memories of a conversation with you before it all goes black. When she slowly sits up, a nasty, familiar scent hits her. She looks around, eyes zeroing in on the filth left on the opposite side of her bed. She feels sick, and before she can process anything, her phone buzzes.

Several messages are waiting for her, but the one that sticks out is the one of a video her friend sent to her. It’s a short, five second clip of Sunghoon carrying her into her room with you following behind.

It doesn’t take long for Jihyun to put two and two together. She leans over and retches, emptying the contents of her stomach on the floor beside her bed. Tears and pathetic sobs follow, and she can’t help but think that she should’ve believed Sunghoon when he said he was never going to let you go.

[elikajinnie]

P: Baseball Player!Ni-ki X Fem!Reader (SEQUEL)

Warnings: Toxic Relationship Dynamics, Emotional Manipulation, Controlling Behavior, Obsession, Mental Health Struggles, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Angst, Ex-Lovers, Jealousy, Begging, Suggestive Content, Violence, Use Of Drugs, Power Imbalance, Infidelity, Pregnancy Manipulation, Mentions Of Past Trauma, Codependency, Media Harassment, Alcohol Use, Emotional Breakdowns, Spiraling Behavior, Manipulative Reconciliation, Guilt-Tripping, Unstable Relationship Dynamics, Toxic Nostalgia Romanticized, Unresolved Trauma.

Synopsis: Ni-ki swore he was different now, no more games, no more damage, just a boy trying to earn a second chance. You almost believed him. Almost. But then she shows up. A girl from the time he was trying to forget you — pregnant, unhinged, and claiming the baby is his. Now Ni-ki’s unraveling all over again, desperate to prove you're the only one who matters. But the thing about love like his? It always comes with teeth.

Wordcount: 16,3k

a/n: so many people wanted a part 2 from the original fic, so i decided to kindly give the people a small sequel based on a request. So i recommend reading the first part for this to make sense :) Reblogs and commentary are appreciated!

now playing reflections by the neighbourhood | revenge by xxxtentacion | void by the neighbourhood | doubt by twenty one pilots | borderline by nico collins

Morning had blurred into days.

Two days since he’d walked off that field, two days since the world decided to paint him as the villain of his own success. The headlines wouldn’t let up — clips of his last pitch, the slow-motion shot of him tossing his glove aside, leaving his team stranded mid-game. Sports analysts dissected his every move, his every mistake, like they knew him.

By day three, the press had found your apartment. Flashbulbs burst outside your building every time the door opened. They wanted a statement. They wanted dirt. They wanted you.

Ni-ki had stayed, of course. He’d barricaded himself inside your place, pacing and muttering under his breath between stretches of silence so heavy it pressed against your chest. Sometimes he’d grab your hand out of nowhere, holding it like proof you were still there. Other times, he’d go hours without speaking, his gaze far away, like he was still standing on that mound, still deciding whether to throw or to walk.

You hadn’t spoken much. Not because you didn’t want to — but because everyone else wanted a piece of him. The team. His manager. Reporters camped on your street. There was even a statement from the league demanding he "address the situation publicly."

He didn’t care. Not like he should.

That afternoon, you found him on your couch, hair damp from a shower he must’ve taken while you were at work. His phone buzzed nonstop on the table, but he didn’t even glance at it. “Ni-ki,” you said, softly. 

 He didn’t move.

“Your manager’s been calling. There are people outside. What are you even planning to do?”

Finally, he looked up. Eyes tired, but sharp. “Does it matter? None of that matters if I don’t have you.”

Your stomach twisted. This again.

“It’s your career,” you whispered. “You walked off the field mid-game, Ni-ki. People are—”

“People can talk.” His jaw tightened, voice rough. “Let them. I don’t care if I lose everything. I can build it back. But if I lose you again—” He broke off, leaning forward like the thought itself was unbearable. His hands dragged over his face, down his neck, gripping the back of it like he was trying to hold himself together.Then, softer, like a plea. “I left because I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t come find you. Baseball doesn’t mean anything without you in the stands. Without you to come home to.”

You hated the way your heart jumped, hated that you still felt that pull — the same one that had always made it impossible to stay away. “We shouldn’t be talking about us right now,” you said quietly.

Ni-ki didn’t move.

“I’m serious,” you continued, voice steadier this time. “You walked out in the middle of a nationally televised game. Your name is everywhere. Your team’s in chaos. And you’re—” your voice cracked with disbelief, “—you’re sitting here like none of that matters.”

“It doesn’t,” he said again, too fast, too sure.

“It should.” You let the silence hit hard. “It really, really should.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now, restless. Like if he stopped moving, he'd feel everything all at once. “You think I care what people say? What they expect from me? They don’t know what it felt like, walking into that stadium with your ghost still in my chest. Every pitch, every cheer—empty.”

You stared at him. “So what, you blow it all up?”

His eyes snapped to yours. “I’d blow up the whole goddamn world if it meant I’d get one more chance with you.”

You flinched, not from the words, but from how much they still meant. How much he knew they would. 

“No,” you whispered. “You don’t get to say that and pretend we’re not standing in a fire you started.”

“I didn’t come here to pretend.” His voice dropped again, rougher now. “I came here because I couldn’t breathe without you. And I’m not gonna stand here and talk about them when I finally have you in front of me.”

You felt the heat rise behind your eyes — frustration, exhaustion, and something far more dangerous: the longing you buried. “I can’t do this with you right now,” you muttered. “Not like this.” You turned away before he could answer, before his voice could twist into something that might pull you back in. The room felt like it was shrinking — not from the silence, but from everything pressing in beyond it.

You crossed to the window and pulled back the curtain just an inch, your stomach sinking at the sight below. Twelve, maybe thirteen reporters. Cameras slung around their necks. Phones held up. They weren’t even trying to hide anymore, standing just off the porch like they belonged there.

Your pulse skipped. You let the curtain fall back into place. “They’re outside.”

No response.

You turned around slowly. Ni-ki was standing exactly where you left him, hoodie half-slipped from one shoulder, staring down at his phone like it had personally betrayed him. The screen lit up again and again — unknown numbers, familiar names. You caught a glimpse of one: Coach Park. The next: JUN SEO | PRESS. Then: Taehyun (Pitching).

You didn't realize he was gripping the phone so tight until his knuckles went pale.

He wasn’t breathing steadily anymore.

“Ni-ki…”

Still no response.

He just stood there, jaw clenched, muscles drawn tight like a rubber band ready to snap. When the phone buzzed again — this time a FaceTime call from someone marked MGMT — he slammed it down on the table. Not enough to break it. Just enough to echo. “Let them call,” he muttered under his breath, voice dark. “Let them scream. Let them guess.”

“You think this goes away if you ignore it?”

His eyes finally lifted to meet yours. Not wild. Not desperate. Focused.

“I think none of it means anything if I lose you again.”

There it was. Again.

You swallowed the lump forming in your throat. “Ni-ki, I’m not going to magically fix everything. I’m not your safehouse. There are consequences, and they’re not just going to disappear because you’re hiding in my living room.”

“I’m not hiding,” he snapped. “I’m choosing.”

The room stilled.

He stepped toward you slowly, voice low. “They want me to be something I’m not. Perfect. Controlled. Easy to market. But I was never any of that. I was just—” he paused, frustrated. “I was angry. And scared. And sick of pretending. And the only time I ever felt real was with you.”

You shook your head. “You can’t run from your life and expect me to carry it for you.”

“I’m not asking you to carry it,” he said quietly. “I’m asking you to stay in it.”

You stared at him, searching for something solid beneath the mess of his words. A promise. A plan. Anything that didn’t sound like blind emotion disguised as devotion. But instead, he just kept looking at you like you were the only real thing in the room. Like if you stepped back even an inch, he’d fall through the floor.

“I know I messed everything up,” he said, voice lower now, trembling at the edges. “But you’re the only part of my life that ever made sense.”

You exhaled shakily. “Ni-ki—”

“I’m not saying it’s fair. I’m not saying I deserve you. I just…” He took a small step closer, careful, like he knew you were already halfway out the door. “I don’t sleep when you’re not around. I don’t eat. I pitch worse. I go out less. It’s like every time I try to move on, I still end up coming back to the same damn place — to you.”

Your arms crossed before you could stop them, a weak barrier between you and everything he was spilling into the space. “You think that’s love?” you said quietly. “That sounds more like obsession.”

He flinched and for a second, you saw something break in him. Or maybe it cracked just enough for you to think it had. “I don’t know what love’s supposed to be,” he whispered. “I just know I’d rather ruin myself than live in a world where you hate me.”

You blinked. That wasn't fair. He knew that wasn't fair.

“Ni-ki—”

“No, listen to me.” His voice rose — not angry, but desperate. “I’ve done everything wrong. I know that. But don’t act like you don’t still feel it too. You let me in. You didn’t have to. You could’ve slammed the door in my face that night, and you didn’t. You wanted me here.”

Your jaw clenched. Because he was right. You hadn’t shut the door. And now he was using that choice like proof.

“I came here because I couldn’t breathe without you,” he said again, quieter this time, words like chains dressed in velvet. “I left the field, the cameras, the people who thought they owned me — all of it. For you.” He looked at you like he was waiting for you to break. And God, you almost did.

“I know I don’t deserve forgiveness yet,” he added, stepping forward again. “But if you leave me now—if you give up—then what the hell was I fighting for?”

Your throat tightened.

“That’s not fair,” you whispered.

He nodded. “I know.”

And still — he didn’t stop.

He brushed a hand against your arm, featherlight, just enough to remind you what it felt like when he used to hold you like the only thing that could anchor him to earth. “Just… don’t make me pay for every version of me you never got to fix,” he said softly. “I’m still trying. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s too late.”

You weren’t sure which part hit harder — the guilt he slipped into your ribcage, or the way he looked at you like your forgiveness was the final prize in a game he refused to lose.

Your mouth opened, then closed. He stepped closer.

“You were always the one who believed in me,” Ni-ki continued, voice lower now, like a secret meant just for you. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. Even when everyone else saw the mess, you looked past it.”

You shook your head, but his hand caught yours before you could pull away.

“And now you want to act like we’re strangers?” he said, a bitter laugh slipping out. “Like all of that meant nothing?”

“That’s not what I’m doing—”

“Then what are you doing?” His grip tightened slightly. “Because it feels like you’re just trying to push me away so you don’t have to admit you still want this. Still want me.”

You yanked your hand free. “This isn’t about what I want, Ni-ki.”

“Of course it is,” he snapped, voice sharp before softening again — like he was catching himself in real-time. “This has always been about us. You think I left everything behind just for fun? You think I gave up everything just to watch you walk away again?” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing now, that unraveling edge showing again. “I was drowning. In all of it. And the second I knew where you were, I finally breathed. You don’t get to take that from me now.”

You were spiraling — logic screaming in one ear, memory whispering in the other.

He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t cruel. That’s what made it worse. He was sweet. Familiar. Just enough of the boy you used to love to blur the lines between then and now. The way he tilted his head when he looked at you, the way his voice dipped into that low, aching register — it wrapped around you like muscle memory, like the past hadn’t taught you how dangerous it was to let him in. And he knew it. You could see it in his eyes. He knew exactly what strings to pull.

Ni-ki stepped forward again, so slowly, like he was afraid you’d bolt. His voice softened, calculated tenderness dripping from every word. “I know you’re scared. I get it. But we don’t have to start over. We just have to keep going. You and me — we already know how this works.”

Your lips parted, but nothing came out. Because that’s what terrified you most:  You did know how it worked. You knew how easily he could tangle himself into your life, how quickly love with him stopped feeling like a choice and started feeling like gravity.

“I left everything behind,” he said, motioning vaguely toward the window — toward the chaos outside, the calls still lighting up his phone. “You think I would’ve done that if you weren’t worth everything?”

You hated how that made your chest ache. Hated how part of you wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe that maybe this time he meant it. But this wasn’t a love letter. This was a contract he was trying to sign with your silence. “You’re not giving me a choice.”

“I’m giving you us,” he said quickly, stepping closer again. “I’m giving you the one thing we always said we wanted. No cameras. No teammates. No bullshit. Just you and me.”

You stared at him — stunned, confused, heartsick. “Ni-ki, you didn’t give me anything. You showed up, uninvited, in the middle of a crisis you created. That’s invasion.”

He flinched. But only for a second. “Then why haven't you chased me out yet if you didn’t still love me?”

You didn’t answer.Because the truth was curling in your throat, thick and dangerous.

You did still love him. That was the worst part. But it didn’t mean he deserved you. Not like this. Not when he only wanted you when the world turned against him.

And yet— his eyes were pleading now, like the damage in him was begging for something to hold. “I know I’m hard to love,” he whispered. “But I swear I’ll make it easier, if you just stay.”

You looked at him, blinking away the sting behind your eyes. 

That wasn’t a promise. It was a bargain.

Three days later, the knock at the door wasn’t hesitant. It was sharp. Demanding. Like whoever stood on the other side didn’t care if they were interrupting something personal.

You knew who it was before you even opened it.

Mr. Kwon — Ni-ki’s longtime manager — stood on your porch, dressed in black, jaw tight, eyes already scanning the hallway over your shoulder.

You hesitated.

“Is he here?” he asked bluntly, no greeting.

You nodded once, then stepped aside.

Ni-ki was lounging on the couch, barefoot, hoodie wrinkled, head tilted back like he hadn’t just detonated his career and gone into hiding in someone else’s home. He looked up lazily when Mr. Kwon walked in, like this was a casual drop-in and not a long-overdue reckoning.

“You have some nerve,” the manager said before the door even closed behind him. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Ni-ki blinked. “Hi.”

“I’ve been calling you for days,” Mr. Kwon snapped, pacing across the living room with barely contained fury. “You left mid-game. You humiliated the team. You’ve been ignoring everyone while the media builds their own version of you — unstable, impulsive, self-destructive. You think this is a joke?”

Ni-ki shrugged. “They’ve called me worse.”

“This isn’t a tabloid headline you can brush off, Riki. You’re on the edge of suspension. The league is demanding answers. Sponsors are threatening to drop. Do you understand what’s at stake?”

Ni-ki stayed where he was, jaw propped in his hand, eyes glazed like he was bored of the conversation before it even started. “I’ll talk when I’m ready.”

“Oh trust me! You’re ready.” Mr. Kwon’s voice rose. “This isn’t just your problem anymore — it’s the team’s, the brand’s, my problem. And you’re acting like you’ve got all the time in the world to sulk in someone else’s living room while everything you’ve built goes up in smoke.”

At that, Ni-ki finally sat up. “I’m not sulking,” he said, voice low. “I’m thinking. Something I should’ve done a long time ago.”

Mr. Kwon’s nostrils flared. “Thinking doesn’t get you out of a contract violation. Thinking doesn’t fix your image. What the hell have you even done this whole time?”

Ni-ki looked over at you, and there it was again — that soft, maddening smile. The one he always gave when the world was on fire but he’d already chosen what was worth saving from the flames. “I’ve been staying with the only person who never asked me to be anything I’m not.”

Mr. Kwon scoffed. “You think that’s noble? You think throwing everything away for some—” he stopped, catching himself, glancing at you. “For this is going to save you?”

Ni-ki stepped closer, the lazy edge sharpening. “I didn’t throw it away,” he said. “I just decided it wasn’t worth it without her.”

Your breath caught.

 Mr. Kwon’s eyes narrowed. “You want to ruin yourself? Fine,” he said tightly. “But don’t drag her down with you.”

Ni-ki’s jaw ticked — subtle, but dangerous. “She’s not the one dragging me,” he said. “She’s the one keeping me together.”

But that wasn’t true, not really. You weren’t holding him together. You were barely holding yourself together. And he was letting the wreckage pile at your feet like you were supposed to clean it up for him. 

You looked away before either of them could read it on your face.

Mr. Kwon turned back to you, voice more composed now. “You need to understand something,” he said carefully. “This version of him? It doesn’t last. It never lasts. And when he falls again, you’ll be the one under him.”

You didn’t answer. Not because you didn’t believe it — but because you did.

And still, Ni-ki stood behind you like he couldn’t even hear it, like nothing could shake him as long as you were still in the room.

Mr. Kwon's phone suddenly buzzed sharply in his coat pocket, the sound slicing through the silence like a blade. He pulled it out without breaking stride in his rant, eyes flicking down to the screen — then narrowing. He scrolled once. Then again. And suddenly, everything about him changed. “Son of a bitch,” he spat, spinning on his heel. “You absolute fucking idiot—”

Before anyone could ask what happened, he smacked Ni-ki across the chest with his cap, hard, like a parent trying to knock sense back into a kid long past saving.

“What the—?!” Ni-ki jumped back, dodging the next swing. “What the fuck is your problem?!”

Mr. Kwon didn’t respond right away — just shoved the phone into Ni-ki’s face, voice shaking with fury. “That’s my problem.”

Ni-ki took the phone, still half-annoyed, half-confused. But the second his eyes scanned the screen, everything in his posture changed.

It was like watching him short-circuit in real time.

“No,” he breathed. He scrolled. Then again. And again. “No. No. No, no, no—fuck—no.”

You watched as he zipped up from the couch so fast the cushions shifted behind him. His hand went straight to his hair, fingers threading through like he was trying to physically hold his skull together. Panic spread across his face, raw and undiluted — not the usual smirk, not the calculated deflection. This was real. 

“Tell me this is fake,” he muttered, turning to Mr. Kwon. “Please tell me this is fake—”

Mr. Kwon didn’t blink.

You stood frozen as Ni-ki’s breath quickened, his body practically vibrating with shock. He turned to you for a second — not to explain, not to defend — just to look. Like seeing you might somehow reverse what he’d just read.

“What is it?” you asked, voice low.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes like the news would disappear if he just stopped looking long enough. But it didn’t. And whatever it was, it had shattered the illusion he’d been so carefully living in.

Mr. Kwon exhaled harshly, then handed you the phone — the headline still up, the comments already flooding in.

And there it was:

EXCLUSIVE: Riki Nishimura’s Alleged Ex-Girlfriend Posts Positive Paternity Test, Accuses Star Pitcher of Ghosting Her and “Running Back to His First Choice”

You stared at the screen, the words burning themselves into your brain like they had teeth.

"Running back to his first choice."

Your throat dried instantly.

The girl’s post was everywhere — screenshots, blurred sonograms, dated messages, all conveniently timestamped around the time you and Ni-ki weren’t speaking. The time you’d left. The time you finally thought you’d saved yourself from him.

You remembered that version of him too well — reckless, unhinged, unraveling without apology. Back when his Instagram stories were blurry party clips and his name was in every gossip thread. Back when everyone said he was spiraling, but no one could name the reason. You hadn’t needed to. You were the reason.

That was when you noticed something. You didn’t even want to say it out loud, but the resemblance was there — just enough. Enough to make your stomach turn. To make you wonder if Ni-ki had been trying to replace you in the worst way possible.

She looked like you. Not exactly. But close. Close enough.

Your eyes drifted from the screen to him.

Ni-ki still hadn’t moved.He stood there like the headline had punched the air out of his lungs, like the panic in his chest hadn’t even figured out how to surface properly. His hand was still tangled in his hair, his mouth parted, his eyes locked on nothing.

Mr. Kwon paced behind him, muttering curses under his breath like a man doing inventory on a crumbling investment. “You were one of the worst kids I ever had to clean up after,” he muttered, voice half-wrecked, half-resigned. “And still… one of the best. God help me.”

But you barely heard him. All you could look at was Ni-ki — this boy who once swore he’d never want anyone but you, now crashing under the weight of a truth that might tie him to someone else forever.

And in that strange, suspended silence… You heard yourself speak before you even realized you had. Calm. Flat. Almost numb.

“Are you really the father?”

His head whipped toward you, expression shattered, like glass mid-fall. “No,” he said instantly — too fast. “No, I swear to God, I’m not. I’m not, I—I can’t be.” His voice cracked, catching in his throat like it hurt to say. Like the words themselves were slipping through fingers that didn’t know how to hold the truth. “You have to believe me,” he rushed out, stepping forward. “Please—please, don’t look at me like that. Don’t shut down, I can feel you doing it. I see it—”

You didn’t say anything.

He flinched at your silence. Like it burned.

“Fuck, no—please.” His voice rose, desperate now. “I wasn’t with her like that. It was one time. One fucking time and I didn’t even mean to. I was—I was wrecked. I wasn’t sleeping, I was drinking too much, I—” He choked on his words, stumbling closer. And then—

He dropped to his knees.

It was sudden, like gravity had finally yanked him down, like the weight of it all snapped the last string holding him upright.

You stared, frozen.

Ni-ki looked up at you from the floor, hands clutched together like a prayer or a confession, and he kept going — voice trembling, low and broken. “You have to understand,” he whispered. “I didn’t even want anyone else. I couldn’t think, I couldn’t fucking breathe. I was off my face—high, drunk, stupid—in some hotel room after that game in Daegu when I got hit on the mound.”

You remembered that match. He took a line drive straight to the ribs. Everyone thought he was done for the season.

“I don’t even remember her name,” he whispered. “I swear to you. I couldn’t pick her out of a room if you paid me.” He rubbed at his face harshly, shaking now. “It was you. Even then, it was you. All I saw was you. I thought—I thought if I blurred it enough, it would hurt less.”

You blinked slowly. Your arms were folded across your chest, but it didn’t feel like protection. Not against this. “You think that makes it better?” you asked softly.

“No,” he rasped. “No, I just—I need you to know I didn’t choose her. I never chose anyone but you.”

“And yet you’re here,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him, “on your knees, begging me to stay while someone else might be carrying your child.”

He broke at that.

His forehead dropped to the floor for a second, like he was trying to disappear into it. His hands pulled at his hair, fists clenched. His entire body shook. “I’ll fix it,” he whispered. “Please, let me fix it.”

For a moment, it was all heavy breathing and silence.

Then, from across the room, Mr. Kwon finally exhaled — loud, annoyed, and tired of watching the emotional bloodbath unfold on your living room floor. “Alright, alright, let’s not spiral yet,” he muttered, arms crossed. “First thing’s first—did you use protection?”

Ni-ki didn’t move at first. But slowly, he lifted his head. His face was wrecked — red and puffy, wet trails of tears streaking down his cheeks, lips trembling as he tried to swallow air. He blinked up at his manager, then sniffled, voice small and miserable.

“…I don’t remember.”

The silence cracked like ice under pressure.

Mr. Kwon’s face darkened. “You don’t remember,” he repeated, flat.

Ni-ki shook his head, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. “I was shitfaced, okay? I blacked out. I didn’t even know I’d slept with her until someone told me the next day—how the fuck would I remember if I used protection?”

Mr. Kwon turned around and dragged a hand down his face, muttering a string of curses in frustration. “Unbelievable,” he said. “You don’t remember. Jesus Christ.”

Ni-ki dropped his head again, rubbing his eyes raw like he could claw the night out of his memory if he just pressed hard enough.

“We’ll deal with it,” Mr. Kwon said finally, more to himself than to anyone else. “We’ll contact the girl. Set up a meeting. See if she’s willing to do an early test to confirm paternity. It might not even be yours.”

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat. And then, you asked the question no one else was saying aloud. 

“What happens if it is?”

Ni-ki’s head snapped toward you like you’d thrown something at him. His eyes were wide, swollen, wet, and panicked. “What?” he said, voice cracking. “Don’t—don’t say that.”

Mr. Kwon didn’t even flinch. He just looked between the two of you, expression unreadable. “We’ll see.”

That was it. No reassurance. No denial. Just a quiet acceptance that the future might be uglier than any of you were ready to face.

Ni-ki stared at you like the ground beneath his knees had just crumbled.

And maybe it had.

The meeting wasn’t as explosive as you’d expected. But it wasn’t calm, either.

She was defensive from the second she stepped into the room — eyes sharp, tone clipped, every word soaked in the kind of bitterness that made it clear she hadn’t just come for clarity.

She came for war.

But Mr. Kwon kept things civil. Professional. He offered terms, an early paternity test once the window opened in a few weeks, and a clear promise that the press wouldn’t get a single word until facts were on the table.

At first, she resisted. Called Ni-ki a coward. Called you a name you didn’t flinch at, just watched her with that same, detached calm that had kept you alive this long.

But eventually, she agreed.

She wanted proof too, apparently. Wanted the same truth you were quietly dreading.

It was nearly midnight when you and Ni-ki finally sat on your bed.

He hadn’t spoken much since the meeting. Hadn’t cried again. Just followed you through the house like a ghost that had nothing left to haunt.

He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, hunched forward, hoodie sleeves pulled over his fists like a child waiting to be scolded.

And you — you were tired of silence being the only answer you got.

So you asked it, straight. “Are there other girls?”

His head lifted slowly, his brows furrowed. “What?”

You leaned back against the headboard, watching him. Not accusatory, just… hollow. “I mean it. Don’t lie to me. Are there more I don’t know about? Anyone else who could show up next?”

He stared at you like you’d slapped him. Then, his throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing something that didn’t want to go down.

There was a long pause. The kind that didn’t feel like hesitation — more like dread. “…There were a few,” he said quietly.

Your chest tightened, but your expression didn’t shift. You stayed still. Waiting.

“It wasn’t like that,” he added quickly, eyes flicking up to meet yours, searching for something—mercy, maybe. “I didn’t—I never went the whole way. Not with any of them.”

Your jaw clenched, just slightly.

He sat forward, elbows on his knees, hands threading into his hair like he wanted to hide. “I kissed some of them. Hooked up, yeah. But I couldn’t—I didn’t… I always stopped.”

You didn’t move. You just watched him.

Ni-ki shifted, visibly uncomfortable, like the silence was pressing down on him harder than any accusation could. “I didn’t want to lie to you,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I could’ve left it out. You’d never know. But I didn’t want to do that. Not this time.”

Still, you said nothing. And that silence, that stillness, made him panic.

“Say something,” he pleaded. “Please.”

You looked down at your hands, fingers curling slightly. “It’s not about what you did,” you said finally, voice even. “It’s about the fact that I had to ask. That I couldn’t even trust you to be honest with me until I dragged it out of you.”

He blinked. Hard.

“I was scared,” he said quickly. “I thought if I told you everything—if I gave you the ugliest parts—you’d walk.”

You met his eyes. “So you wanted to make the decision for me.”

That shut him up.

You inhaled slowly, the kind of breath that tried to fill all the space he left hollow. “Let me guess. You told yourself it didn’t count, right? Because it wasn’t all the way. Because you stopped just short of completely ruining it.”

He looked like he wanted to deny it. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he just whispered, “I didn’t know how to be without you.”

“You learned,” you said coldly. “You found ways. None of them were honest, but they worked for you.”

Ni-ki’s eyes were glassy now, his jaw tight like he was holding something in — regret, maybe. Or just the fear of losing the last thing he thought he still had a grip on. “I’m sorry,” he breathed. “I’m so fucking sorry.” The words barely left his mouth before he moved — sudden, unsteady, and trembling. His hands found your waist, pulling you into his lap like he needed your closeness to breathe. His arms wrapped around you tightly, anchoring himself in your body like if he held you hard enough, everything else might disappear.

You flinched, your hands bracing against his chest. “Ni-ki—no, don’t.”

But he didn’t let go.

He buried his face against your neck, breath hitching, voice breaking apart in sobs. “I can’t lose you. Please—please don’t make me watch you leave again. I’ll do anything, I’ll be anything—just don’t go, don’t go, don’t—”

You tried to push him off, palms flat against his hoodie, but it was like trying to move a wave crashing into shore. He clung to you like you were all he had left, like letting go would shatter something in him that couldn’t be put back together. “Ni-ki—stop, you’re—”

“I’m sorry,” he sobbed again, his voice wrecked. “I was stupid, I was selfish, I was empty without you and I didn’t know how to fix it. You’re the only thing that ever made me want to be better. The only one.” His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened — his body shaking, face wet against your skin, the sound of him breaking open sinking into your bones.

You kept your hands on his chest, but your fight was draining fast.

He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t cruel. He was just devastated. And for all the things he had done, for every lie, every wrong choice, every excuse—

Right now, he was just a boy in love with something he didn’t know how to hold without breaking.

Your hands slid slowly from his chest to his back. You didn’t hug him. Not fully. But you didn’t push him away either, just let him fall apart around you, your cheek resting lightly against his head as his sobs echoed through the quiet room.

After that night, things didn’t magically fix themselves.

There was no grand reset. No ribbon-tied redemption. Just the sound of two people who had torn each other apart trying to exist in the same silence without bleeding all over the floor.

You let him stay.

And Ni-ki — for all his flaws, all his wreckage — tried.

You saw it in the little things. How he woke before you most mornings and made your coffee exactly how you liked it. How he answered his phone now when Mr. Kwon called, even if it meant pacing outside with his jaw tight and frustration simmering beneath the surface. How he flinched every time he caught himself speaking too sharply, or standing too close, or reaching for you when your body tensed ever so slightly.

He tried to bury the version of himself that had scared you away once. 

But some days, the grave wasn’t deep enough.

There were moments — quick, sharp flashes — where the old Ni-ki bled through. The possessiveness in his voice when someone texted you too late. The anger in his eyes when you said something he didn’t want to hear. The subtle ways he worded things to pull your guilt tighter around your neck like a leash.

But then… he’d stop.

Catch himself mid-sentence. Mid-spite. Mid-lie.

And then he’d break. Quietly, bitterly.

You once found him in the bathroom after a petty argument — door half open, sitting on the edge of the tub with his head in his hands, whispering “What the fuck is wrong with me?” over and over under his breath like a curse he couldn’t shake.

He never begged again, not the way he had before. But the fear never fully left his eyes.

He was terrified you’d stop forgiving him. Terrified he’d become too much. Again.

And the strangest part was… you didn’t throw him out.

You could have. 

Maybe you should have. 

But you didn’t.

Because there were nights he held you like he was scared to sleep. Mornings where he kissed your shoulder with a kind of gentleness that felt foreign even to him. Times when he looked at you like he was still surprised you let him stay.

And maybe it wasn’t healthy. Maybe it wasn’t forever. But it was something.

Two people trying to live in unison. Not whole. Not healed. But aware.

You kept your eyes open this time. And he tried — really tried — not to become the reason you’d need to close them again.

But that was wrecked during one quiet afternoon.

You had laundry half-folded on the couch, a mug cooling on the table, and Ni-ki was in the kitchen — sleeves pushed up, scrubbing a pan like the act of cleaning might somehow help him feel more in control.

Things had been… steady. Not perfect, but livable. The kind of fragile peace that made you hold your breath just in case the floor creaked the wrong way.

So when the knock came, you didn’t think twice.

You opened the door to find Jinwoo, your old friend — all easy smiles and warm energy. He held up a hand sheepishly, gesturing toward the doorway.

“Hey—sorry, I know it’s random. I think I left my copy of Tomb Raider here after that study night? Just realized it.”

“Oh—yeah,” you said, stepping aside. “It should be on the shelf. Come in.”

He walked in casually, scanning the game stack in the corner, already chatting. “Didn’t mean to bother you. I can just grab it and go.”

But you didn’t respond. Because behind him, in the doorway of the kitchen, Ni-ki had stopped moving. His hands were still dripping soap, dish rag hanging limply from one of them. His eyes were locked on Jinwoo like he was a threat, not a guest.

You felt your stomach drop.“Ni-ki,” you said gently, trying to shift the tension. “This is Jinwoo. He’s just here for—”

“Yeah, I heard,” Ni-ki said. Flat. Cold.

Jinwoo turned and offered a friendly nod. “Hey, man. Sorry for barging in. I won’t stay long.”

Ni-ki didn’t answer. Just dried his hands slowly and walked into the room.

You saw it in his eyes — that look. The one that made your chest tighten before a single word left his mouth.

Jinwoo bent down to grab the game case, still oblivious.

But then Ni-ki spoke.

“Didn’t know we had people coming over unannounced now.”

You blinked. “It’s not a big deal. He just left something—”

“Funny,” Ni-ki said, louder now. “Because you never mentioned anyone else being here. Especially not him.”

Jinwoo stood up, awkwardness creeping in. “I’ll head out—”

“You don’t have to be rude,” you snapped, stepping between them. “He was only here for five minutes, Ni-ki. Stop.”

Ni-ki’s jaw clenched. “I’m not being rude,” he muttered. “I’m just wondering why some random guy’s comfortable enough to show up at our place like this is his second home.”

“Don’t talk about me like I’m not standing right here,” Jinwoo said, trying to keep it light. “I’m literally just grabbing a game.”

“Ni-ki,” you warned.

But he wasn’t hearing it anymore. His eyes were locked on Jinwoo like every buried insecurity had just clawed its way back to the surface. “Did you bring him here when I wasn’t around?” he asked suddenly, voice lower now. Darker. “Is that what this is?”

Your heart dropped. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He took a step toward you — not threatening, but close enough to box you in. “I’m not stupid,” he said, voice shaking. “You don’t even let people borrow your things. But he gets to come in here, hang around, touch your stuff—?”

“Ni-ki!”

Jinwoo held up the game in both hands like a white flag. “I think I’ve got what I came for.” He started backing toward the door, but Ni-ki wasn’t watching him anymore.

He was watching you. Your silence. Your expression. And whatever he saw there — fear, disappointment, recognition — it hit him harder than any shove could have. His breathing was ragged. Regret creeping up behind the rage like a delayed shadow. “Wait,” he said quietly, eyes darting. “Wait, I didn’t mean—fuck, I didn’t mean it like that—”

You stepped back.“You did,” you said.

And that was worse than yelling.

Jinwoo let himself out, quietly. And the door clicked shut behind him like the final note in a song you never wanted to hear again.

Ni-ki was frozen. Hands trembling. Face pale. Like the realization had hit too late. Like the worst part wasn’t what he’d said — but the fact that he couldn’t take it back.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just stood there, staring at him, watching the panic rise behind his eyes as the silence dragged on.

He stepped toward you once, hesitantly, like a wounded animal unsure whether to run or beg.

You crossed your arms over your chest, not to protect yourself — just to keep from shaking. “You meant every word,” you said, “and the only reason you’re sorry is because I didn’t let it slide this time.”

“No,” he said quickly, desperate. “That’s not—it wasn’t about him. It was me, it’s always me. I get in my head, and I just—fuck, I ruin everything. I get scared, and I don’t know how to—please.” His voice cracked on the last word. He reached out. Just barely.

You didn’t move.

“I saw someone in our space,” he said, like he was still trying to make you understand. “I didn’t think. It was instinct. I just—I panicked. I thought you were slipping away.”

“You thought I was slipping away because a friend picked up a game?”

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“I’m not your hostage, Ni-ki.”

The words landed hard. You could tell by the way his knees almost buckled, how he stepped back, like the truth physically hurt to hear. 

“I know,” he whispered. “I know. I just—fuck—why do I always do this?”

You watched him fold in on himself, like the self-hatred was a familiar shape. Like he'd already rehearsed this scene in his head, countless times — you confronting him, him unraveling. He turned his back for a second, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes like he could hold the shame in that way. “I don't want to be this,” he whispered. “I swear I'm trying.”

And maybe he was. But trying didn’t mean healing. Trying didn’t mean he wasn’t still hurting you, even if he hated himself for it.

You stood still, heart in your throat, hands clenched, wondering how long love could survive a pattern this sharp. And more importantly… If you were willing to keep stitching yourself back together every time he broke.

You stared at his back for a long time.

The way his shoulders slumped, hands still pressed to his face like he couldn’t stand being seen. Like the weight of who he was, of who he kept becoming, was finally too much to hold up.

But you didn’t move. Didn’t comfort him. Didn’t say another word. Instead, you turned and walked away — quiet, steady — each step up the stairs feeling heavier than the last. By the time you reached your room, the silence was suffocating. You sat on the bed like your body didn’t know what to do with itself.

For a while, you just stared at the floor.

Then you reached for your phone — maybe out of habit, maybe out of the stupid hope that there would be something else, anything else to focus on.

But there wasn’t.

It was all Ni-ki. You and him. Her. Speculation. Fan edits. Headlines. Fake tweets. Blurred photos. “Anonymous sources.” Comments that dug under your skin like splinters.

“Knew she was just a rebound.”

“She looks like the girl he got pregnant.”

“He’ll move on next week.”

“She’s gonna leave him.”

You locked the screen. Unlocked it. Locked it again.

And then, without thinking, you threw it across the room, hard. It hit the carpet with a soft thud. You wished it had cracked.

The room was quiet again.

Until you heard it — The sound of the front door closing.

You paused and stood, walked to your window, pulled the curtain just slightly aside—

And there was Ni-ki. Walking to his car.

His head was down, hoodie pulled up, steps quick and uneven like he didn’t want to give himself time to change his mind. He slid into the driver’s seat of his sleek, black sports car — the same one that had sat parked and untouched in front of your house for a week now.

The engine growled to life. And then, he drove off. No hesitation. No glance back.

You stood there, blinking at the space he left behind.

It surprised you, more than you wanted to admit.  He hadn’t left in days. Had barely gone past the porch. And yet… he was gone now.

Your chest tightened, but you pushed it down. You walked away from the window like it hadn’t happened at all.

If he left, good. You didn’t care.

That’s what you told yourself. Over and over as you pulled your covers up and lay in the dark.

Good. Let him go.You didn’t care.

You repeated it like a prayer. Like if you said it enough, it would rewrite the truth inside your chest. But as the silence settled again you realized you could still smell him on your pillow. 

And sleep didn’t come easily after that.

You woke to the sharp crack of something breaking downstairs. For a second, you thought it was in your dream — until you heard it again. Glass. Or ceramic. Something falling hard.

You groaned, heart already starting to race, and slid out of bed. The house was dark. Quiet in a way that didn’t feel safe. You grabbed your phone from the nightstand — dead. Of course.

Still half-asleep and now fully on edge, you made your way downstairs, feet barely making a sound against the steps. The living room was empty. Everything looked untouched. But then—

The back door. It was cracked open. Just slightly.

You froze. 

That door had been locked. You were sure it had.

A sick feeling bloomed in your stomach. You scanned the area quickly, fingers curling around the closest thing you could find — a small table lamp. It wasn’t a weapon, but it was heavy. It’d have to do.

You crept toward the back door, lamp raised, breaths shallow. Your hand pushed the door further open, just enough to peek into the night.

Then — a flicker of movement. 

 A shadow to your left.

You spun, heart in your throat, arm lifting to swing, but the shadow turned and it was Ni-ki.

He flinched when he saw you, stumbling a step back like you were the threat. 

“Shit!” he barked, eyes wide. “Are you trying to kill me?!”

You dropped the lamp to your side, groaning, heart pounding. “You scared the hell out of me!” you shouted. “I thought you were a burglar, Ni-ki! What the fuck was I supposed to think?!”

“I—” He blinked rapidly, taking a breath. “Fuck. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You shook your head, lowering the lamp and setting it back on the table with shaking hands.

It wasn’t until the adrenaline started to fade that you noticed the rest of him.

One: he was holding a cigarette between two fingers. Two: in his other hand was a bottle of liquor — half gone — which he took a slow, numb sip from even as you stared.  Three: he looked like hell.

His hoodie was inside out. His hair was a tangled mess. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red, like he hadn’t slept — or had been crying long before he came back. His lips were chapped. His hands were shaking.

He looked like someone you didn’t recognize. Like a version of himself he thought you’d never see again.

“Ni-ki,” you said, breathing softer now. “What the hell are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, just leaned back against the frame of the house, exhaling smoke toward the sky like it held answers. 

The soft cherry glow of the cigarette lit up the curve of his jaw, flickering as he breathed. The bottle in his hand swayed slightly as he gripped it tighter, the glass catching what little moonlight broke through the clouds.

You stayed in the doorway, watching him. You didn't know whether to scream or sit down beside him.

“Where were you?” you asked finally.

He let the smoke trail out of his nose before answering. “Nowhere important.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He glanced at you, then looked away. “Doesn’t matter.”

You crossed your arms, the chill of the night settling into your skin, the ache of worry flaring into frustration. “It does matter,” you snapped. “You disappeared and now you’re here in the middle of the night smelling like liquor and cigarettes, breaking shit, crawling in through the back like a thief.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he muttered, like that was still the biggest crime in the room.

“You didn’t want to face me.”

He said nothing.

The silence stretched until it was unbearable. You stepped out onto the porch, your bare feet against the cold wood, eyes locked on him.

He didn’t meet your gaze. Instead, he took another sip — slow, deliberate — and then, finally. “I drove around until I ran out of gas.”

You blinked.

He let out a hollow laugh. “Pathetic, right? Just me and the radio and a bottle I shouldn’t’ve bought. Kept thinking if I just kept going, maybe the thoughts would stop. But they didn’t. Just got louder.” He turned his head slightly, eyes on the horizon, voice barely audible. “I thought maybe if I sat still long enough, the world would forget me.”

Your chest tightened.

There it was again — that terrifying softness beneath all his mess. The boy who didn’t know how to be okay without someone dragging him back from the edge.

You looked down at his hands — the bottle, the cigarette — and the bruises blooming beneath his eyes, more from exhaustion than anything else.

He wasn’t okay. Not even close.

And part of you wanted to drag him inside. Wrap a blanket around him. Make him tea and wash the night off his skin.But the other part — the part still bruised from every lie, every fight, every version of him that left you bleeding — stayed perfectly still.

You swallowed.

“Do you want to come inside?”

He looked up slowly. His eyes were glassy, bloodshot, desperate. “Only if I still can.”

You hesitated, then turned and left the door open behind you as you stepped back inside.

A minute later, you heard the cigarette hiss out against the stone porch. And then, the soft sound of his footsteps following you in.

The door clicked softly behind him.

You didn’t turn around right away. Just walked into the kitchen, flicked on the small overhead light. The warmth it cast was dim, but enough. Enough to see the damage on his face. Enough to see what he’d become in your absence, even when you were just upstairs.

You filled a glass with water, silent except for the hum of the faucet. When you turned and held it out to him, Ni-ki didn’t reach for it right away. He just looked at you — like you were something holy, and he’d shown up too dirty to touch you.

Finally, he took it. 

“Thanks,” he rasped, voice hoarse. He took a sip. Then another.

You leaned against the counter across from him, arms folded, your body language distant but your eyes too present. Watching. Absorbing. “Why’d you really come back?” you asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away.

Then: “Because I didn’t want to wake up alone.”

“That’s not the same as wanting to wake up with me, Ni-ki.”

He closed his eyes, jaw tightening.

You stared at him, not with anger but with something worse. Disappointment. Sadness. 

“You say you’re trying,” you said. “You say you want to be better. But every time something doesn’t go your way, you fall apart. And it’s like I’m supposed to just… be here. Waiting. Ready to catch you.”

He set the glass down on the counter with a shaky breath. “I didn’t know where else to go,” he said again, quieter. “I drove around thinking about calling people. Kwon. My brother. Hell, even my agent. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk to anyone but you.”

Your eyes flicked to him. “That’s not love, Riki. That’s codependency.”

He winced. At the name. At the truth.

You stepped forward, slowly.

“I’m tired,” you whispered. “Not just physically. I’m tired of being your lifeline every time you self-destruct. I’m tired of being the one thing you cling to while dragging all your damage behind you.”

He looked like you’d just ripped something out of him.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I hate that. I hate that I can’t seem to show up for you without making a mess first.”

You swallowed the tightness in your throat, staring at the boy you love like he was something you didn’t know how to hold anymore. “Then stop making messes,” you said simply. “Start cleaning up the ones you’ve already made.”

He stepped closer. “I want to. I’m trying. I swear to God, I am. But it’s like—every time I think I’ve got a grip on it, it slips. And then I think if I could just hold you, I’ll feel steady again.”

You looked up at him. “You’re not supposed to build your balance on me.”

“I know.” His voice cracked on the words, just barely. Then he reached for you — slow, unsure, trembling like he wasn’t sure you’d let him. Like he’d already resigned himself to rejection.

But you didn’t move away.

You let him wrap his arms around you.

And the second he did, he broke.

His chin dropped onto the top of your head, and his grip tightened like he was holding together all the jagged parts of himself with your body alone. Like if he let go, they’d scatter across your kitchen floor.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t try to explain anymore. He just cried. Not loud or messy — not like the night he fell to his knees — but the kind of crying that comes from deep in the chest. Silent. Sharp. Shaking. Like his ribs couldn’t take it anymore.

You slid your arms around his waist, pressed your cheek against his shoulder, and rubbed slow, steady circles into his back. You didn’t tell him to stop. You didn’t shush him. You just held him. Because sometimes that was all there was left to do.

He pulled you tighter, hands bunching in the fabric of your shirt as he leaned all of his weight into you. His jaw trembled where it rested against your head. His breathing hitched, broken and uneven. “I don’t want to be like this anymore,” he whispered hoarsely.

You closed your eyes, heart aching. For him. For you. For the version of this love that wasn’t so heavy. “I know,” you said softly. “I know.”

He didn’t say anything in response. Just held you tighter, as if he couldn’t believe you were still letting him. 

And then — slowly — you felt him shift.

Ni-ki’s jaw slid from the top of your head to your temple, then to your cheek, and then, almost without thinking, he dipped lower, until his face was buried in the crook of your neck. His breath hit warm against your skin. Shaky. Unsteady. He inhaled deeply — like he needed the scent of you to remind himself he was still here, still with you, even if only barely.

Then he groaned. Soft. Ragged. Quietly broken.

Not in a way that asked for anything. Just in a way that said this is the only place I know how to fall apart.

Your fingers slowed against his back, caught between pulling him closer and stepping away before the moment turned into something it shouldn’t.

You tilted your head slightly to look at him. 

And he was already watching you.

His eyes were glassy and red, but his gaze was locked on yours like there was nothing else in the world worth seeing. Not the broken night. Not the mistakes. Just you.

His forehead brushed lightly against yours. His voice was barely a whisper. “You make everything hurt less.” It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t an apology. It was a truth he didn’t know how to live without.

You didn’t speak. Because what could you say? That it was unfair? That love wasn’t supposed to be this heavy? That you still ached for him even when you didn’t trust him all the way?

You didn’t say any of it. Because suddenly, there wasn’t space for words.

You weren’t sure who leaned in first. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was you. Maybe it was both of you, pulled into each other like magnets too tired to keep resisting.

Your noses brushed. Breath hitched.

And then your lips touched — barely. Soft. A question more than a promise. The kind of kiss that didn’t demand anything… just confirmed what was already there.

You both pulled back slightly. Just a breath’s worth of distance.

Your eyes met.

And something in them — the grief, the longing, the ache — cracked.

Then you kissed again.

Harder.

Desperate.

His hands found your face first, fingers trembling but sure, like he needed to hold you in place, to make sure you were real. Yours gripped his hoodie, yanking him closer as your mouths moved in sync, all restraint gone, all caution drowned.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t clean. It was everything you’d both been swallowing down since the beginning — spilled out, messy and human.

His hands moved — your jaw, your neck, your back — not frantic, but greedy. Memorizing. Yours were just as needy, curling into his hair, dragging down his spine, grounding him.

And for a moment… A full, perfect moment… Your minds went quiet.

No more questions. No more spiraling. No more wondering how long this could last. Just you, and him, and the soft gasp that left his mouth when your hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt. Just him, groaning into your lips as if the taste of you was the only thing he hadn’t ruined.

His forehead pressed to yours again, breathless.

You could feel the shake in his hands where they held your waist, the way his chest rose and fell like he was trying to catch something slipping through his ribs.

His eyes searched yours like he didn’t know if he was allowed to want you like this. Not after everything.

But you didn’t pull away.

And that was all the permission he needed.

He kissed you again — deeper this time, slower, but just as desperate. The kind of kiss that says don’t go, not yet. Stay. Just for now.

Your hands moved, fingertips grazing warm skin, feeling him tense, then melt. He breathed your name into your mouth like a confession, like he didn’t know whether it was holy or a curse.

You shifted, guiding him backward until his hips bumped the edge of the counter. His hands gripped tighter, fingers splayed across your lower back as if trying to memorize every curve, every inch he’d missed. “You still feel like home,” he whispered, almost dizzy.

You swallowed hard. Because he did too. And you hated that. And you needed it.

The kiss turned messier. Teeth. Tongue. That ache in your chest twisting into something you could feel in your spine. His hand fumbled up your side, dragging your shirt with it. Yours tugged at the waistband of his sweats like you wanted to erase every layer that separated you.

He broke the kiss for half a second, breath ragged against your lips and then suddenly, his hands were on your hips, turning you with a quick, firm grip and lifting you up onto the counter in one smooth motion.

A surprised gasp escaped your throat as the cold of the counter met the back of your thighs, but it was gone just as quickly, drowned out by the way he stepped between your legs, hands gripping your thighs like he needed to feel your pulse beneath his fingertips.

And then he kissed you again — slower, deeper. More sure.

You weren’t sure if it was him that made you feel drunk, or if it was the sharp tang of alcohol still clinging to his tongue. Either way, it didn’t matter. You tilted your head to let him kiss you harder, to let him take whatever he needed — because you needed it too. Needed the noise in your head to shut up. Needed something to remind you that you were still here, still wanted, still his, even if only in this moment.

His hand came up, cupping the back of your neck, thumb stroking behind your ear as his mouth moved against yours with more hunger than grace. You parted your lips for him like instinct — like he’d never really forgotten the way you moved beneath his touch. “Fuck,” he breathed against your lips, voice low and wrecked. “You feel the same. You still feel like mine.”

You didn’t answer.

You just kissed him again — hard, messy, desperate — as your legs locked around his waist, dragging him closer, anchoring him to the place he always ran to when everything else collapsed.

His hands were on your waist again, thumbs pressing into your skin beneath your shirt, like he didn’t want space between you anymore. He kissed you like a man unlearning how to be gentle. Like someone who’d dreamed of this a thousand times and never once believed he’d feel it again.

And maybe that was why you didn’t stop him.

Because in this kiss — this ache — this terrible, beautiful moment — there were no lies. No paternity tests. No headlines. No threats.

Just him. And you. And the burning need to forget everything but each other.

His hands slid under your shirt, palms warm against your bare skin as they mapped the curve of your back, your sides, like he was memorizing all the parts of you he thought he’d lost. His mouth never left yours for long,  barely a breath between kisses, like stopping would mean facing everything you both weren’t ready to say.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging slightly, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth — low and broken, the sound vibrating between your ribs.

“You don’t know what it did to me,” he whispered against your lips, eyes half-lidded, voice trembling. “Not touching you. Not kissing you. Not having you.”

You didn’t reply. Your hands were already feeling the tension in his shoulders, the heat of his skin, the quiet tremble in his muscles as he pressed himself against you.

He leaned in, forehead against yours, his breath coming fast. “I thought about this every fucking night.” 

And the worst part was… so had you.

He kissed you again as his hands gripped your thighs where they wrapped around him, thumbs moving in soft, grounding circles. Your chest pressed against his as you arched into him, the counter cold beneath you, but his body burning against yours like it was the only thing keeping you warm. His mouth trailed down — the corner of your lips, your jaw, the side of your neck — and when he breathed you in again, his entire body shuddered.

You cupped his face, forcing him to look up at you.

His eyes were glassy, his lips red and kiss-bruised, but his gaze… his gaze was clear. No walls. No performative softness. Just him — stripped down to every raw, vulnerable piece.

You leaned in again, kissing him slower, softer. Not because the desperation was gone, but because now it was being replaced by something heavier. Something more honest.

It wasn’t about forgetting anymore. 

It was about remembering everything. 

Eventually, the urgency faded. The desperation softened into something slower. Something quieter.

Your bodies stayed close — tangled and warm in the dim light of the kitchen, the cool air brushing against sweat-damp skin. His head rested against your shoulder now, his arms still loosely wrapped around your waist, like he didn’t trust himself to let go just yet.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

You just sat there — you on the counter, him standing between your legs, your fingers lazily combing through his messy hair, his thumbs still brushing the sides of your thighs in soft, distracted motions.

His breathing was calmer now. But his hold on you hadn’t loosened.

You stared past him for a while, eyes fixed on the dark window. The silence wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t peaceful either. It was… suspended. Like the moment hadn’t ended, just paused. Because now that the rush was over, the noise started creeping back in.

The girl. The test. The lies. The fear. The fact that this was still a house filled with tension, not trust.

You felt him shift slightly. He exhaled slowly, and when he finally spoke, it was hoarse, almost shy.

“Did you regret that?”

You looked down at him — his eyes barely meeting yours, heavy with something between shame and hope. Like he already knew what he feared you’d say, but needed to hear it anyway. You slid your hands down to his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. You held him there, gently, grounding him. “No,” you whispered. “But I don’t know what it means yet.”

He nodded, like that hurt and helped all at once. “I’ll wait,” he said quietly. “Even if I don’t deserve to.”

You didn’t answer. You just leaned forward and pressed your lips to his forehead.

Eventually, the kitchen grew too cold, too quiet. The emotional weight in the room hung heavy on your limbs, and you both knew — without saying anything — it was time to move.

You slid off the counter slowly, fixing your shirt as you moved past him. He didn’t let go right away, his fingers grazing your wrist as you stepped away. But he didn’t say anything either.

You paused at the stairs, glancing back at him — his hoodie was bunched, lips still pink and bruised, hair a mess of curls from your hands. His eyes met yours, unsure, waiting.

“Go shower,” you said quietly, firm but gentle. “You smell like smoke and whiskey.”

For a second, he blinked like you’d spoken another language. Then he nodded, wordless, and obeyed.

You disappeared into your room while he headed to the bathroom down the hall. The sound of the water running filled the silence, the distant thud of his clothes hitting the tile floor the only proof he was still here. You crawled under the covers and lay back, eyes on the ceiling, the weight of what happened pressing into your chest. It wasn’t regret. It wasn’t relief either. Just… real. Tangible. Something you could no longer ignore.

The bathroom door creaked open some time later. Soft footsteps padded across the floor. Then the light flicked off.

You turned your head to look at him as he approached. Freshly showered, damp hair curling a little at the ends, face clean, hoodie gone, now just in a t-shirt and boxers.

He looked… young. Like the boy you remembered loving before all the mess, before the manipulation and pain and chaos.

He crawled into bed beside you slowly, like he wasn’t sure he had the right. The mattress dipped under his weight, and for a moment he lay on his side, quiet, facing you. Not touching. Just breathing the same space.

Then—cautiously—he reached out. Fingers brushing yours under the blanket. Just seeking. Just asking.

You let him.

His hand found yours fully, lacing your fingers together like it was the only thing anchoring him to the present. “Thank you,” he whispered. Not for the bed. Not the shower. Not the silence. For staying.

You didn’t reply. But you didn’t let go.

And a minute later, he inched closer, curling into your side, tucking his head gently beneath your chin like muscle memory. One hand resting on your stomach, his breath warming the fabric of your shirt.

You closed your eyes.

It wasn’t healing. It wasn’t fixing anything.

But for tonight, it was enough. Enough to sleep, enough to forget, enough to stay.

Morning came soft and gold, leaking through the curtains in long, lazy rays.

You stirred slowly, blinking the sleep from your eyes as you shifted beneath the sheets. The weight of an arm was slung around your waist, warm and heavy, and when you tried to move—tried to slip away gently—it tightened.

“Mm-mm,” Ni-ki mumbled, voice still thick with sleep. “Don’t go.”

You sighed softly, not annoyed—just tired. Emotionally worn. Your body ached in the way that only came after long nights filled with too much feeling and not enough rest. “I need to get up,” you whispered.

His response was a low groan as he curled into you, burying his face in your shoulder. His hand flattened on your stomach, holding you there. Possessive. Familiar.

Too familiar.

“Stay a little longer,” he mumbled. “Just like this.”

And just like that, you were back there.

Back in another morning, years ago. In another apartment. Another version of him. Back when things were soft and warm more often than they were sharp and cold. He used to be like this all the time. Clingy. Gentle. Wrapping himself around you like he was afraid you’d vanish while he slept. Pressing sleepy kisses to your neck. Mumbling half-dreamed things into your skin.

You used to laugh, teasing him about being a human furnace. Used to let yourself believe this was what love was supposed to feel like.

And now here it was again. The same body. The same voice. The same comfort. But it wasn’t the same. Because this time, you knew what came after.

This time, it didn’t feel like home. It felt like a memory dressed up in softness.

You stared at the ceiling, his breath warm against your neck.

His grip on you didn’t loosen.

“You never used to let me leave the bed,” you whispered without meaning to.

He hummed sleepily, lips brushing your skin. “Still don’t want to.”

You swallowed. Your throat was tight. Your hands stayed at your sides. You didn’t return the touch. Not yet. Because even as your body remembered how to melt into him… Your mind remembered how hard it was to pull yourself back out.

His hand traced lazy patterns over your side. The kind he used to do when you were his—when the world was quieter, or maybe just when you didn’t know better.

You didn’t respond to it now. Didn’t lean in. Didn’t sigh or smile the way you once did.

Because you weren’t the same.

And neither was he.

“Ni-ki,” you said quietly.

He stilled, fingers pausing. “…Yeah?”

“I need to get up.”

He groaned, this time more awake, and pressed his face further into your neck like a child refusing to get out of bed for school. “Just ten more minutes.”

You closed your eyes.

It’s not just about the bed.

It was about him pretending like nothing was broken. Like you hadn’t been torn apart and stitched back together with trembling hands and too many unanswered questions. Like last night’s desperation had solved everything when in truth, it had only pressed pause on a storm.

“Ni-ki.” Firmer now.

He finally pulled back enough to look at you, still half-asleep, eyes puffy, but a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

You didn’t smile back.

His expression faltered, just barely. “What’s wrong?”

You sat up slowly, brushing your hair from your face.

He stayed laid out, hand falling flat on the sheet where your body had been. The air between you cooled.

“I’m not… this isn’t a reset,” you said, not looking at him yet. “Last night happened. But it doesn’t erase what came before it.”

“I know that.” His voice was quiet now. Careful.

You turned to look at him. His hair was still damp near the roots. The side of his face red from being pressed against your skin all night. “You’re acting like everything’s normal.”

“I’m not,” he said quickly. “I just—” He sat up too now, rubbing a hand over his face. “I wanted to pretend. Just for a few more minutes. Is that so bad?”

You didn’t answer. Because yes, it was. It was dangerous, and familiar, and so easy to fall back into. That’s what made it worse.

He leaned forward a little, hand brushing your back lightly. “Last night meant something to me.”

You nodded. “It did to me too.”

He swallowed. “So… what now?”

You hesitated. Because the truth was, you didn’t know. You were still sitting in the middle of wreckage, and maybe there was still warmth between you, but it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t fixed. “Now,” you said softly, “we get up.”

And he nodded — reluctantly.

Later that day you were tucked away in the small office upstairs, headphones on, eyes on your laptop, trying to ignore the heaviness in your chest that still lingered from the morning. Work helped. Keeping your hands busy helped. For a little while, it was quiet. Just the muted sound of Ni-ki’s game downstairs, the occasional sound of digital crack of a bat, crowd noise, his muffled curses when something didn’t go his way.

Then the doorbell rang.

You paused, waiting. Didn’t think much of it.

He’ll get it.

You returned to your screen, fingers hovering above the keyboard.

And then— screaming.

Your whole body jolted.

Not TV. Not in-game audio. Real. Sharp. High-pitched. 

A crash followed. Something glass, maybe. Something loud enough to rattle the floor beneath your feet. 

You were out of your chair before you knew it, bare legs flying down the stairs, your heart beating so fast it made your head buzz. And when you hit the last step, you saw her.

The one from the post. From Ni-ki’s past—the piece of it he swore he’d left behind.

She was in the middle of your living room, her face twisted in fury, tears streaking her makeup, her arm mid-throw as a candle from the end table sailed past Ni-ki’s head and shattered against the wall. “You think you can hide from me?!” she screamed, voice cracked with emotion, unhinged. “You think you can just disappear and pretend I don’t exist?!”

Ni-ki was shouting back, jaw clenched, body tense like he was seconds away from losing control. “You don’t get to just show up here! You don’t just—fuck, are you crazy?! What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“What’s wrong with me?!” she shrieked, stepping closer, jabbing a finger into his chest. “You used me. You threw me away like garbage. You’re the one who left!”

You stood frozen at the base of the stairs — barefoot, wearing nothing but one of Ni-ki’s oversized hoodies and shorts, your damp laundry still in the washer, forgotten. You hadn’t meant to come down like this. You hadn’t expected a warzone.

But then she saw you.

Her eyes snapped to yours. Wild. Bloodshot. Full of venom.

And you knew. Everything just got worse.

“Oh,” she spat, laughter bubbling up cruel and sharp. “Oh. So this is why you’ve been playing house, huh?”

You opened your mouth to say something — anything — but she cut you off, voice rising to a screech.

“Did you fuck him back into being a good person? Is that how this works?!”

Ni-ki moved instantly, stepping between you both, arm out as if shielding you from her.

“Don’t.” His voice was low now. Dark. “Don’t fucking talk to her.” 

She shoved his chest. “You’re disgusting! You left me and our baby for this?”

“You don’t even know if it’s mine!” he snapped back. “You came here to what — scare her? Humiliate her? That’s not gonna work.”

But you weren’t listening to their voices anymore. Your head was buzzing. Your heart was pounding so loud you couldn’t hear past it. The way she looked at you… like you were the villain. Like you had taken something from her. Like you were just a trophy he had come running back to — all over again.

Wait….

In the midst of all the shouting, all the noise, all the chaos — you’d frozen. You’d stood there like a spectator in your own life. Let her scream. Let him defend. Let the weight of the world crush you beneath a hoodie that suddenly felt too heavy on your skin.

But now… You were hearing it. Really hearing it.

The accusation. The venom. The way she looked at you like you were some homewrecker. Like you had taken what wasn’t yours. Like you were second.

And just like that — it clicked.

No.

No, you weren’t.

You were the original. You were the one he fell for when he didn’t even know how to handle love. You were the one who stood by him while he spiraled. You were the one he ran back to. Every. Single. Time.

She was a detour. A rebound. A desperate attempt to scrub you out of his bloodstream when he couldn’t face what losing you really meant.And now she was in your living room, throwing shit, screaming in your face — like she had the right?

Hell. No.

You stepped forward, brushing past Ni-ki’s arm before he could stop you.

He flinched. “Wait—”

But you weren’t listening. You walked straight up to her, bare feet silent against the hardwood, head held high despite the fact you were in nothing but his hoodie and laundry-day shorts.She narrowed her eyes, lips curled, like she expected you to cry. To break. But you didn’t. You stopped just close enough for her to feel the heat off your skin — and you smiled. Not kindly. 

“You’re in my house.”

She blinked. Thrown off. “Excuse me?”

“Let me make one thing very clear honey — whatever happened between you and him? That was never more than a consequence of me walking away,” you clarified coldly, voice low, steady.

Her nostrils flared.

But you weren’t done.

“You weren’t chosen. You were convenient. A body to crawl into when he couldn’t feel me anymore. You weren’t the prize. You were the punishment.”

Her hand twitched like she wanted to slap you. But she didn’t.

Because you didn’t flinch. You didn’t move. And Ni-ki—Ni-ki just stood behind you, wide-eyed, stunned silent, like he was watching you become something he couldn’t believe he’d ever forgotten.

You took a breath. Calm. Measured. “So if you’ve got a test result to hand over, hand it over. If not? Get out. You don’t get to scream your way into a place you were never meant to be in.”

She looked at Ni-ki, maybe for backup. He said nothing.

And that silence? That crushed her.

But more than that.. It enraged her.

You saw it in her eyes before she even moved. That flicker of humiliation, that flash of hatred — the way her pride curled in on itself and came out gnashing.

She wasn't going to walk away. Not quietly.

You didn’t even have time to react properly, because the next thing you knew, she lunged at you — fingers clawed, wild scream tearing out of her throat as she threw herself across the space between you.

But you weren’t backing down.

You lunged back.

The crash was messy. Bodies colliding. Your shoulder slammed into hers with force, sending both of you stumbling back into the couch. She grabbed at your hoodie — your hair — something — and you shoved her hard in the chest, teeth clenched, jaw locked.

“You’re fucking crazy,” you hissed. “Showing up here like some feral bitch. What — you didn’t get enough attention on Instagram?”

Her face twisted, and she lunged again. “Don’t act high and mighty, you little hoodie-wearing whore! You’re just the girl he runs to when he’s lonely!”

“Funny,” you spat, “coming from the spare he used when he couldn’t see straight.”

She gasped, furious. “You think he loves you? He fucked me while crying over you!”

Your hands balled into fists. “Good. That’s all you were — a convenient regret.”

“You manipulative bitch!”

“Jealous fucking groupie!”

It escalated fast — too fast — hands flying again, a tangle of snarled words and wild desperation as Ni-ki grabbed at your waist from behind, trying to pull you off her, his voice panicked now. “Stop—baby, please, stop!” He didn’t dare touch her. He didn’t even try. His entire body was angled toward you, voice cracking with frustration as he yanked you back hard enough that your legs slipped out from under you, stumbling halfway into him as she clawed at the air, still shouting.

“Let me go!” you snapped at him, trying to push past.

“No!” His grip tightened, desperate. “Stop—please. Just stop—”

Your chest heaved.

 The other girl was red-faced, hair wild, chest heaving too.“I’ll press charges!” she screamed. “I’ll have you both buried in court—him for ignoring me, you for assault—”

“Try it,” you barked. “You broke into my house, remember?”

“You won’t win!”

“Neither will you.”

Ni-ki shoved the front door open with his foot, voice almost breaking. “Get the fuck out of this house before I call police.”

She paused. Watched him. And then—without another word—she spat on the floor, turned, and walked out, slamming the door so hard the floorboards trembled.

You were still breathing heavily.

Ni-ki hadn’t let go of you yet, still behind you, arms wrapped around your waist like a human restraint, holding on like you were the one who might fall apart next. “Are you okay?” he whispered, breath warm at the back of your neck. 

You didn’t respond. You were still staring at the broken stuff on the floor. Still shaking. Not from fear. But from the way rage made your blood feel electric.

You finally spoke, voice like ice.“She thinks she can touch me in my own house and walk out like that?” All you could feel was heat, rage, and the way his hands still held you like you belonged to him — even after she tried to rip that from you.

The taste of anger lingered in your mouth, bitter and metallic. The adrenaline was still pulsing, but it was starting to drain — leaving behind a hollow ache.

And Ni-ki hadn’t let go of you once.

He held you from behind, his arms tight around your waist, body pressed flush against yours like he thought if he loosened his grip even a little, you’d vanish.  “Hey,” he whispered softly. “You’re okay.”

You didn’t answer. Not yet.

He dipped his head closer, breath brushing against your ear. His voice dropped, barely audible. “I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

You closed your eyes. Let yourself lean back just a little — enough to feel the steady thump of his heart. His hand moved up, slow and deliberate, palm flat against your stomach as he rubbed small, grounding circles into the fabric of his hoodie — the one you were still wearing. “You scared the shit out of me,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen you like that.”

You let out a breath. A shaky one. “She came at me first.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You defended yourself. And you defended us.”

That word — us — felt strange right now. Unstable. Fragile. But you didn’t push it away.

He pressed a kiss to the side of your head, lingering there. “You were… terrifying,” he added with a tiny, exhausted laugh. “Hot, but terrifying.”

That pulled something out of you — not quite a smile, but the ghost of one. Your jaw unclenched a little. “I didn’t know I could do that,” you whispered, finally letting your hands relax over his.

“You can do anything,” he said. “Especially when it’s about protecting yourself.”

You leaned back into him fully now, your head resting against his shoulder. The warmth of him. The steadiness of his breath. The way his arms never loosened, not even once.

Your heartbeat started to slow. Your breathing steadied.

And in that silence, in the aftermath of chaos, he just held you. Like he didn’t care if the world outside this house burned — as long as you stayed right here, in his arms.“You’re safe,” he whispered again, more to himself than to you. “I’ve got you.”

You stayed like that for a long time.

Held. Anchored. Silent, but no longer cold.

Eventually, Ni-ki guided you to the couch without a word. His hands didn’t leave yours as you sat. He pulled you into his side and tucked you beneath his arm, your legs folded over his lap. One of his hands cradled your thigh, the other gently brushing through your hair.

You rested your head against his chest. His heart was still beating a little fast — but it was steady. “I should’ve never let it get this far,” he said quietly, voice raw, almost ashamed. “I should’ve handled it before she even got near you.”

You didn’t answer. You were still too tired for blame.

“She’s not the victim,” he continued. “And I’m not defending her. But I should’ve been… better. Stronger. For you.”

You looked up at him, his eyes already waiting for yours — dark and glassy, full of guilt that ran too deep for words.

“She’s angry because she knows I’d never look at her the way I look at you,” he said, thumb stroking small, nervous circles against your skin. “Not even close.”

You let your head fall back against his shoulder. “I know,” you whispered. “But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt.”

He nodded slowly, lips brushing your temple. “I’ll make it right. Somehow.”

You didn’t ask how. You didn’t believe in promises anymore, not when they were so easily broken. But you believed in the way he held you like he couldn’t afford to lose you again.

“I don’t want her in your head,” he murmured. “Not tonight. Not ever. She’s not part of us.”

You nodded, slow. “But what if… the baby is?”

He tensed — just slightly — but didn’t flinch. “We’ll deal with it,” he said. “Together, if you’ll let me.”

You looked up at him again. His face was soft, honest. Just him. Tired and bruised, but trying.

The days leading up to the test blurred together. Some were easy. Almost sweet.

You’d find him sitting on the porch in the morning sun, hoodie pulled over his head, watching birds like he’d never destroyed anything. He’d make you coffee, pull you back into bed after breakfast, wrap his arms around your waist like he didn’t know how to exist without the weight of you against him.

He’d press kisses to your shoulder in the middle of the night. Tell you he loved you while half-asleep. Text you stupid memes from across the couch just to make you smile. For a moment, it was enough to trick you into thinking maybe you could survive this.

But then it would shift. Like it always did.

It started small.

A tone. A question that was really an accusation.

“Who were you texting?”

You’d glance up from your phone, confused. “Just Rei.”

He’d nod, but too slow. Too quiet. Eyes sharp. “You smile like that when I text you?”

You’d sigh.

But he’d already gone cold. Already pulling away. Already building the wall back up just to make you climb over it.

Other times it would be a name — someone you’d work with, someone you’d known for years — that made him spiral.

“So he just came over to help with work?”

“You didn’t tell me you were meeting up with her.”

“You always look so happy when you’re not with me.”

And when you pushed back—when you refused to apologize for having a life—he’d twist it. Guilt-trip you with tears in his eyes and a voice that shook just enough to make you doubt yourself.

“You want me to get better, right?”

Yes.

“Then why does it feel like you’re punishing me every time I fuck up?”

What?

 “I’m trying. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Yeah.. But not like this…

But it wasn’t always anger. Sometimes it was silence.

When he knew he’d pushed too far, he’d vanish. Gone for hours. Sometimes the whole night.

And when he came back, it was worse.

Eyes glassy. Movements sluggish. The faint scent of weed or vodka clinging to his hoodie. A bottle half-hidden in his coat. Pills tucked in the inner pocket of his bag.

The first time you found them, you flushed them without saying a word.

The second time, you yelled.

The third time, he collapsed onto the floor, sobbing into your legs, clutching your hands like they were a lifeline.

“Please—please don’t throw me out—”

 “It just makes the voices quiet. It helps.”

 “I swear I’m not trying to disappear, I just—can’t breathe sometimes without you.”

And you didn’t throw him out. But you started to pull away. In the quiet ways.

You stopped holding his hand when you didn’t have to. Stopped responding right away to the check-in texts. Stopped kissing him goodnight unless he asked for it. Because you didn’t know how to stay close without being consumed. Didn’t know how to keep saving someone who was already drowning himself.

Still—when he was curled over the toilet, shaking and pale, dry-heaving into nothing—you were there. Holding his hair. Wiping his face. Whispering that it would pass, even when you didn’t believe it.

“This isn’t helping you,” you’d tell him.

“It makes me feel better,” he’d mumble, eyes dull.

But better wasn’t the same as okay.

You found him on the floor again. Corner of the hallway this time. Collapsed like his bones had given out somewhere between rage and regret.

He was shaking — not from cold, but from something deeper. Something gutted.

His hoodie sleeves were soaked at the cuffs from tears, and his hands fumbled uselessly with something in his pocket.

Your heart sank the moment you saw the tiny glass bottle between his fingers. A miniature shot — cheap, half-warm, trembling in his grip. “No,” you said quietly, stepping forward.

He flinched. Looked up at you, eyes wide, red-rimmed, face splotchy and wet. Broken. Gone.

“Don’t—” he choked, voice wrecked. “Just let me—just give me—”

“Riki.” 

You knelt, firm and steady, and pried the bottle gently from his hands. He didn’t fight you. His fingers released it slowly, helplessly.

And then he collapsed forward — right into you. His arms wrapped around your legs like a lifeline and he sobbed.Not quiet. Not delicate. Ugly, shaking sobs that wracked his whole body and pulled sounds from his throat you’d never heard before. Like something was breaking that wouldn’t ever quite grow back right. “I’m so fucking tired,” he whispered between gasps. “I didn’t even do anything today and I’m still so tired—”

You sank to your knees in front of him, cradling his head against your stomach, threading your fingers through his hair, stroking gently as he shook in your lap. “What happened?” you asked softly. “What started this now?”

He sniffled. Coughed. Fumbled for his phone with one trembling hand and held it out to you.

You took it gently. Unlocked.

The screen lit up.

Headlines. Dozens of them.

Photos from his games. Studio shots from old endorsements. Then… the texts.

“Rising Baseball Star Or PR Nightmare?”

“Nishimura Riki’s Talent Can’t Excuse His Track Record With Women.”

“Poster Boy With Pretty Eyes, But Zero Accountability.”

“He Can Pitch, But He Can’t Apologize.”

Comments. So many. Piled beneath each one.

“Bro thinks good cheekbones cover for treating girls like shit.”

“Another overhyped pretty boy with mommy issues.”

“Must be nice to be hot and still be a mess.”

He curled tighter against your legs, burying his face again. “They’re right,” he croaked. “I am a coward. I hide. I—hurt people. You. Her. Everyone. I don’t even know who the fuck I’m supposed to be anymore.”

You didn’t speak. You just kept rubbing his back. Slow, gentle strokes. Up, then down. Over and over again. Like maybe if you were steady enough, he wouldn’t fall further.

“I read them all,” he whispered. “Every single one. I just kept scrolling and scrolling and… it’s like I could feel them crawling inside me. Like they weren’t wrong. Like they were just saying what I try not to.”

You pressed your forehead to the top of his head, eyes closing. “They don’t know you,” you murmured.

“But what if I don’t either?” he breathed. “What if this is just… me?”

You didn’t answer because you didn’t know, because maybe some of it was him. The worst parts. The parts he refused to fix for so long.

The courtroom was suffocatingly quiet despite the chaos that had led up to it.

From the moment the car had stopped in front of the courthouse, it had been a storm. Paparazzi yelling Ni-ki’s name, flashes popping like fireworks, fans screaming from the barricades, security barking orders.

Ni-ki hadn’t let go of you once. His hand had clamped over yours the second you stepped out of the car, then shifted to your waist, your back, your wrist — anywhere he could hold you, steer you through the noise, keep you tethered to him like he was afraid the chaos might rip you away.

You hadn’t said much. Neither had he. 

Now, seated in the courtroom, the storm still echoed in your head, dulled only by the stillness of the polished wood, the shuffle of papers, the solemn buzz of something irreversible about to be said.

You sat directly behind Ni-ki. Mr. Kwon beside you, tense and whispering updates under his breath. Ni-ki’s teammates lined the benches further back, silent support in pressed suits and furrowed brows.

Across the aisle, she sat. The woman. The one who’d stormed into your life with fire and venom, now noticeably further along, her bump visible beneath a tight black dress that felt more like armor than maternity wear. Her lips were painted, her hair curled perfectly, but her eyes were daggers, aimed straight ahead, never once shifting your way.

She wasn’t allowed to. Not since the court had approved your restraining order.

You looked up again as the judge finally entered the room.

Everyone stood.

You felt Ni-ki stiffen just slightly in front of you, his shoulders squared, like he was trying to look taller than the weight pressing down on him.

You stood. You watched. And when the judge sat, so did everyone else.

Then… the folder.

The judge picked up the file from the bench.

The paternity test.

No preamble. No drawn-out dramatics. Just the slow, deliberate opening of a manila folder that could gut someone alive with one sentence.

Ni-ki turned in his seat, just enough to look at you.

You gave him a small smile.

He looked like hell, even in that perfectly tailored suit. Dark circles. Jaw locked. Hair slicked back with effort, not vanity. A boy who had clawed his way back from rock bottom, and still wasn’t sure if he deserved to be standing.

But God, he was still beautiful.

And for once, you didn’t smile for him because you had to. You smiled because he’d tried. You saw that now, clear as day.

Then—

“The results have returned,” the judge began, scanning the paper. “In the matter of paternity regarding Miss Cho and Mr. Nishimura...”

The room stilled. The air turned to glass. Every breath stopped.

“Riki Nishimura is not the biological father.”

Silence.

Total, suffocating silence.

You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until Ni-ki exhaled in front of you, a sound between a gasp and a sob. His shoulders dropped. His head fell forward.

Across the room, the woman stood up violently.

“What?!” she screamed. “No—no, that’s not—that’s wrong!! That’s wrong!” Her lawyer grabbed her arm, already muttering about additional testing and legal protocol. “This is rigged—you paid them off, didn’t you?! You sick, rich bastard—!”

Ni-ki hadn’t even turned to look at her. He just sat there. Still. Hands trembling on his knees.Then slowly, he turned around to look at you.Eyes wet. Lower lip trembling just slightly. Like a boy who just realized he hadn’t ruined everything.

He looked at you like maybe he could finally start breathing again.

And then, before you could even react—

He moved.

In a flash, Ni-ki leapt over the courtroom bench, not caring for formality, not caring for protocol or order or the stares. His suit jacket caught on the back of the bench as he stumbled forward, but he didn’t stop. He dove straight into you, arms wrapping around your waist so tight you nearly lost your balance as you caught him, his face burying into your shoulder.

He cried.

Like he hadn’t believed it until he was in your arms again. Big, gasping, ugly sobs that shook his whole frame. And behind you—around you—the entire room erupted.

Applause. Scattered at first, then full, thunderous clapping from his team, from his manager, even from court staff who had been following the headlines like the rest of the world. A moment of pure, guttural relief. The kind of applause that didn’t just celebrate a win—but a release.

From across the room, she was still screaming. “This isn’t over!” she shrieked. “He paid them—he’s rich—he’s famous—he lied! That test was fake! That was rigged! You’re protecting him because he’s a star!” Her lawyer tugged her arm, trying to calm her down, but she twisted out of his grip.

But the judge had already leaned forward, voice raised over the noise. “Enough,” he snapped. “Miss Cho, you’ve had your say. The test results are conclusive. The court has confirmed that Mr. Nishimura is not the biological father of your child. The evidence is factual. This case is closed.”

She screamed again. Wordless now. Like something in her broke loud enough for everyone to hear.

You didn’t look at her, not when Ni-ki was clinging to you like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to. His hands dug into the back of your dress. His body trembled so hard you had to hold him tighter just to keep him grounded. “It’s over,” you whispered to him, stroking the back of his head. “Ni-ki… it’s over.”

“I thought I ruined it,” he sobbed. “I thought she—God, I thought I’d lose you. I didn’t care about the team, the press—I just—you. I thought I lost you again.”

You pulled him in tighter. Right there in the courtroom, as cameras flashed behind the glass doors and people whispered and clapped and shook hands and watched the drama unfold like a movie.

But this moment wasn’t theirs.

It was yours.

Just you and him. A collapsed boy in a suit. Crying into the arms of the one person he still called home. And this time, he wasn’t running away.

 He was finally safe.

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[albionscastle]

Cooking Lesson

Your hot, adorable neighbor Clark is the worst cook ever and you decide that the kind thing to do would be to help him out....though Clark might have ulterior motives.

Clark Kent x reader, no use of y/n lots of sweet and funny fluff, some making out. Clark is essentially a giant puppy. 6k words.

I know I'm late to the game but I am so in love with Corenswet's Superman and especially his Kent.

Fic Masterlist

You live across the hall from Clark Kent, but you wouldn’t say you know him. Not really. But he’s not a stranger either. He’s the kind of neighbor who always holds the elevator, even when you're still thirty feet away. The kind who greets you with a small smile and a quiet, “Morning,” like he means it, and you think he does. Clark Kent doesn’t seem capable of insincerity. The man is also chronically disheveled, shirt half-tucked, tie a little crooked, hair damp like he barely made it out of the shower in time. Always slightly out of step with the world around him. But when he smiles at you, really smiles, it makes your chest ache in a way you don’t like to examine too closely.

The two of you don’t talk much, just the few minutes in the elevator when your schedules line up. He’s usually juggling his phone, coffee, and messenger bag, but still manages to ask how you are. You never say anything you think is interesting, but he listens like you’re reciting poetry.

You know he writes for The Daily Planet, and you read everything he publishes, even the human interest fluff pieces no one else seems to notice. His words are careful and kind, even when the subject isn’t and he doesn’t write to show off. He writes like he’s trying to understand the world, and help it understand itself. You suspect he doesn’t know how rare that is.

You’ve never told him that you read his work. Or that you once stayed up too late scrolling the Planet’s archives for older articles just to see how his voice has changed. You tell yourself it’s professional curiosity. You’re  a librarian, research is sort of your thing.

But it isn’t research when your stomach flips every time his name appears in a byline.

The truth is, you’ve started timing your mornings just to increase your chances of sharing the elevator with him. It’s ridiculous. You’ve never even seen the inside of his apartment.

But you have seen the inside of his trash.

Not on purpose.

It started three months ago when you ran into him near the trash chute. He was holding a half-melted plastic container at arm’s length, his expression somewhere between guilty and exasperated. You raised an eyebrow. He looked sheepish.

“Dinner,” he’d said, like that explained everything.

And it kind of did.

Now it happens once or twice a week. You’ll hear the door across the hall open, and moments later, there he is again, with a burned saucepan, or a pizza that looks like it fought a losing battle with the oven. He always jokes about it. Always smiles, self-deprecating and warm.

Tonight, it’s takeout boxes. Four of them and they appear to be uneaten. Only you already know that he ate the food inside them and then filled them back up with the remains of tonight’s fiasco. An attempt to hide the evidence.

“Didn’t like it?” you ask, leaning against the cool metal chute.

He startles, then relaxes when he sees you. “It wasn’t… great.”

You tilt your head. “That or you tried to cook again and this is the cover-up.”

Clark laughs, and it’s real, the kind that starts in his chest and brightens his whole face. It does something to you, hearing him like that.

“I’ll have you know,” he says, mock-offended, “I’m very good at boiling water. On a good day.”

“Mmm. A good day,” you echo. “So what happened tonight? Too ambitious? Let me guess, lasagna?”

“Is it that obvious?”

You gesture to the sad line of containers. “You burned the top, didn’t you?”

“Incinerated. The smoke alarm thinks it was under attack.”

You laugh before you can help it. “You need help.”

He gives you a slow, thoughtful look. It’s not teasing. Not really. More like he's considering something he's been holding onto too long.

“You offering?” he says, almost shyly.

You blink. “What, help? With cooking?”

He shrugs one shoulder, but his eyes are hopeful. “You seem like you know what you’re doing. And you haven’t mocked me too ruthlessly yet, so…”

You smile, trying not to let your heart pound out of your chest. “I mean… I could teach you some basics. If you want.”

He doesn't say anything for a second, and you wonder if maybe you’ve embarrassed him. But then he ducks his head, grinning like someone who’s just found something they didn’t think they could have.

“You don’t know how dangerous that offer is,” he murmurs. “I might actually take you up on it.”

What you don’t know is that Clark has been trying to work up the nerve to ask you to dinner for weeks. He just didn’t think he could do it without making things very uncomfortable if you said no.

And now, he doesn’t have to.

Friday Night

You’re curled up on the couch, hair still damp from a shower, wrapped in an old fleece blanket and a David Bowie t-shirt that’s more sentiment than shape at this point. The TV plays muted footage of chaos, streetlights flickering, debris flying, the skyline of Metropolis framed by smoke and neon. In the center of it all: him.

Superman.

You watch him drive his shoulder into the side of a monstrous thing with too many legs and not enough eyes. He’s fast, but not flashy. Efficient. Controlled. The commentators call it bravery, heroism, and strength. They don't mention the weariness in his posture, or the way he hesitates just before landing the final knockout blow, like he doesn’t want to hurt it, even though he must. You’re too busy watching that moment to hear the first chime of the doorbell.

The second one breaks through. You blink, grab the remote, and the image freezes mid-punch.

Clark.

You open the door to find him standing there in jeans and a soft red flannel, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a brown paper bag in his arms. He’s flushed from the stairs because of course the elevator would be broken tonight, but he smiles when he sees you.

“Hey,” he says, breathless. “Sorry I’m late. Got caught up at work.”

You take in the shadows under his eyes. The strain behind the smile. The flannel clings a little too perfectly to his frame, and you’re suddenly very aware that you’re in sweats and a t-shirt with a hole in the hem.

“It’s fine,” you say, stepping aside to let him in. “You sound like you had to climb the Empire State Building to get here.”

Clark lets out a soft laugh as he toes off his sneakers, glancing toward the TV. “Was that…?” he starts, but you’re already nodding.

“Yeah. Superman.”

He hesitates for a second, fingers tightening slightly on the bag. “What do you think of him?”

You blink at the question, then glance back at the paused screen. Superman, frozen in a moment of midair power and impossible grace. It should feel odd, being asked that by your flannel-wearing neighbor, but it doesn’t.

You turn back to him. “I admire him,” you say, then pause, surprised at yourself. “I support him. And, I don’t know. I feel sorry for him.”

That makes him do a double take.

He sets the bag down on your kitchen counter gently, like he’s suddenly forgotten about it. “Sorry for him?” he repeats, voice quieter now.

You nod, trying to find the right words. “I mean… everyone expects him to be perfect all the time. To save everyone. But no one ever thinks about what that costs him. He’s not… he’s not allowed to fail. Or rest. Or be scared.”

Clark doesn’t say anything. He just watches you, something unreadable in his eyes.

You go on. “And he’s the only one of his kind. That kind of loneliness…” You exhale. “I don’t think people get how hard that must be. How dangerous it must be for him to let anyone close, knowing what could happen to them if someone wanted to hurt him.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Clark feels the ache of it in his chest, your words like sunlight through a small crack he didn’t realize he’d left open. You don’t know how close you are to the truth. You don’t know how badly he wants to tell you—you’re not wrong. That you’ve seen him more clearly than most ever do, even without realizing it. Instead, he smiles. Soft. Grateful.

“You really think about this stuff, huh?”

You shrug, a little embarrassed now. “Librarian brain. Comes with the territory.”

He watches you for a second longer, then reaches into the bag. “Okay. Before I get all misty on you, let’s get to the main event.”

You lift an eyebrow as he unpacks the ingredients like they might explode. “Let’s see how you did.”

He grins, holding up a bulb of garlic like a prize. “I followed your list exactly. Except the parsley. I couldn’t find the fresh kind. So I got the dried stuff in the little jar.”

You wince. “Bold choice, Kent. I daresay the Italian cooking Gods are looking down on you with much disdain at this moment.”

“It’s green,” he says, holding it up defensively. “It counts.”

You laugh and reach for a pot. “Alright, chef. You’re on prep. I’ll supervise. Try not to set anything on fire.”

Clark steps closer to the counter, eyes scanning the kitchen with cautious interest. He looks utterly out of place in your tiny space, too big, too broad, too everything, and yet he doesn’t seem to mind. He watches as you move through the kitchen with easy confidence, pulling out utensils, checking the stove temp, tying your hair up in a quick, distracted twist. He’s not subtle about it, either. His eyes follow every gesture, every smile, like he’s memorizing you. Like he knows he’ll need to hold on to the shape of this moment for later.

And you, you're trying not to think about how unfair it is that someone can look so good in flannel and denim, sock-clad  in your kitchen like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“How are you at chopping garlic?” you ask, sliding a small cutting board toward him.

Clark looks down at it like it’s a bomb. “I have... watched it being done.”

“So that’s a no.”

“Firm no.”

You smirk, brushing past him to grab another knife. You don’t miss the way he freezes slightly as your arm brushes his. Just a second too long. You hand him the knife, handle first.

“Well,” you say, “no time like the present.”

What you don’t know is that Clark will remember this night for a very long time. Not because of the lesson but because of you, barefoot in your kitchen, ratty old  shirt loose at the collar, teaching him how not to be afraid of small, human things. Of being seen.

He studies the clove of garlic like it personally wronged him.

“So,” Clark says, holding it between his thumb and forefinger, “this is… what? A tiny onion with armor?”

You raise an eyebrow from your spot beside him, slicing chicken with practiced efficiency. “That’s one way to look at it.”

He frowns at the clove, sets it on the board, and places the flat of the knife against it just like you did, tentatively, as if the garlic might leap up and bite him. Then he presses down. There’s a wet crack, followed by an enthusiastic squish, and something flies across the cutting board.

You blink and he lifts the knife.

“…That doesn’t look like yours did,” he says gravely.

You lean in, inspecting the carnage. “That clove is not going to make it.”

“It died bravely?” Clark offers.

You take pity on him. “Okay. Here, watch me.”

You guide him through it: how to lay the clove flat, use the heel of the palm, just enough pressure to pop the skin without smashing the contents into oblivion. Your voice is calm, your instructions clear. You hand him another clove, fingers brushing his in the handoff.

He watches intently, and this time, when he mimics you, it’s closer. Not perfect, but the garlic survives.

He grins. “Progress.”

You give him an encouraging nod. “Told you, it’s all about confidence. Garlic can smell fear.”

He starts chopping, a bit too carefully at first, the pieces uneven. But after a few tries, it clicks. He gets into a rhythm, proud of himself in a way that makes you smile behind your hand. Then he glances at the growing pile on the board.

“…How much garlic is too much garlic?”

You shrug. “There is no such thing.”

He looks horrified. “We’ve already chopped, like, an entire village of garlic.”

“A modest hamlet, maybe.”

Clark laughs, eyes warm. “I just, I don’t want to kill anyone at the Planet tomorrow with my breath. I do have to speak to people.”

You grin, amused. “You’re using one head of garlic for an entire Alfredo. You’ll be fine. Besides, tomorrow is Saturday, you don’t work tomorrow.”

He lifts his brows, skeptical.

You just lean in and tap the side of your cutting board. “Who’s the boss in this kitchen, Kent?”

He looks you over, from the proud tilt of your chin to the worn hems of your sweats And then he grins.

“Yes ma’am.”

The way he says it, low, teasing, obedient but not really, makes something spark low in your spine. You straighten a little too quickly and go back to the pan, blinking hard. Did he mean to say it like that? Did he notice what it did to you?

(He did.)

Clark’s gaze lingers a moment longer than it should. He files away the way your breath hitches. How you ducked your head and smiled into the pan.

He clears his throat, tossing the last of the garlic into the bowl. “Alright. Hamlet’s worth of garlic, at your command.”

You recover quickly. “Good. Garlic is essential. Garlic is life.”

He hums. “Unless you have to kiss someone, I guess.”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “That’s what toothpaste is for.”

The room goes quiet for half a second. Just long enough.

You’re the first to speak again. “Besides,” you say, a little more softly, “if you’re both eating the same garlic… who’s going to notice?”

He smiles into the cutting board, and you’re suddenly glad the pan is between you.

You're having way more fun than you expected. And by the way Clark is looking at you now, shoulders relaxed, cheeks a little pink, eyes bright like a man who can finally exhale, you’re not the only one.

“Alright,” you say, hands on hips, “time to graduate to the stovetop.”

Clark looks at the pan you’ve placed on the burner, now shimmering with hot olive oil. “You’re sure this isn’t a trap?”

You gesture to the bowl of chicken. “You’ll be fine. It's just oil. Not lava.”

He frowns at the pan like it might explode. “It sounds like lava.”

You roll your eyes and slide the bowl toward him. “It’s ready. That sound means it’s hot enough to sear.”

Clark lifts the first piece of chicken with exaggerated care and reaches toward the pan.

The oil pops once, just a sharp, angry little sizzle.

Clark yelps and jerks back like he’s been shot. “Nope!”

You burst out laughing, loud and genuine. “You absolute baby.”

“I saw it jump at me!”

You’re still laughing as you grab his wrist—not hard, just enough to pull him gently forward. Your fingers wrap around his forearm, warm and steady. “Come on. Back into the fray, soldier.”

“I’m not ashamed to admit when I’m outmatched by poultry.”

You shake your head, amused. “Watch.”

You guide his hand forward with yours still over his wrist, lowering the chicken into the pan until it sizzles and begins to sear. The scent hits almost immediately—garlic and oil and salt and something warm and promising.

“See?” you murmur. “It just needed a little confidence. Like you.”

Clark’s not really paying attention to the pan now. Not with you this close. He’s looking at your face, your focus, the way your mouth curls slightly at the corner when you’re in teacher mode. His heart thumps in his chest.

You finally release his wrist and nod toward the pan. “Sear each side for about three minutes. You want it golden, not pale. Like... summer tan, not sunburn.”

He grins. “You know, I was going to guess that exact shade.”

When he flips the chicken and sees the perfect golden crust underneath, he lights up.

“I did that,” he says, beaming.

You smile at his pride. “Yes, you did. Congratulations. You are now officially more competent than the average teenager on TikTok.”

“I feel powerful.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

You have him take the chicken out of the pan once both sides are seared. He sets it aside on a plate like it’s some sacred offering, still grinning.

“Okay,” you say, “now, see all that stuff stuck to the bottom of the pan?”

Clark squints. “The crispy bits?”

“Those are called fond. It’s flavor. Now pour in some of the chicken stock, slowly, and start scraping it up with your spoon.”

He does as told, eyebrows lifting when the pan hisses and the stock bubbles.

“Oh,” he says, delighted. “It’s like science. Angry, delicious science.”

“You’re deglazing. Loosens up all the good stuff for the sauce.”

“I should have brought goggles.”

You hand him a wooden spoon. “Just stir.”

He does, and as the scent rises, richer now, the garlic added in and mingling with the fat and broth, you see the moment it clicks for him. The joy of it. The transformation of simple things into something new.

“This smells amazing,” he says, almost reverent. Then: “Are we sure we even need the pasta? Can we just eat this with a spoon?”

You snort. “It’s not soup, Kent. Patience.”

“Fine, but if I start gnawing on the cutting board it’s your fault.”

You pass him the cream, and then the parmesan. Then finally, the seasoning.

You pause, holding up his little jar of dried parsley with theatrical disappointment.

“This,” you say solemnly, “is considered an actual crime in Italy.”

He gasps, his hand over his heart. “I tried so hard. I went to two bodegas.”

“It’s not your fault. You’re just a victim of bad supply chains.”

He accepts this with a gracious nod. “Add that to my resume: writer, terrible cook, parsley martyr.”

You shake your head, amused. “Just a pinch, Kent. We don’t want to taste regret.”

“Too late,” he mutters, measuring a pinch into the sauce anyway.

You watch as he stirs, focused, happy, his sleeves rolled up and hair a little mussed. He’s so present, so clearly enjoying himself, and you realize how rare it is to see someone like him completely at ease. And you also realize: you did that.

He glances over, sees your look, and tilts his head. “What?”

You smile. “Nothing. Just... you’re doing good.”

Clark doesn’t say anything for a second.

Then he smiles back, soft, pleased and says, “You’re a good teacher.”

What you don’t know is that Clark has saved cities,  moved mountains and stared down monsters without blinking. But standing in your kitchen with the smell of garlic in the air and your laughter still echoing in his ears?

This might be the best he’s felt in days.

Maybe longer.

Clark watches you pull out a small handful of pasta with an expression of deep concern.

“That’s it?”

You glance back at him. “It’s enough.”

“For who? An elf?”

“It expands, Kent. It’s pasta. Not magic, just physics.”

He crosses his arms, skeptical. “I just think we’re underestimating how hungry we’ll be.”

You sigh dramatically and add another small handful.

He tilts his head. “Still feels stingy.”

“Clark.”

“I’m just saying, what if we finish our bowls and still want more?”

You stare him down. He stares back.

Then, laughing, you dump the whole package in the pot. “Fine. I hope you like leftovers.”

Clark grins. “Victory tastes like carbs.”

While the pasta boils and the scent of garlic and cream thickens the air, you transfer the chicken back into the pan to let it finish cooking in the sauce. Clark takes up the spoon again and stirs carefully, completely invested in making sure nothing sticks or burns. You stand beside him, comfortably close, bumping shoulders occasionally as you talk.

Somewhere between seasoning the sauce and lowering the heat, the conversation shifts.

“So,” you say, nudging him with your elbow, “summer or winter?”

He doesn’t even hesitate. “Winter.”

You blink. “What?”

“Absolutely. No contest.”

“Clark. Winter?”

He grins. “Sweaters. Snow. Hot drinks. No mosquitoes. Better coats. Actual excuses to stay inside and do nothing.”

You scoff. “You’re romanticizing frostbite.”

“You’re romanticizing heatstroke.”

You lean against the counter, folding your arms. “Summer is alive. Ice cream. Fireflies. Long days. Thunderstorms. Bare feet. The beach.”

Clark shakes his head, mock-disgusted. “You just described humidity and sunburn.”

“You described seasonal depression and falling on your face.”

“I have traction.”

“From what, your noble Midwestern boots?”

“My boots are fantastic.”

You’re both laughing now, and he’s getting into it, stirring the sauce a bit more dramatically, clearly enjoying himself.

“I just think winter is superior,” he says with theatrical flourish. “It’s calm. Quiet. Reflective. You can hide under layers. It’s cozy.”

And just like that, he flings up one arm for emphasis, and forgets he’s still holding the spoon.

A warm arc of creamy sauce flies from the pan and lands right at the base of your throat, hitting skin with a quiet splack before slipping beneath the collar of your shirt. You freeze. Clark freezes.

“Oh my God,” he blurts. “Baby, I’m so sorry.”

You stare at him, stunned more by the word than the sauce.

He’s already scrambling. “Hold on, hold on, don’t move, wait…”

He grabs a dish towel, runs it under cold water, wrings it out, and turns back to you with wide, frantic eyes. “Is it burning? Did it burn you?”

You laugh, startled. “Clark, I’m fine…”

“No, no, I hit you right on the neck. That’s sensitive skin. I wasn’t thinking, darn it!”

He steps in close, all warmth and worry, and gently presses the damp cloth to your neck. You flinch slightly at the shock of it, but not enough to stop him. You should pull away. You really should. But his hand is steady, his touch tender, and his eyes keep flicking between your skin and your face, brow furrowed with guilt.

“I’m so sorry, baby. I wasn’t paying attention. Are you okay?”

There it is again. Baby. He doesn’t seem to notice he’s said it. Twice now.

Your voice is a little hoarse. “Clark. It’s alright.”

He trails his fingers down your skin, wiping away the last of the sauce, gaze focused like the world’s narrowed to just this one little disaster. When he brushes right beneath your collarbone, just once, you inhale sharply, and his eyes flick up.

“Still hurts?” he asks softly, fingers lingering.

You gently wrap your fingers around his wrist, halting him. “No. It’s okay. Really. Just an accident.”

He seems to register the contact, your hand on his, the space between you gone, and pulls back like he just woke from a trance. His face goes pink.

“I didn’t mean to….” he starts, but you cut him off with a smile.

“I know. You were just… passionate about winter.”

He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “That’s it. I’m banned from the kitchen.”

“You’re not banned,” you say, voice warm. “You just need supervision.”

He glances down at the pan, where the sauce and chicken continue to bubble quietly, like nothing ever happened.

But something did.

You’re both still standing too close. Your collar is damp. Your skin still tingles from his touch. And he still doesn’t seem to realize he called you baby, not once, but twice, with all the casual intimacy of someone who already belongs to you.

Dinner is, predictably, a ridiculous success, despite the fact that they made enough pasta to feed a small army.

“I swear this pot wasn’t this full five minutes ago,” you say, staring into the sauce-drenched mountain of noodles with mild alarm.

Clark looks unbothered. “Looks perfect to me.”

You arch a brow. “There’s enough here to cater a wedding.”

He shrugs, already loading up his plate. “I grew up on a farm. You learn to eat big or die trying.”

You laugh. “Is that what the cows taught you?”

He grins over his shoulder. “That and how to avoid stepping in poop.”

You carry your plates to the couch, sliding a tray table into place for drinks and the extra loaf of garlic bread Clark insisted you needed. There’s barely room for your legs with the bowls of pasta and bread in the way, but neither of you complains. The couch is small, cozy, old, like everything else in your apartment, but it doesn’t feel cramped with him there. It feels… safe. Warm.

You grab the remote and scroll through the options until you land on a familiar title.

“Oh my God, Spaceballs,” you say, delighted.

Clark perks up. “Wait, you like Spaceballs?”

“Like it? I quote it. Regularly. Often to people who have no idea what I’m doing.”

He beams. “Me too. I tried to get Perry to let me do a piece on Spaceballs’ cultural impact and he told me to go write about property tax reforms instead.”

You snort, and hit play. By the time the opening crawl stretches across the screen, longer than any crawl has a right to be, you’re both already quoting under your breath.

“In a galaxy very, very, very, very far away…”

Clark joins in, perfectly in sync: “There lived a ruthless race of beings known as… Spaceballs.”

Ten minutes in, you’re both barely keeping your food in your mouths from laughing. The pasta is consumed at an alarming rate, mostly by Clark, who is somehow halfway through a second bowl and still going strong.

“Okay,” you say, between bites and giggles, “how are you not full?”

He points at his empty bowl with his fork. “Farm metabolism.”

“Farm metabolism is a myth.”

“Farm metabolism is a superpower.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That’s suspiciously specific.”

He coughs into his garlic bread. “I just have a good digestive system, alright?”

You laugh, shaking your head, and settle deeper into the cushions. The movie rolls on, dialogue ricocheting between you with joyful speed.

“I see your Schwartz is as big as mine…”

“...Let’s see how well you handle it.” You both lose it.

When the laughter finally dies down, you’re both smiling, flushed, full, and a little tipsy from the wine you opened somewhere between course two and dessert (dessert being, admittedly, just more garlic bread).

“So,” you say, gently nudging his knee with yours, “did you actually grow up on a farm? Or is that just part of the Clark Kent Midwestern myth?”

Clark nods, glancing sideways at you. “I did. Small town in Kansas. Like… really small. Cornfields, tractors, high school football, the whole thing.”

“That’s kind of adorable.”

“Adorable?”

“Yeah. I mean, come on. Farm boy makes good. Moves to the big city, becomes a respected journalist, eats pasta like it’s an Olympic sport.”

He chuckles, running a hand through his already-messy hair. “When you say it like that, it sounds impressive.”

“It is impressive,” you say quietly, before biting your lip and looking back at the screen. “What was it like? The farm?”

He shrugs. “Peaceful. Isolated. Honest, I guess. It gave me a lot of time to think and read.”

“You read a lot?”

He nods. “Still do. Sometimes I get so into a book I forget what time it is.”

You grin. “Okay, that’s cute. What were you reading last?”

Clark looks sheepish. “Um… Little Women.”

Your heart actually melts a little. “No way.”

“I like Jo,” he says simply.

You soften. “Everyone likes Jo.”

“And you?” he asks. “What deep personal secret do I get in exchange?”

You flush. “Um. I’ve seen Titanic… thirty-three times.”

Clark nearly chokes. “Thirty-three?”

“I know,” you laugh, raising a hand. “But not because of the romance. I was obsessed with the ship itself when I was younger. The engineering, the disaster, the whole tragic mythos. I read every book I could get my hands on. The movie was just a really well-funded gateway drug.”

He tilts his head, amused. “So you were a disaster nerd?”

“Still am,” you say proudly. “Just one with opinions about period costume accuracy and lifeboat protocols.”

Clark chuckles, clearly charmed. “That might be the most specific reason anyone’s ever given me for loving Titanic.”

You shrug. “Everyone’s got their thing. Some people read Little Women. Some of us memorize iceberg collision timelines.”

You both laugh again, but this time the sound trails off slower. The movie is still going, but your attention has drifted. He’s still close, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his side, see the curve of his jaw, the gentle crease between his brows when he’s focused. And he is focused… on you.

You try to look away, but your gaze catches on his mouth, and something in your stomach flips.

He catches you looking and, just for a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

You’re not touching. You haven’t touched in a while now. But it feels like you have. Like your knees, brushing faintly, are electric. Like the shared laughter rewired the air between you. Like you’re both one sentence away from something you haven’t dared say.

Clark clears his throat and looks back at the screen.

“Mel Brooks is a genius,” he says, voice a little too soft.

You nod. “Yeah. He really is.”

The movie plays on, absurd and brilliant and loud, but it feels quieter now. The air is heavier, like maybe one of you will say something when the credits roll. But for now, you sit close in the glow of the TV, quoting and laughing and pretending that nothing happened.

“You don’t have to help with the cleanup,” you say as Clark starts gathering plates.

“Uh, yes I do,” he replies, already scraping leftovers into a container with unnecessary purpose. “I made a culinary masterpiece. This was at least a B+ effort. You should be rewarded for teaching me.”

You snort. “You chopped garlic and flung sauce at me.”

He points the serving spoon at you dramatically. “Art. That was performance art.”

You roll your eyes and nudge him with your elbow as you rinse the plates. “Fine. But I am the cleanup boss. That means you dry.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says with a grin that makes your spine forget how to function.

He takes a dish towel and starts drying the plates with exaggerated care. “So,” he says casually, “be honest. You’ve got a crush on Superman, don’t you?”

You blink. Then laugh. “I mean… he is tall, dark, and handsome. Built like a Greek statue. Kind of a sucker for a good cape. So yeah, probably.”

Clark drops the plate (gently, thankfully) and clutches his heart. “I’ve never been more betrayed. I opened a jar for you.”

You feign sympathy. “And I appreciated your enormous, masculine strength.”

He groans. “Ugh. It’s even worse than I thought.”

You laugh so hard you need to lean on the counter. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“I’m mourning!” he says, still grinning. “My faith in humanity, gone. Crushed. Pulverized by the realization that I’ve been overlooked for a guy in spandex.”

You reach into the rinse sink and flick water at him without a word.

Clark freezes, water dripping down his glasses. He slowly looks up at you with an expression of pure mischief. “Oh. You shouldn’t have done that.”

You’re already backing away, laughing. “Clark….”

“I warned you.”

He grabs a dish towel and flicks it at you with expert aim. You squeal and dart out of the kitchen, half-shielding yourself with your hands as he follows, swinging the towel like a knight with a rubber sword.

“Stop! You’re going to break something!”

“I’m going to break you,” he teases.

You duck behind the couch, laughing so hard your cheeks ache. He lunges, catches you around the waist, and lifts you clean off your feet.

“Gotcha,” he murmurs in your ear, and something about his voice, low, warm, a little breathless, makes you shiver.

You squirm, kicking your feet. “Put me down, you maniac!”

“Only if you surrender,” he says, grinning into your shoulder.

“Never.”

“Then you’ve left me no choice.”

He carries you over to the couch and drops you onto it, repositioning until he’s kneeling above you, holding you still with one arm as his other hand finds your side and tickles.

You shriek. “Clark! No! That’s cheating!”

“All’s fair in love and pasta war.”

You twist and wriggle, laughing helplessly. “Okay, okay! I surrender!”

He stops, hand frozen in mid-air. You’re breathless beneath him, your hair a mess, eyes bright, cheeks flushed from laughing. He’s smiling down at you, his glasses slightly askew, one curl falling over his forehead.

You’re both quiet for the first time in minutes.

Clark is still leaning over you, glasses slipping down his nose, cheeks pink from laughter. You can feel the weight of him, his warmth, the press of his knee against your hip, his hand still resting lightly against your side. His smile fades into something softer, more uncertain.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says gently, barely above a whisper. “Unless you tell me not to.”

You don’t.

You just stare up at him, heart suddenly pounding, breath caught somewhere halfway to your lungs. His eyes search your face, lingering on your lips, then flick back up. Slowly, he leans in. You watch him as he gets closer—his throat bobbing as he swallows, the flick of his tongue across his bottom lip, the way his eyes flutter closed just before his lips meet yours.

It’s a soft, careful kiss. Tender. Testing. But it leaves no doubt—no confusion, no room to pretend it didn’t mean anything. Because it does. It means everything. You don’t know why, why you, but he’s clearly enjoying this as much as you are. His mouth is warm and sure, and his kiss lingers just long enough to make your stomach flip over itself. You smile against his lips, stunned and delighted, and when he finally lifts his head, there’s a question in his eyes.

“I’d hoped,” you murmur, still breathless, “but I never expected… not from you.”

He leans on his elbows, cupping your face in those large, callused hands like you’re something precious. His thumb strokes gently across your cheek.

“I really am a terrible cook,” he admits, a crooked smile curling his lips. “But I’d been trying to think of a way to spend time with you. That was the best I could come up with.”

Your heart aches in the best possible way. Then he kisses you again. Still sweet, but bolder now. He catches your bottom lip between his teeth with the lightest tug, coaxing a quiet gasp from you, and takes the invitation to deepen the kiss. His tongue slides gently against yours, and your arms wind around his shoulders instinctively, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to him.

He makes the softest sounds as he kisses, little sighs, murmurs, as if he’s as overwhelmed as you are, and you want to memorize every single one. He shifts beside you, lowering the rest of his body until he’s stretched half-on, half-beside you on the couch, your legs tangled together, your torsos pressed close. He’s not rushing anything. Just kissing you slowly, thoroughly, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be and all the time in the world to be there. You lose track of it. All of it. Until eventually, reluctantly, he pulls back with a sheepish little grin and glances at his watch.

“We’ve… um,” he says, voice hoarse, “been at this for an hour.”

You blink. Then giggle, your face flushing. “Oops.”

He brushes your hair back from your forehead, still smiling like he can’t believe this is real.

“I want to keep kissing you,” he says, his tone warm and open, “but… for the rest of it, I want to take it slow. Get to know you. Really know you.”

You nod. “I want that too.”

He kisses you again, a lingering press of lips to lips, then says between sweet little kisses:

“Can you… teach me how to make spaghetti tomorrow night?”

You grin. “Only if you promise not to set the kitchen on fire.”

“I make no promises.”

When he kisses you again, you’re already looking forward to tomorrow.

[leislibrary]

hiiiii love. can i please request how stray kids would react to their partner getting a tattoo of skz lyrics? if it’s not too much trouble. thank you so much! have a wonderful day!

writing this made me want another tattoo. expect a bill, anon :) also, i wrote these as shorter headcanons and tried to keep the lyrics/positioning vague - let me know if you wanted something different!

how skz reacts to you getting a tattoo of their lyrics

Chan is into it way more than he’d ever admit to anyone else. Something about seeing lyrics he wrote permanently etched into his pretty girl makes him feral - like he’s always attached to you, even when he’s oceans away. He also takes so much comfort in the fact that, even though you’re his partner so you have to like his music, you actually do like it enough to get his lyrics tattooed. Depending on the song you chose, he might get the next lyrics tattooed on him. It’ll be you two’s version of matching tattoos. 

Minho might stop breathing when he sees Lee Know (it is technically a lyric) inked in flowy script on your hip, where nobody but him will ever see. You kept it a secret from him as long as you could, but that night he notices you trying to guide his hand away from that spot and is immediately curious why. He won’t rest until you show him, despite your protests that it’s still healing. He can’t even try to play it cool once he lays his eyes on it. He spends most of the night lightly tracing it with his finger, the biggest smile on his face the whole time.

Changbin stares at it. And stares at it. You start to think maybe he doesn’t like it, until he looks up at you with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. “You got this for me?” He’ll whisper, like he doesn’t believe it. You respond that you did, and he shrieks. Anyone else in earshot might think he’s dying. He’s quick to show it off to anybody that comes running into the room. He pitches new tattoo ideas to you constantly, ranging from old 3RACHA lyrics to more heartfelt ones to Dwaekki’s face. 

Hyunjin swoons. He could never choose a favorite part of your body (ass), but that might change when he sees your newest tattoo - part of one of his paintings paired with your favorite lyric. If it’s visible with your outfit, you’ll catch him staring at it randomly throughout the day. He traces his fingers over it when you’re cuddling, almost like it’s comforting him rather than you. If it’s hidden, he’ll pull you aside and move whatever clothing he needs to just to see it for a second. He makes it a personal mission to continue making art worthy of your body.

Han will never stop talking about it. You got a lyric he wrote about you actually tattooed on you? That’s his biggest ego boost in the world. Nobody could tell him shit after that. He becomes a menace during songwriting sessions. Chan or Changbin shoots down his idea, and he’d turn to you and go, “What do you think, baby? Good enough to get tattooed?” He pouts when you say no. Ultimately, you’re his biggest pride and joy, and he loves that he now has tangible proof you feel the same way. 

Felix is so incredibly proud of himself. He hugs you tight when you first show him. He whispers in your ear how much he loves it. But more than anything, he’s so proud that he created something you love enough to have on your body forever. It unlocks something almost possessive in him. If anyone else looks at you for longer than he likes, he’s wrapping his arm around you, hands resting on the tattoo. He loves you so so much, and he loves your tattoo more than he thought possible. 

Seungmin overthinks it when you tell him you want to get one of his lyrics tattooed. You ask for his opinion on which one, but he says it’s a personal choice he doesn’t want to interfere with. He’s so relieved when you end up choosing his favorite one. It’s from an unreleased song he wrote just for you. Now, he wants to make sure it stays unreleased, so it’s something special shared just between the two of you. He cannot go a single day without staring at it, tracing the design, and thanking you for getting it. 

I.N, like Changbin and Han, would always be thinking about it. Honestly, he would take pictures with the tattoo, no matter where it’s located. If your face can be in frame, great, but what really matters is the camera captures the tattoo and his wide smile next to it. He sets the picture as his lockscreen until you tell him to change it. He will just be going about his day, then he remembers you have a tattoo of his lyrics, and he feels on top of the world. It gives him more confidence to start writing more songs, more lyrics, if only just for you.

[batsandbirdbrains]

Oh, now I want to see a fight between the Court of Owls and Deathstroke for 11-year-old Dick

Meanwhile Dick, sitting off the to the side, kicking his feet, pouting because he’s bored.

“Can I go home?” he whines. “I don’t like either of you.”

“You sit there until we’re done!” Slade orders him.

“Grandson, this will be over soon! Stay there!” Cobb tells him.

Dick huffs and crosses his arms, staring off to the side while they continue battling each other.

He eventually gets up and wanders away. Maybe they were in the Court of Owls labyrinth. And he somehow just. Walks right out. And he’s tired and sitting on top of the GCPD building next to the bat signal, having turned it on.

Commissioner Gordon shows up first, because who the hell turned on his bat signal! Then he finds a boy sitting there. He’s wearing tactical gear and a mask, and he realizes it’s Robin, who’s been missing for weeks, and he rushes to him and pulls the kid up into his arms and squeezes him tight.

“Holy crap, kid!” he laughs. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!”

“Hi Mr. Commissioner Gordon,” and Jim laughs at the silly way Robin always addresses him. “I wanna go home.”

“The Bat will be here soon, kid,” Jim says, putting the boy back on the ground. “You need anything? Food? Water?”

“Do you have any cigarettes?”

Jim smirks, and he digs into his pocket to pull out the pack of candy cigarettes he keeps for Robin. Robin grins, and he snorts when Robin holds it like a real cigarette between two fingers and then sticks it in his mouth.

Robin sighs, as if he’d been smoking a real cigarette, then tells Jim, “Thanks, Mr. Commissioner. I haven’t been allowed to have candy in weeks.”

“Where have you been, Robin?”

“Deathstroke kidnapped me. Then some other assassins tried to kidnap me from him. They were fighting over me when I left.”

Jim blanches, staring at the boy standing next to him.

“Come here, kid,” he says gently, pulling Robin close to him, taking off his coat to wrap it around him. He holds Robin close, pretending he doesn’t notice the way Robin shakes and wipes at his face. “You’re gonna be okay. Do you want another cigarette?”

“Yes, please.”

Robin has two more candy cigarettes before a frazzled looking Batman appears, and the second he sees Robin, he tugs him close and holds him tight.

“Oh my God,” he whispers into Robin’s hair. “Where have you been?”

Robin just whines, hiding his face in Batman’s neck, squeezing his arms tight around him.

“Take him home, Batman,” Jim says. “Gotham will survive without you for a couple nights.”

Batman nods at him, then disappears from the rooftop.

A couple days later, Jim’s coat is folded neatly on his desk, along with a thank you card and a new pack of candy cigarettes.

[drafts-and-delusions]

Ik I did an ask like a few days ago, but I'm kinda sad that my coworker called me a fat bitch, so can you do one with Saja boys reacting to their s/o getting called a fat bitch by someone? Sorry if this is corny, I just need to delude myself with comfort from fictional men. ☺️

(I really love your work and the way you write the characters. Ok bye bye luv 💐)

Saja Boys react to their S/O getting called a fat bitch

Tags: gn!reader, body image mention, protective behavior, emotional support, light angst with comfort

EXCUSE ME WHAT?! WHO DID THAT HOE THINK THEY WERE?!!?!? bullying is for children. chin up, hon

🎀 Masterlist  💄 Request Guidelines

Jinu

He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t ask for names. But the second you tell him, the air changes.

He sits beside you in silence for a moment, like he’s trying to choose his words carefully.

“They don’t deserve to speak about you.”

The insult sits with him more than it does with you; he knows what shame feels like, and he hates that someone tried to plant that feeling in you.

Later, he brushes your cheek with the backs of his fingers and says, “You’re not defined by anyone else’s words.

Romance

He tries to laugh it off at first. “They must be blind and tasteless.”

But when he sees it still stings, the laughter fades.

“No one who talks like that is worth the spit it takes to say their name.”

Shows affection more than usual—an arm around your shoulders, fingers tangled with yours, a kiss to the forehead.

“You're mine,” he says softly one night. “And everything about you is just right. Even the parts you think I don’t notice.”

The next time you look in the mirror, he’s behind you, chin on your shoulder, listing compliments until you smile.

Abby

You have to stop him from tracking down the one who said it.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks, voice tight.

When you say, “Because it’s stupid,” he looks so hurt that it shuts you up.

“It’s not stupid if it hurts you. That makes it important to me.”

Spends the whole day clinging to you in small ways; hand on your lower back, hugging you from behind, leaning into you when you sit beside him.

Starts complimenting you out loud more—especially the parts you’re insecure about.

Mystery

Doesn’t ask what happened. He already knows something’s wrong by the way your shoulders slump.

You think he’s ignoring it, but later you find your favorite snack and hoodie laid out on your bed, like quiet offerings of comfort.

Sits beside you without a word. If you talk, he listens. If you don’t, he stays anyway.

You fall asleep on his shoulder. He whispers, “They were wrong,” so softly you almost miss it.

He starts sticking a little closer in public.

If you ever linger too long in front of a mirror, he stands behind you. Makes sure you see him watching you like you’re something valuable to him.

Baby

“What the hell?” is his first reaction. His second is pacing. His third is pulling you into a fierce hug and refusing to let go.

“Say the word and I’ll make their life miserable,” he mutters.

Starts cracking jokes to make you laugh, but they’re gentler than usual.

“I don’t know who gave them the authority to rate beauty, but I’d like to have a word.”

Later, he sees you staring at yourself in the mirror too long and just wraps his arms around you from behind.

“You don’t have to be anything but you. I like all of it.”

[kaitlyn-imagines]

can you do huntrix and Bobby with a gn reader who haves a massive sweet tooth

Sure thing sweetie! ;) 'bout time we got an ask for the girls and bobby, hehe. Bobby my looooooove...

Huntrix/Bobby with a Reader with a Sweet Tooth

Rumi:

“You’re already sweet enough, what do you need all that sugar for?”

Thinks it’s cute when you get cravings all of a sudden. She’ll usually have some little fun-sized candies handy in her purse in case you get a fixing

You ask her if she wants to go get ice-cream with you, and she smiles at you so kindly like, “Of course I’ll go with you!” But you notice she doesn’t explicitly say she wants some, so you’re like “nevermind :(”

She learns for the next time to just say “yes” lol.

Mira:

Mira is more of a spicy girl herself, so you two are like two sides of a coin! Sweet and spicy, going together like mango and tajin!

Always makes sure there’s enough sweet items available for you to enjoy when the girls all have their pre-show carb loading session

If anyone makes a comment like, “you know there’s a lot of sugar in that, right?” she’s gonna tell them off.

“She can eat whatever the hell she wants, mugaenyeom,” and glares at them with some of that classic Mira attitude.

Zoey:

She’s also got a bit of a sweet tooth, so you both share a lot of the same snacks and go on little sweet-treat runs together!

Late night in the studio? You both take a break to sneak out and run to that cookie place around the block that’s open ‘til 3am.

You definitely enable the other person’s sweet-tooth dietary habits

Cue popping M&M’s like it’s nobody’s business, trying to aim for the other person’s mouth with cool trick shots off the sofa

Bobby:

Bobby is already so attentive and prepared, so the second he realizes you tend to enjoy sweet foods, he’s stocking up to an excessive amount.

Candy? He’s got them all. Soda, milk tea, or other sugary drinks? Boom, already done. Cakes and baked goods? Honey, please, as IF he’d forget those.

Swear, he can tell when you’re getting a craving before you even say anything.

He’ll just glance up from his schedule, notice the slightest shift in your expression, and he’s calling for one of the staff to bring over the sweet basket they’ve prepared for this exact situation.

“Mm~ so good! Here, Bobby, try some!” and you’re smiling so cutely when you hold the forkful of cheesecake out to him, that he’s powerless to deny you. Accepts the offering with a slight flush to his cheeks.

[zoootopia]

fortissimo

alexia putellas x reader

final part of seras mi amiga, something familiar, visible, crescendo

the crescendo has never been so loud.

tw - abuse (light warning)

6.9k words

final part! this took me longer to write but hope you all like it

I said it would be shorter than the other ones but ended up being the longest

~~~~~~

The airport feels cold as you wait, your body shaking, shifting from foot to foot. Your arms are crossed tightly around your body as if they are the only thing keeping you from falling apart. 

You are like one of the strings on your cello when it is being played with such ferocious passion, vibrating from the tension. But here in the airport it is like your cello is being played with a mute, you are unable to scream, unable to release the beast of noise that is building up inside of you.

Your eyes flick over to the arrivals gate but everything feels delayed. Time, breaths, the inevitable moment of seeing Wieke. You are full of noise, the river of emotions crashing against rocks in your mind but at least you are not empty.

If you were empty you would have snapped by now, too much pressure on even the fresh, new strings that you only recently restrung. You can’t let them break, you can’t let them unravel from the pegs on which they are wound so tightly. 

You wonder if anyone else can hear it, the aching hum of the low note in your mind, the crescendo of what feels like the longest piece of music to ever be written. 

You know they cannot. The symphony is just yours. 

You feel your phone buzz in your pocket, but you do not reach for it. There is no need, when you know exactly whose name will show up when you look at it, what the words will read. 

You told Alexia last night that Wieke was coming as soon as you had booked the flight. She said it was the right decision, that she was there for you if it got difficult. 

You nodded, forgetting for a moment that she could not see you.

She looks exhausted as she walks towards you, hair messy, bags under her eyes. 

She slumps into your open arms like it is a formality, not like it is a hug from her sister. You can’t blame her. 

You were surprised that she came as quickly as she did, straight onto the plane that you booked for her to fly over. You were surprised she would drop everything to hear words you didn’t know how to say. You hadn’t realised she was so confused by it all. That she cared so deeply.

She stays quiet as you drive back to the hotel, as you stop for petrol. She doesn’t say a word when you park the car, just silently following you upstairs, eyes low, head down. 

The hotel is quiet as you make lunch, as you eat it. Wieke walks into her room as soon as it is finished, leaving you alone for over an hour. 

You hear her door creak open at one point, and you look up to see her. Face ghostly white, her hands visibly trembling from where you sit metres away. 

“You said last night you wanted to tell me everything,” she finally breaks the silence, her body leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom, “you have not told me anything at all. You have not even spoken to me.”

Her voice is strong, it is steady. The complete antithesis of how you feel in that moment. Like at any second everything would come crashing down. You are still waiting for the peak, for the crescendo to end. 

You are worried that it will come suddenly, that you will be left with one of those endings that nobody wants. 

You nod, your stomach tightening. 

Expression is difficult. 

You imagine you are holding your cello, no music in front of you. You feel your left hand gently find their place on the strings, your right hand hovering the bow just millimetres from the instrument. 

You take a deep breath. The bow makes contact with the strings. 

And then, you play. 

Wieke looks at you expectantly, like she is waiting for you to break her heart. To tell her the secrets of her own life that had been hidden so well for years and years. 

“Pappa…” you hesitate. There is no turning back. “He didn’t die in a car accident on the way home from work.”

Wieke looks at you, her head tilting. 

She frowned. 

You didn’t let the music pause, only taking a small breath to lead into the next passage. You continue to play, continue to lay your heart out on the strings, exposed and vulnerable. You continued to let the wood and wires tell your story for you. 

“When we moved back home,” your voice carried grief, the confusion and shock that would never really leave you, “he was held back at the airport. Fraud, embezzlement. He went to prison not long later. The evidence was concrete, he was guilty.”

Your Mamma’s grip dug into your shoulders, but you could feel her shaking behind you. Scared, nervous. Wieke stood right there beside you, her hand tight in yours. She had no idea what was happening, how her life was changing. 

You felt like the wind had been knocked out of you, like your lungs had collapsed or just turned to stone. You were breathless, uneasy. 

They had taken him so quickly, and he had walked away so easily. You had never seen him so obedient, so submissive. 

The smile he had given the officers was sickening, his attempt to be charming as he claimed that it was a mistake, that he would just go and sort it out and return to his family. 

“I have to be there for them,” he had grinned, his smile like that of a cheshire cat, “they wouldn’t deal without me.”

You remember frowning at his words, looking at him as if he had grown three heads. This was not your father. This was not the man you feared, the one who plagued your nightmares and daydreams.

It was a performance, like he was an actor right there on stage, his entire career hanging off these few words, this short exchange. 

But even as he played innocent, as he tried to charm the officers, you hoped, you prayed with everything in you, that he would be found guilty. That he would not get away with this one. 

Just like the officers had taken him quickly off the plane, they proved he was guilty with a speed you couldn’t quite process. 

He went to prison less than two weeks after you arrived back home and you knew that the sigh that left your Mamma was not one of upset, of anger or of grief. It was a sigh of relief. 

You wouldn’t miss him, not at all. You had been more afraid that he would be proven not guilty and sent back home to live with you again. A false accusation and confrontation would make anybody angry. 

Your father would have been furious. 

You’d seen what he was capable of when he was angry, when he was drunk. You didn’t want to know what he’d be like if he thought he was wronged. 

“He was supposed to be in prison for ten years. Mamma and I, we were relieved.”

Confusion immediately floods onto Wieke’s face, though you can easily recognise the fear. The understanding. Like she knows, like you don’t even have to say the words for them to be clear in her mind. 

But you know, no matter how easy it would be to imply, to get her to read between your lines, to try and understand the words you don’t know how to form, you cannot. You have to lay it out clearly. 

The music you play continues to build, and your words continue to build in tandem. Your fingers dance around the fingerboard, shifting so mindlessly that you feel as if you have completely dissociated from the melody you are playing. 

It is the next sentence that you have always feared. The one that would shake the house, wake the elephant. Crumble the foundations and begin a tidal wave of effects that destroys the land in its path. 

“He was abusive.” 

Your voice cracks. 

Wieke’s gasp is drowned out by the song in your mind. The song you use as a shield to protect yourself from even your own thoughts, the way your mind drifts between past and present like you are slipping through the cracks, unable to really understand where you are.

You watch the first tear slip down her cheek. You follow its path to the floor before you allow your eyes to look back up at her. 

Your vision is suddenly clouded by your own tears, by the desire to reach for her, to comfort her like you know she needs. But you know if you touch her, if you move towards her, she will flinch. She will push you away. 

Your father is the villain in your story, but right now, you are the villain in hers. 

“There was a weight lifted from our shoulders. The fear, the pain. Especially for Mamma.”

Your sister’s shoulders shake. 

“We told you he died in an accident because we didn’t want you to go through that too,” you continue, speaking louder as her cries become audible. “You were so small, just a child. We were shielding you from it. I didn’t want you to have to experience what I did.”

The music has never been so loud. 

Your sister, reduced to tears. 

You were supposed to protect her. 

“It was painful.”

Wieke turns her head to look at you, and for the first time, you see the anger in her eyes. Disgust… hatred. 

“You had no right,” she mutters, “to keep this all from me. You say you wanted to protect me, but I never asked for you to do that.”

She frowns, her hands moving to wipe the tears away from her face. 

Her words are daggers at your heart, continuing to find the broken pieces, the things that plagued your mind constantly. 

“All this time, you have said he is dead. That he died in a car crash,” her face rolls in anger, in hurt. 

She had not expected the secrets to be so damaging. But you had. You had expected the destruction. You had seen it, building higher and higher behind that wall, waiting for it to build so high that it would collapse, the wall falling. 

You imagine your hands still on the cello, notes building, stress rising. It is the only thing that keeps you grounded, that stops you from slipping through that confusing gap that exists between reality and nostalgia. 

“You stole him from me, you lied to me. He hurt you so you and Mamma decided that I was not allowed to even try and have a relationship with him.”

Her voice is so raw, so full of grief, anger, resentment. 

Her hands scratch at her neck, her entire face red, puffy eyes hiding the dark circles that sat on her cheekbones an hour ago. 

You feel the music get louder. Louder and louder in your mind, echoing through your head and punching, so large that you can feel it try and escape through your nose, through your ears, through your mouth. 

You cannot sing, you cannot scream. 

It does not feel like you can play music louder than this. 

“Louder,” she yelled, her passion leaking through her voice, “louder!”

Your bow is heavy on the strings, your finger moving at an incredible pace as you shift between positions, dancing around on the metal wires. 

The music said to crescendo into a fortissimo through the passage, a passage you are nearing the end of. 

The hairs on your bow tremor and snap from the force you are placing on it, the music so stressed, so aggressive. 

You can’t go any louder. You reach the end of the passage, the semibreve splitting through the air. It’s supposed to be at fortissimo. 

“That is barely a mezzo forte,” she says flatly, signalling for you to stop. Your music teacher sighs, “you think you are playing loudly?”

You nod, shoulders slumping. The same critique haunts you. The noise always feels so loud, yet it is never loud enough. 

“There is always louder, always stronger. Fortissimo means you cannot hear anything else at all. Not the music, not your thoughts. Definitely not my voice.”

You can hear your thoughts, rushing through your head. The river is rough, you can’t catch anything. You can hear the sound of your song, still building somehow, still singing through the tension that pulls the room tight, too tight. 

It is still so loud, so overwhelming and terrifying. But you know, inside of you, that it can get louder. 

“I didn’t keep him from you,” you breath, your voice just loud enough to hear over the intensifying music, “he died, Wieke. In prison.”

Her hand moves to cover her mouth. Her entire face changing, her body slumping against the wall as she sinks to the floor. 

Her grief is visceral, the tears flowing as she becomes a shell on the floor. 

The music has never built to this level, it has never reached a peak like this. You finally understand what your teacher meant, how you were barely playing at forte. Even that low, aching note that haunts you intensifies through millions of thresholds, becoming a sharp ringing in your ears. 

You feel as if you have reached your peak, that the music could not possibly get any louder, any more intense, stressful, painful. 

She looks up at you, her face red, eyes puffy. 

“I don’t know how you kept this from me for so long.”

Pain stabs at you, millions of knives slicing you open, your stomach, your chest. But you can still hear her, the words that she mutters, the sounds her voice makes. 

They poke at the broken pieces of your heart, reaching into the river of emotions in your head. 

But then her mouth opens again, and your eyes are drawn right back to your sister on the floor. 

“I thought you loved me.”

She stands up, avoiding your eyes completely. She turns her back on you, leaving the hotel room. 

She slams the door closed, the noise loud. It’s overwhelming. You cannot hear anything but the music in your head, the door slamming, puncturing the silence in the room, building on the soundstorm in your head. 

You have reached fortissimo. 

~~~~~~

Your phone still sits in your pocket, the message still sitting there unread. 

Sound rings through your ears, overwhelming and devastating. 

For some reason, you don’t want to be alone. To sink into the ocean of emotion alone, no lifeline, no company. 

You don’t want to slip so easily from the grasp of your life without any memories of you pervading through time. 

Your hands shake as you pick it up.

Good luck, Cami! Be honest with her, she will understand.

Your eyes begin to water, a tear finally slipping down your face. 

Please come.

You find yourself reaching for your cello case. Still unopened in the corner of the room, ignored, abandoned. You had brought it with you because of work, yet you find yourself behind on all of your projects. 

Everything is confusing, the whole world feels like it has shifted on its axis. 

You wonder if your Mamma can feel it all the way in Amsterdam. The elephant, now standing, stomping all over the house, sending cracks deep into the ground.

You place the mute gently on the strings, the rubber hugging the thin wires, restricting them, forbidding them to scream and sing like they so desperately want to. 

Just like before, your fingers find their home on the fingerboard, your hand finding the bow like it is a prosthetic limb. So disconnected yet so integral to your person. 

The notes don’t sing out loud like you are used to, muffled noises that replace them foreign in your ears. They are restrained, suppressed, never able to reach fortissimo, never able to properly use those dynamics that you crave so intensely. 

You cannot pour your emotions out into a cello whose strings do not vibrate with the pressure you put on them, a cello that does not sing out loud with you, embracing your pain and joining you while you are at your lowest. 

A cello whose noises are not rich enough to pull you from those deep and dark seas, not strong enough to find you as the waves crash over you. 

The noise in your head is loud enough to wash out the sound of your quietened cello, you are not able to be taken to another place with its hypnotising melodies.

The noise in your head is loud enough to wash out the sound of your front door open, of footsteps. You don’t hear them stop, you only see their shadow directly in front of you. 

You don’t meet her eyes, still staring intently at the strings, as if looking at them will wake them up, will make them sing. 

But she moves towards you. Silently. And like she did so many times when you were younger, she pulled off the mute. 

The cello can sing. 

“You shouldn’t silence yourself with this stupid piece of rubber,” she complains, fiddling with the mute in her hands as you place your cello back into its case, “I like to hear you play.”

You shrug. Your Mamma bought it for you so you could practice anywhere without disturbing your whole neighbourhood. You had thought Alexia’s family would appreciate it as much as your neighbours. 

“You are like a caged bird when you use it,” she continues, her face blushing at the compliment, “like you are so close to flying and doing something great but there is something in the way. The mute cages you in.”

She speaks in the same way that she plays. Big, clunky movements that hold something precious within. 

“Some people don’t want to listen to it all the time,” you reply, “it can be loud and annoying.”

“The people who say that are wrong.”

And just like that, your brain starts to clear, the noise finally softening, just slightly. The words that have been screaming at you start to sing again, the swells of the river finally easing. 

Slightly, just slightly. 

You brought the elephant out that morning, through your song of words and you knew it would destroy you, like the tidal waves, like the bulldozers. But now as you sit and play your cello with that unbridled euphoria that is only brought to you by the wooden instrument, you realise that maybe the elephant will not destroy your life, maybe you will be able to tame it. 

Because right now, it feels like you are wrapping it into a hug, stroking it. Making it purr the rich and mellow sounds of your song. 

Alexia only speaks once you have finished playing, your head slumped onto the back of your cello, tears silently slipping down your cheeks. 

“That was the first time,” she whispered, sitting down beside you on the couch, “that I understood the words you couldn’t say.”

The tears still fall as you look up at her, those brown eyes watery but staring straight into your soul. Her face is steady as her hand comes to rest on your knee, like she needs to be stabilised, grounded. 

“I used to think I understood it all,” she continued, her voice not stuttering, not stammering, “everything about you. You were everything to me and I was the same to you, I thought that there was nothing deeper.”

She laughs, quietly, her voice cracking. Just slightly. 

“But I was so… naive. I really had no idea,” the silence between her statements stretches between you like the well earned rests you breathe through as you play, “I thought your music was the most beautiful thing I ever heard, that you were singing out loud through your cello. Now I realise it was you screaming, calling for help. But I never heard it, I never listened close enough.”

The silence continues, not heavy but shared. Not tense but calm. The river flows smoothly and you float through it, Alexia’s words washing over you like warm and soft swells of the water. 

“But just now,” she pauses, shaking her head like she is in disbelief, “I didn’t even have to listen to hear it. It was screaming at me, your heart right there on those strings, everything you hold back just pouring out.”

The music lingers in the room as silence falls over you like a blanket. There is nothing urgent about it, it is calming, refreshing. 

Finally quiet, after so long of living in a neverending crescendo, a maintained fortissimo that sang over any other sounds, disconnecting you from the world around you. 

But the hum still exists, an unresolved ache. Your sister, still outside. Alexia, right beside you but where are you? 

What will happen when you go home, when you inevitably return to the Netherlands to continue with your life. The one that has cracked foundations, the one you need to redevelop. 

“I am never letting you slip through my fingers again. Not when you are right here in my hands.”

~~~~~~

Alexia’s presence is like a lifeline over the next 24 hours. Grounding and calming as your messages to your sister continue to go unanswered. She doesn’t move away from you, maintaining some form of physical contact as if she is afraid you will disappear from her mind if you slip from her grasp. 

It is nice being with her. You have spent the past month reconnecting, all over your phones. But being right beside her, her physical touch grounding you to reality, is a comfort that you had forgotten. 

Yet it felt familiar, experienced. Like something you had seen over and over again in a movie, read a thousand times in a book. 

The sky was blue and the sun was shining down on you, warming your skin. The city around you was bustling, the bushes green and the people cheerful. 

But none of that mattered. 

It was finally the last day of the school year and you would finally be able to spend all your days with Alexia again. 

She had left your public school two years ago, finally accepted into La Masia as a full time student. It meant less time together, no more walking home together. 

But as Alexia got more busy with her football, you also became more busy with your own music. She spent her days and afternoons on the pitch, yelling out loud and putting her entire body into her sport, while you spent the same time yelling into your cello, your heart and soul laid out for only your cello and teacher to see. 

But the Summer means going back to how it was before Alexia changed schools. It means you can finally spend all day with your best friend, you can watch her practice football and she can sit with you as you play your instrument. 

“When we’re older,” she declared, a cone of ice cream dripping down her hands as you sit on the park bench, “we will do this all the time. We won’t have school or anything to take up our time. You will have your cello, I will have my football. But other times we can just have an endless Summer.”

You grin, the thought alone waking the butterflies that were so used to Alexia’s presence. 

“But you’ll be the face of Barcelona and I’ll be super busy and super famous with all my movies and red carpets,” you counter, a playful grin on your face, “we won’t have time.”

Alexia scoffs, like your words are ridiculous. As if the dreams you had made on the beach that one night were just that, dreams. 

“Even then.” She rolls her eyes like you are the one being unrealistic, “we will have ice cream like this every week. After your performances, after my games.”

Silence falls over the two of you as you both eat your ice creams. You look around, the park is green and buzzing with the other people celebrating the end of the school year. It is so familiar, so peaceful. 

“And even if we don’t live nearby or even if we live just half an hour away from here, we will come back to Mollet at least three times a year. 

“Three?”

“For my birthday, your birthday and for Christmas. Three times.”

“Do you remember,” your voice is louder than it has been all day, “that one day after school. It was the beginning of Summer, a few years after you moved to La Masia.”

Alexia nods easily, like the memory was from a few weeks ago. 

“We went to the park near my house and had ice cream,” she grins, “we promised each other that we’d have ice cream together all the time.”

You weren’t expecting the laugh to follow, nor the fond shake of her head. 

“We were so… young,” she continues, “so naive.”

She doesn’t say the rest, she doesn’t mention how you were living in a warzone, noisy and overwhelming. You weren’t naive, you just played along. 

“You were the one who laughed at me when I said you’d be the face of Barcelona and I would be on red carpets for my scores,” you shake your head at her, eyes sparkling, “I was right about both of those things.”

“I never expected you to be on the red carpets,” she laughs quietly, her face catching the sun that shines through the curtains as it sets behind your building, “but I should have known. You’ve always been the one to turn heads wherever you went.”

You blush slightly, eyes widening. 

“I could say the same thing about you.” 

That familiar silence falls upon you again, but her hand does not move from where it sits on your knee, tracing small shapes over your skin. You don’t feel like the silence will shatter and scatter broken pieces of glass around the room if it is broken, it holds, it is comforting. 

“I kept wondering if I would ever get you back,” she whispered, her voice quieter now, “the real you. The person that I used to spend all my time with, the one that I would laugh with until my stomach was sore. I really wanted to get you back.”

You turn to look at her again, finding those eyes so easily. 

“The real me?”

She nods, her face pulled taut. It is like she is holding something so close, so carefully. Like she is nervous about sharing it. Like you had the power to destroy it. 

“The person who plagued my dreams for fourteen years,” she continues. You pretend to not notice the way her voice shakes, the way she sounds so overcome with emotion, “a month ago, when I saw you at the game, when we spoke on the beach, I realised that you weren’t the same person.”

You feel your heart beat inside of you. You avoid the urge to imagine that cello again, resting on your legs. You don’t want your sound to drown out Alexia’s words, to steal away your attention like it always tries to when you are reminded of what has happened. 

“You look the same and you sound the same. You still have that passion for your cello and that fierce, loyal love for the people around you. You are still funny, you can still make me laugh and smile, you still brighten up any room you walk into.”

She drifts, her words quietening and her eyes floating somewhere else, like she is trapped in a memory, unable to find that gap between nostalgia and reality that you have been tightrope walking for the past month. 

“I have changed, Ale.” 

Your voice is hesitant, like you’re not sure you want her to finish the sentence she is stuck on. 

But you need to hear it. You need her to spell it out for you, just like you had spelled out the words for Wieke. 

You can’t place your hands on the cello, you can’t play the music if you don’t know the whole song, if you can’t even hear the introduction of what Alexia is trying to say. 

“I know,” her response is almost immediate, the certainty in her voice a stark contrast to your hesitancy, “and it is good. You have been through a lot, so have I. I have changed too, but neither of us have changed so much to become as unrecognisable as you think you are. I hear you, Cami, and I know you. Fourteen years have passed but I have not lost that ability to read you. If anything, it has grown.”

You turn, looking at her directly. Her brown eyes now leaking with the tears that have been left unshed all day, her face finally trembling, overcome with emotion. 

You had both changed, you had both experienced the worst things anyone should have to. 

But now you are both here, beside each other again. 

You pull her towards you, the hug tight, fierce. It was a promise to be there, to not break the promise you made all those years ago on that warm summer’s afternoon again. 

“It was always inevitable, Ale,” you whisper. 

You don’t need to say more. She has always known exactly what you meant. 

~~~~~~

Alexia’s arm was around your shoulders when her phone buzzed. You only realised when you looked at her to see if she would respond that you realised she was asleep. 

It was around 10 when you had sat down on the sofa, her arm wrapped almost protectively around you as you practically lay on top of her. There was a movie playing in the background, but you couldn’t hear it. 

You had absolutely no idea where your sister was. 

Alexia was easy to wake up, all you needed to do was shake her a little and she was jolting awake, her eyes wide and eyebrows raised as she realised where she was. 

“Your phone, Ale,” you whisper, nudging at where it sits in her shorts. 

She mumbles something unintelligible, reaching blindly for the mobile device. 

But you watch as her eyes widen, as she sits up straight on the couch. 

“It’s Mami,” she whispers, “she’s with Wieke.”

~~~~~~

Your sister had never looked so small on that bench. It was the same one that you had spent your childhood on. Across the road from the ice cream shop, overlooking the park. 

The park that used to bustle with energy, with children and their pets, their parents watching with proud and happy grins. 

The darkness of the night swallows most of the park, but your sister sits on that chair like a bright light, illuminating the one spot you were most familiar with. 

If your sister looked underneath the chair, she’d see your old initials carved into the wood, enclosed in a loveheart beneath an A and a P. If she looked to her right she would see the path you used to skip along, excited to see your best friend. If she looked to her left she would see the path that Alexia walked along, her emotions the exact same. 

But she looks ahead, her posture rigid in her spot, a comfortable distance away from Eli who sat with a relaxed expression on her face. 

You approach them from the front, Alexia staying a far distance back. She doesn’t want to impose. 

You don’t want this conversation with your sister to be overshadowed by her adoration for Alexia Putellas. 

The air is cold as it hits your skin, but you maintain a warm expression on your face as Wieke looks up. 

Eli nodded at you, retreating quickly and leaving you alone with your sister. 

“I’m sorry, Mozart,” her voice was almost lost in the wind, so quiet that you wouldn’t have been able to hear it if it wasn’t for the decrescendo that continued to calm the storm of your mind. “I just wanted to see it. Where we lived before.”

A tear trickles down her face, brown eyes broken and devastated. 

This is what you were trying to avoid by protecting her, the quiet breakdown, the slow demolition of her bright and cheerful personality. 

You move towards her quickly, sitting right beside her on the chair and letting her collapse into your arms. She is like a dead weight, her sadness weighing on her like a backpack of cement. 

“I didn’t mean to go so far, but I remember Mamma telling me that we used to live here,” her voice trails off, your shirt muffling the clarity of her words, “I had to come and see.”

“You scared me, Wieke,” you mumble, dropping your head so it is closer to hers. 

Your voice cracks, the fear and sadness finally spilling out in front of her. 

Finally vulnerable and honest after so many years of being her stoic and brave protector. 

“I had no idea where you had gone.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she whispers, her entire body shaking as she tries to hold back her tears, “I just needed to breathe. I felt like I was suffocating, like everything I have ever known was some big lie that you and Mamma conspired against me, that you hid from me.”

You nod, although she cannot see it. 

“I have always loved you so much, Mozart. You are the person I look up to, that I admire and that I have always wanted to be like,” she hesitates, her voice breaking into quiet cries, “I have never felt so… sad. Betrayed maybe. I couldn’t believe you were capable of lying to me like that.”

You hum, placing a soft kiss on the side of her head as she whimpers softly, the emotions finally pouring out after what you expect to have been a quiet and lonely 30 hours. 

“But Eli found me, she recognised me,” she sniffs, shifting slightly so she is able to look at you, your identical brown eyes connecting in a way that communicates so much more than words, “and she explained a lot to me. What Mamma told her when she came a few years ago, what you told her a month ago. She forced me to open my eyes, to look around and think of a reason why.”

You nod again, suddenly overcome with gratitude for the woman you once called another mother. 

“I know you, and I know you love me.” Her words are certain, like nothing anybody could say would ever erase the truth that lays so heavily within them. 

“And now I know that you didn’t tell me everything because of that.”

“I wanted you to be happy, Wieke,” you whisper, voice cracking under the pressure of the emotions you feel. But this time it is not loud. Your head feels clearer than ever, the music softening back to the quiet hum in your head. 

You do not feel yourself reaching for that figurative cello, finally able to lay your heart out with words, with interactions. 

With the expression that you so desperately craved for so many years.

“When you were born,” you continue, “I made a promise that I would always protect you. From him, from the memory, from life, from people.”

“You did a good job,” she smiles softly, the grin cracking her face open to fully display the grief, relief and pure emotional breakdown she is experiencing on her face, “you did such a good job.”

“I never realised that I would be the thing you needed that protection from,” your voice is a whisper, but Wieke has never been able to hear you with so much clarity.

“I am sorry for breaking my promise.”

A tear drops from your eye and lands on your sister's head. 

She giggles softly, reaching up to wipe its track away. 

You realise then that maybe it wasn’t just those thick strings of your cello holding you together. Maybe it was Wieke as well. Her presence, the quiet unwavering loyalty that defined who she was. Who you had raised her to be. The way she looked at you like you were whole even when you had felt splintered beyond admission. It had never changed. Not when she was just that small baby who wanted her sister to love her. Not when she had grown into a teenager who was desperate for her sister to be proud of her. 

You wished she would realise she never had to be desperate for either. 

Maybe every time you picked up that bow, playing through the ache, through the heartbreak, it wasn’t just the music that steadied the house of cards that you had become when the wind made it sway and dance. 

Maybe it was the thought, the knowledge that she was always just in the next room, humming along silently, listening without interruption, without complaint. 

The only thing she had ever demanded of you was for you to stay. For you to be there forever. And maybe, even in the silence, even when she didn’t understand the full weight of what you carried, she was the reason you had never let go completely. 

“You never broke it,” she confirms. 

You sit like that for a while, quiet whispers spoken, promises for the future, regrets of the past. 

It becomes lighthearted, soft. Like nothing had happened yet such a huge thing had changed. 

You had expected it to make everything worse, to destroy everything. The tidal wave, the bulldozer. 

The elephant didn’t destroy the foundations of your lives. Instead, it sang, finally free from its prison in the corner, finally able to return home, to run with its friends. 

The only thing you felt was strength. Love. Loyalty. 

“I can’t believe you know Alexia Putellas,” she whispers, her voice amused, mocking betrayal, “and you didn’t tell me even though her face was glued above my bed.”

She laughs quietly and you run your hand over her head. 

“I thought it was ridiculous.”

You hear quiet shuffling behind you, and you realise how long you have been here for. Alexia is there again, waiting to take you home, to take you anywhere. 

“She’s right behind us,” Wieke then asks, amused, “right?”

She sits up from where she lays in your lap, her legs swinging down to the floor beneath her. 

“Yeah,” you whisper quietly, “that’s Ale.”

“I can’t believe she’s real! Do you think she’d talk to me?”

You look at her like she was speaking another language, confusion and amusement drawn with markers all over her face. 

“You know what, Wieke?”

She looks at you with that childish anticipation, like you are about to tell her whether she is allowed to buy that extra piece of ice cream from the ice cream shop. 

Wieke deserves the whole symphony. The loud parts, the soft parts. Rich sounds from the cello, the tragic sounds of the violin and the light notes that float from the flutes. 

You have given her the sad parts, the hard parts and the intense parts. 

Now you can give her the melodies that fly, that evoke that unbridled happiness that cannot be found anywhere but a music room

“I don’t think there is anything she would rather do.”

~~~~~~

You and Wieke leave Barcelona at the end of the week with something new. Something neither of you have ever had before. 

Promises to return. 

You had hugged Alexia with tears in your eyes, a fierce embrace that communicated the words you did not need to say. 

She had whispered that she would come and visit you as well, that she would call you as soon as your plane landed in London. She told you that she would reach out to Wieke, to rebuild a bond with the teenager who she had adored so deeply. 

She had placed a kiss on your lips. Soft, tender. It wasn’t a promise, nor desperation. It was just Alexia, laying everything out. Always so honest, raw. 

You didn’t need to say anything. There was no need to verbalise the thoughts of love, of longing, of forgiveness. There was no need to express how the fourteen years you lost would become only a small fraction of the life you would share. 

You didn’t need to say anything. You both just knew. 

Wieke had placed an arm around you as you walked away from them, simply showing you that she was there. She forgives you, she understands. She loves you as well.

The piece of music didn’t crash and burn. It didn’t drop off immediately after reaching its peak. 

You didn’t even have to control the ending with that concentrated precision that you have so perfectly mastered over the many years of playing the cello. 

But it sunk, slowly, the decrescendo long and emotional. It was like you were in a lifering, carried through that fast flowing river that was your crescendo. Being thrashed around, clinging on to the inflatable ring but slowly slipping, slowly losing your grip. 

But just before you were about to slip off entirely, to disconnect from the one thing keeping your head above the water, the waves slowed, the swell calmed. 

And then the lifering carried you to the shore, slowly, smoothly. Towards the double line that signifies the end of the song. 

You close your eyes as you reach pianissimo. 

And then, you could finally exhale. 

end. 

~~~~~~

thank you all so much for reading! hope you all liked this final chapter now that everything has been resolved

i haven't really got anything else in the pipeline currently so if anyone has anything they want me to write let me know! i enjoy writing but i am worried if i try write something else it will end up being very similar in everything other than the plot! all the thoughts i have had sort of end up like that.

anyway thank you all for getting to this point, i am very grateful for all the messages you've sent me :)

[emotionalrodent]

Batboys X Reader Headcanons

Prompt: What small things they do when they’re in love?

Characters: Dick, Tim, Jason, and Bruce

CW: Mild creepy-ish behavior from Tim and Maybe Dick? (Idk I just want to be careful). Also Jason makes a joke about Roy living as a vegetable.

———————————————————————————

Dick

💙 He will try to impress you any way he can. Whether that be making a joke he thinks you’ll like or showing off his athleticism. He’s always performing for you, waiting for the slightest smile.

“Did you see that, Y/N? Watch, I’ll do it again just for you.”

“What, you’re impressed by that? I can hold a handstand for way longer than that.”

💙 I see Dick as the kind of guy to make a playlist that reminds him of you or if he’s really whipped, try to write a song about you. You’ll probably never hear it but he’s thought about it more than a few times.

💙 Stares at you literally any chance he gets. He has no shame either, you’re eye candy to him and he’s not at all afraid to admit it. Dick does panic a tiny bit inside if you make eye contact when he’s staring but plays it off by winking at you.

💙 He learns couple dances to literally any song he can, waiting for the opportunity to dance with you.

💙 If you’re in the public eye, he’ll read fanfics shipping the two of you. He’s so petty sometimes he argues in the comments with people who ship you with someone else.

———————————————————————————

Tim

💚 Dick reads fanfics but Tim writes them. He doesn’t post them anywhere and just keeps them for himself in a folder on his computer. He’d die before he shows them to you or admits it but if you somehow got ahold of them, you’d be surprised by the quality. Someone get this man to a publisher.

💚 Talks about you unprovoked CONSTANTLY to anyone who will listen. It’s like he’s actively trying to bring you up in every conversation, it happens so often.

“Y/N made that recipe once, it was amazing.”

“This reminds me of when Y/N-”

“Ugh, we get it, Tim!”

💚 Tim likes anytime he gets any kind of validation from you so he’ll do whatever he can to help you with the smallest things. You have a loose button on your shirt? Suddenly he’s a professional tailor.

💚 He’ll rehearse subtle pick up lines or just anything he can use to flirt, he wants you to think he’s charming after all. His attempts rarely go as he’d planned though, he’s a little awkward when he first realizes his feelings for you.

💚 Tim has never been too adept at drawing, not that he’s ever tried to be. Yet he seems to always find himself tracing your features on any scrap of paper he can find.

———————————————————————————

Jason

❤️ Unlike his brothers, Jason’s a bit more subtle in his change in behavior when he’s in love. He tries to be, at least.

❤️ Usually, his actions speak louder than his words. He’ll make sure you always have snacks on you or even try to cook for you. He unconsciously cleans for you which also extends to his appearance as he tries to look his best too. If you mentioned losing something, he’ll look for it for hours.

❤️ Since it takes a little longer for Jason to actually fall in love, he tends to be more sentimental when he’s fallen. He’ll write sonnets for you, hoping that he’ll be able to read them for you one day. Although he doesn’t have much time for reading anymore, your name finds itself in the margins of the books he does own. Roy finds the books and sonnets and teases him relentlessly for it.

“Ooo, what do we have here? ‘If I should think of love, I'd think of you’. I didn’t know you had a heart, Jaybird.”

“Put those down now unless you’re ready to live your life as a vegetable, Harper.”

❤️ Once, he asked when your birthday was and looked up if your zodiac signs were compatible just to see. He would be a little bothered if it you two weren’t compatible though.

❤️ Jason doesn’t typically watch tv series and prefers movies or short films but he’ll sit down and binge ten seasons with you, no complaints.

❤️ He kinda forgets how to act normally around you sometimes so he goes back and forth from being unusually sweet to being weirdly mean to overcompensate.

———————————————————————————

Bruce

🩶 Bruce finds himself worrying over you more than he had previously. He asks more about your whereabouts, who you’re with, when you’re expected to be back, all things he never contemplated too hard on.

🩶 He tends to be more being more relaxed with you than most others. Bruce is so many different personalities to several different people but with you, he’s just Bruce.

🩶 Once Bruce realized he was in love with you, he tried to learn more about your interests so he has more chances to talk to you.

🩶 He makes a point to set aside time for you two, something that tends to be difficult for him. He doesn’t even care what the two of you do with that time, he just wants to see you.

🩶 Bruce is still a little stoic with you but sometimes he lets something flirty slip. You’re left surprised and flushed but he refuses to repeat what he said. He just takes his time to appreciate the look on your face.

🩶 He often imagines how you’d get along with his family. He wants them to meet the most important person in his life and plans for them to, but he’s still a bit nervous for their reactions.

“Y’know, I think Damian would like you.”

“Damian?”

“My son. You should be honored, it’s quite the feat.”

———————————————————————————

I really struggled with Bruce for this one if you couldn’t tell so I’m really sorry if I messed up with him. I also wanted to thank you guys for 1k notes on my Red Hood fic! I didn’t think it would get as much attention as it did but I’m really glad you guys liked it. Thank you for reading!

[racingrich]

dedicate it to me! 🏁 ln4

summary: the honeymoon phase consumes you and lando whole. race weekends spent curled up together, on dates pretending people can’t see you. it’s not private, but not public, it’s something people can’t only glance at, but never know for themselves.

as always, photos are not indicative of reader’s appearance, i just love rachel 🫶🏼

any mention of ducky is from my fic too many oranges. i also wanted to thank everyone who has read my previous fic, i appreciate it so much ❤️❤️

julietcore 🔒 summer is better with you 🧡

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, georgerussell63, and 19 others

view 15 comments …

lando 💬 hot, you single? 🥵

⤷ julietcore perv

⤷ lando hELLO?!

georgerussell63 💬 drop the vacation spot, I beg

⤷ julietcore no <3

⤷ lando fuck him up baby!!

oscarpiastri 💬 He doesn’t even try and he gets a tan. I can’t win.

⤷ julietcore yeah bc ur white as fuck

⤷ oscarpiastri uncalled for??

⤷ lovelyleclerc bitch on bitch crime unfolding

charles_leclerc 💬 does he wear normal clothes??

⤷ julietcore i’m convinced he doesn’t own clothes

⤷ lando the team merch is comfy!

⤷ julietcore your fashion sense is atrocious the jacket saves you

⤷ lando wHAT DID I EVEN DO TO BE ATTACKED?

lovelyleclerc 💬 my fave couple tbh 🫶🏼

⤷ oscarpiastri Pretending I didn’t see that for my inner peace 🫶🏼

lando I hope summer never ends 🧡

liked by julietcore, f1, mclaren, and 247.9k others

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user 💬 LANDO TAKEN ERA?

⤷ user2 he’s been taken for like six months get with it 😔

mclaren 💬 and when are we meeting them? ☺️

⤷ lando that’s interesting because- 🏃🏻‍♂️

julietcore 💬 you’re so 😍

❤️ by author

maxverstappen1 💬 Happiness looks good on you, mate!

⤷ lando so they tell me :))

oscarpiastri 💬 No photo credit?

⤷ lando right credit to @/lovelyleclerc for taking gorgeous photos ☺️

⤷ oscarpiastri Much better

⤷ lovelyleclerc am i a pro yet?

user3 💬 cute let me go lay on the fucking tracks

user4 💬 and they say romance is dead!!

charles_leclerc 💬 surprised they put up with you this long

⤷ lando my partner says to fuck the haters so I’m blocking you for my peace of mind 🧡

⤷ charles_leclerc LANDO WAIT PLEASE WE CAN BE WORLD CHAMPIONS

julietcore posted a story!

baby’s first race! it’s me, i’m baby

⤷ lando they’ll love you, baby! and if not, i’ll kill them

⤷ lando gorgeous gorgeous 😍😍🫶🏼🫶🏼

⤷ lando can i take you out sometime? I know a great spot, very romantic

⤷ lovelyleclerc I’ll bark at anyone who looks at you wrong 🫶🏼

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

He was waiting for you when you arrived, just like he promised. His race suit half unzipped, eyes wild and searching. He saw you instantly. He’d always told you he could recognize you anywhere. You held onto your McLaren paddock pass with an iron grip, wiggling past people in team colours. No one paid you any mind, which you appreciated.

“Hey!” He shouted, which drew your attention. You’d seen him early that morning when he left for race day, promising to be a few hours behind him, but you still missed him more than anything. Love was like that. All encompassing and devouring. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Lando!” You squealed, something you promised you’d never do until you started dating Lando. But he brought out things in you that you never thought possible. Every day was a dream come true, learning more about the person he helped you become. You rushed into his arms. He opened them for you, his arms wrapping around your shoulders in a gentle grip that made your heart buckle.

“Someone’s excited to see me,” he teased, his voice a mere whisper. You looked up at him, lips peeling up into a smile.

“What told you that?” You asked, your voice dripping with playfulness. You nuzzled your face into his race suit, inhaling the cologne you’d helped him pick out on your vacation.

“Nothing in particular,” he mumbled back. Lando had started to sway you both back and forth, humming whatever song you’d showed him last night. You could feel his lips touching the crown of your head, a gentle rhythm that followed his breathing. How had it only been five hours since he’d left his flat, now basically yours as well. It felt like it had been lifetimes.

“I missed you,” you whispered.

“I missed you, too, baby.” You knew he meant it. Because Lando never did anything half-assed. He threw his whole heart into everything he did, including you. When he asked you out all those months ago, you weren’t sure it would last. Now, six months later, you weren’t sure why you’d doubted it. He’d taken you into his life like you’d always been there. You had mugs in his cupboards, a toothbrush in his bathroom, plushies on his bed. Small parts of you bleeding into each other until you weren’t sure where he ended and you began.

“First race, are you excited?” He asked. You started nodding like crazy, because you were. You’d been nervous on the walk in, your stomach flipping on itself as you walked passed fans in papaya orange or Ferrari red. You were invisible, as you liked it. Someone who could slip under the radar and be forgettable to those who didn’t matter.

“I’m excited to see you win,” you replied. Lando chuckled, his hands coming up to adjust your hair.

“I’m excited for you to watch me win.” Lando glanced around the paddock, catching sight of Oscar in the distance. It was almost race time.

“I’ve gotta go, baby, but I’ll come find you right after the race, okay?”

“Is ducky here?” You asked. Lando nodded.

“They’re in hospitality, waiting for you.” That made you feel better, someone you knew, someone who knew you. There were going to be countless people who thought they knew you, who spoke about you because they could. Not because they understood you.

“Good luck today, my love,” you whispered, leaning up to kiss the underside of his jaw. Lando was glowing, like an angel, or something more profound.

“I don’t need luck,” he replied. “I have you.” You remember when he said that for the first time. The way you’d turned to him midway through making soup, and smiled that smile he loved so much. He’d told you he loved you then, too, four months into your relationship. A healthy chunk of time.

You’d dropped your spoon on the stove after he said it. He’d frozen, like he hadn’t meant to speak the words out loud.

“You love me?” You asked, your voice shaking. Because there was no way. A way that he —a famous formula 1 driver— loved you —a chef. Worlds apart, brought together by a plate of food that had made Lando Norris like fish.

Lando opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. He took a breath, a deep one in through his nose as he raised his eyes to meet yours. His green eyes were shining with an emotion you’d only seen in romance movies. “Yeah, I do.” The words left his lips like a prayer. He stepped towards you, his arms coming to wrap around your back. He leaned into you, his warmth enveloping you. “I love you.” He had to say it again, just to be sure he said it right. You beamed, leaning back into him as the soup continued to simmer.

“I love you, too.” His grip tightened.

“Holy shit, that’s crazy,” he giggled.

“You’re telling me,” you replied, turning to press a kiss to his cheek. His smile could’ve replaced the sun. It was so bright, so blinding, and it was yours.

Now, as Lando moved towards Oscar, you stepped forward, grabbing the ends of his fingers. He turned back to you.

“What’s up, baby?” He asked.

“I love you,” you whispered. Lando’s smile widened. He turned back and hugged you again.

“I love you, too.” He spun you around gently. “You make it hard to do my job.”

“You caught me, secretly hired by Max to ruin your career,” you teased.

“The cutest spy,” Lando admitted.

“Lando!” Oscar shouted from across the paddock.

“Coming!” Lando leaned down and kissed you, quick and sweet. “I’ll see you later, yeah?” Then he was gone.

You adjusted your jacket, your cheeks warm. You watched him go, a spring in his step that hadn’t existed before you.

He had a race to win.

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

f1gossip LANDO SPOTTED SHARING A GENTLE MOMENT WITH NEW FLING! 🚨 Sources outside the paddock caught the couple being affectionate before the race. Lando’s partner, still a mystery, was spotted at the paddock, watching the race. Is this the same person who Lando has been soft launching for the past two months? We’re already a fan!

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user 💬 WAIT THEY’RE GORGEOUS??

user2 💬 bro i’m so soft for them 🥹

user3 💬 Lando’s got taste 😍

user4 💬 the way he’s holding them, i’m uNWELL

user5 💬 can lando fight?

⤷ user6 he can’t beat all of us.

⤷ user7 HE CANT BEAT ALL OF US!!

user8 y’all should just let them reveal it in their own time 🙂‍↕️ maybe they weren’t ready yet

𓂃 ོ𓂃.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The race was amazing. You’d watched them on TV before, but this was something else. The crowd became something else, possessed by their love for the sport. As Lando crossed the finish line, you felt something spiritual enter your body. You jumped up, screamed, and moved. McLaren staff had promised to take you to the podium to greet Lando after the race. He requested it. Nearly demanded. As you followed the social media admin, who chatted kindly with you about how long you and Lando had been together, and how compfortable you were with being captured in photos, you arrived. He’d just pulled back off the track, letting his team help him out of the car. You moved your way through the crowd pushing against barriers. Lando got out of his car, his fists extended to the sky. You saw his eyes searching. When his eyes found you, he moved.

He was running like a madman. The admin helped you lean over the barrier as he crashed into you. Your world exploded into him as his arms wrapped around you. He was crying. Happy tears, filled with all the happy emotions he deserved to feel.

“Hi,” you whispered. Lando laughed, light and breathless.

“Hi back,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse. He’d screamed in the radio, shouting in excitement. He sounded wrecked in the best way. He looked beautiful. You pulled back and pulled his helmet visor up. His eyes, vibrant and green, bored into you.

“You did it,” you breathed.

“I had to, you’re watching.” You hugged him again. He swayed you both to an invisible tune. He was sweaty and smelled like BO, but he was yours.

“I’ll take all the credit for your win, then.” Lando slid his helmet off, and he was in you in seconds.

“I’ll dedicate it to you.” It was a promise forged in everything soft and kind.

“You’d do that?” You asked. That was big in F1 terms. That was declaring something bigger than the universe.

“I want the world to see you, to know you, like I do.” You’d never heard more poetic words in your life. You leaned in and captured his lips in a gentle kiss that spoke more than words ever could.

“Okay,” you whispered as you pulled away. His eyes widened, your words sinking in like a body in water.

“You serious?”

“Dead serious. We’re serious, aren’t we?”

“Hell yeah we are. You’re it for me.” You kissed his cheek.

“Then do it.”

lando You make me feel things I never thought I could. I love you so much, and every race I win is always gonna be for you 🧡

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julietcore you’re so love of my life coded it’s insane 🧡

[revelboo]

Wait bonded humans don’t age?

Their lifespans are tied to their bond mate’s. They’re technically still aging, just so slowly that from a human perspective, they seem to not be aging at all

Visitor Pt 2

Ratbat x Reader

• Claws digging in to send bits of bark pattering down onto the leaf litter below, he stalks his prey. Sharp denta bared, he hisses and throws himself at his soft, unsuspecting target. “You’re doing it again,” you say, looking up at him as he wings over to the low stone wall and lands beside where you’re spraying little black chunks with offensive smelling chemicals from a bottle. “You were narrating,” you add as his optics narrow. He was not. Was he? Flustered, he adjusts his wings, the claws at his wrists scraping the stone.

• “I have to amuse myself somehow,” Ratbat mutters, shuffling on the wall as you dig a lighter out. Bending to light the charcoal, you grab the grate and drop it on the grill as it flames up. ‘By playing apex predator?’ You ask and you’re almost positive he’s embarrassed as his chin lifts, big ears swiveling back. You’re still not a hundred percent sure what he is beyond a weirdly pompous, metal, alien bat, but he’s amusing and seems harmless. “I was respected. Feared,” he grumbles and you know this rant. It’s one of his favorites. “I had power.”

• “Uh huh,” you say as you grab a metal brush and scrub at the grate as the fire burns. “You were a senator, right?” So you are listening to him. Sometimes he’s not sure. You’re only an organic. Claws flexing on the wall as he thinks of the unfairness of it all. He’d lifted that ungrateful son of a glitch up, taught him subterfuge and Soundwave had used it against him. Trapped him in this form. Startling when you set the brush down and turn to cup his head in your hands, fingers rubbing his audial fins, he hisses indignantly. Even though your soft hands feel amazing, not that he has any intention of saying so.

• “That’s right,” he grumbles sullenly as you rub his big, bat ears and his optics shutter in pleasure. Feel him lean into your touch, one of his wing claws catching at your hip as he rubs his head against your hands, making a low, rumbling purr of engine noise as you struggle not to laugh and piss him off. ‘You want to stay here tonight?’ Feel those sharp claws flex against you as he clears his vents, with an aggrieved little huff. Like staying here is slumming it. Maybe to him, it is.

• “I mean, you don’t have to,” you say. “I was just going to watch Game of Thrones.” Optics shuttering at your wheedling tone, he finds it endearing that you think you can manipulate him into doing anything he doesn’t want to. ‘Oh?’ He plays along as you resume rubbing his audial fins to make him shiver. “It’s just this show about court intrigue, plots, subterfuge, and murder.” Opening a single optic to stare at you as you smile innocently, he huffs out a laugh as you grin, eyebrows lifting. You really do have no survival instincts, but maybe once Megatron takes over this miserable planet, he’ll keep you around as a companion. ‘Court intrigue?’

Previous

[sunndae-parlor]

hey so how do you think Sakura and Suo would deal with having a s/o who’s a good comfort and listener? They’ve had a rough day and s/o is like “Want me to get out the extra kotatsu so you can stay the night?”. / A little bit of an insecurity slipped out of him and s/o gives him snacks and them both a nice drink, “wanna talk? I am good listener. Nothing shall leave this room or I’ll eat my own shoes”?

WIND BREAKER, SUO HAYATO AND SAKURA HARUKA :: soft words

⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 .𖥔˚ SUO and SAKURA with a partner whose comforting and good at listening

hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship, gender-neutral reader

contains :: reader being a bit pushy (the right move in this case)

warning :: may be ooc (especially for suo- i tried my best though!), sakura’s backstory

Suo’s always been kind of an mystery. to his classmates, to his friends, even to you, his significant other.

it was hard to tell what was a facade and what wasnt. but, that doesn’t mean you haven’t improved. today had been rather normal. Suo picked you up after school (he’d always walk you home if he didn’t have patrol), and was acting as usual. almost.

in the short time you’d spent with him that day, you could still notice something was… off.

that’s why he was here now, sitting on your bed. you’d invited him over, hoping to talk, but how would you start this?

“i’m glad you’re alright. i almost worried something happened when you texted me so late,” suo said with his usual smile. in any other scenario, that wouldve flustered you a bit. but this time, your mind was a bit busy.

you inhaled, deciding to just go ahead with it. “suo. are you doing okay?”

you saw his eyes widen ever so slightly when you asked, before he went back to his usual expression. “of course i am. why do you ask?” you looked at your hands in your lap, light fabric being tugged. you went for the best way you could explain, honestly.

“when we were walking, your smile was a bit flatter. you told less silly lies on the walk home, and you just seemed lower energy.” you barely paused for a moment, carefully getting every thought out through your words. “and… i cant help if you dont tell me. i want you to tell me.”

when you look over again, waiting for his reaction, his eyes were a bit wider again. his mouth was slightly open, showing shock in a way thatd only make sense for suo. but this time, instead of just returning to a normal closed eye smile, his eyes softened and he smiled. the smile this time was soft, caring.

it wasn’t unusual, but it wasn’t the same either.

without a word, he slowly leaned closer. his lips touched yours softly, not quite a kiss, but not in the way when he’d tease. it didn’t feel like romance, but gratefulness. that fact only made you more flustered than usual.

“thank you,” he finally said something, only having moved away slightly. “i don’t have anything to tell. but, if you’ll have me, i’d like to stay here with you tonight.”

you weren’t surprised suo didn’t actually tell you. you doubted his words of not having anything to tell. but suo is a mystery and you love him. you smile at him as he leans away. “i’d love that. i’ll get out the extra futon and brew some tea, okay?”

an hour later, you were fast asleep with a half empty tea cup as suo looked down at you. he didn’t have a smile at the moment, but his eyes were filled with care.

this was all the comfort he needed at the moment.

Sometimes, being with sakura was a challenge.

tonight, you’d gotten an odd feeling. a pang in your stomach was just telling you to check on sakura. you sent a simple message, not wanting to bother him so late. you knew he had your notifications on a high volume, he’d hear it if he was sleeping soundly. still, twenty minutes passed with no response.

it took you another five minutes of debating as you slipped on your outside shoes and a simple jacket, packed your phone and keys in your purse, and took off towards his house.

his door wasn’t locked when you turned the knob. you peeked your head in, seeing the spooky home. you’d been here once before, but a pang of sympathy and even a little guilt hit each time.

you walked into his room. just as you suspected. on the flat futon lied sakura, covered in sweat. his eyes were closed and twitching a bit, eyebrows furrowed; a nightmare.

it made your heart turn. you sat on the floor next to sakura. gently, you placed a hand on his shoulder. he jolted awake in a moment, sitting up and putting his arms up prepared for a fight, putting them down when he recognized you.

“what… what’re you doing here?” he muttered, turning to face his blanket again. his cheeks were slightly red from embarrassment.

“i had a feeling something was wrong. guess i was right…” you hum, leaning closer to put a hand on his face, check if he was okay. but he pushed it away.

“i’m fine. just a stupid nightmare.” he turns away again, mouth pulled into a frown. “even if it was more than that, i can handle it myself.” he propped his knees up, leaning forward a bit.

you sigh, pulling away slightly but with no intention of leaving. “i know you can. but you don’t have to.” his eyes flickered over to yours. you looked tired, but also like you weren’t going to leave.

he opens his mouth slightly, then grits his teeth. “why would you wanna help me? if i cant handle a stupid nightmare then i’m just weak. then…” he stopped, but you could hear what wasnt said.

‘If i’m just weak, i’m nothing.’

“sakura.” he glanced over, his brows furrowed again. one might mistake it for anger, but it was the same as before. fear. “i dont date you just because you’re strong.” his eyes widened slightly as your fingers brushed against his bangs, making his eyes clearer to be seen.

“i date you for lots of reasons. you’re brave, determined, and protective.” your voice became clearer, but lower in volume. “you’re striking, cute, and i’m grateful whenever i get to see your face.”

his lips shake slightly as you continued, fingers trailing down. they followed the curve of his forehead down his cheek. “you’re also hardheaded, defensive, and the most stubborn person i’ve met.”

he looked like he was going to cry almost, but no tears were building in his eyes. his lips pressed together. “i couldnt protect you or defend you. and then you left.” the contents of his dream. your mouth hovered open, eyes slightly widened.

it was no secret sakura was insecure. but, after the fight with KEEL, after realizing he wanted to protect those he cared about, he worried he wouldn’t be strong enough for you. to keep you safe.

and, if he wasn’t, what was there to stay for?

“all of us here. we love you for every bit of you. strength included.” you don’t hesitate another moment to say that. “you… you’re so much more than you think you are.”

a smile graces your lips. you gently wrap your arms around him, secure. he didn’t fight you off, or yell. his cheeks turned red, but he leaned in. “i love you for everything there is to you. not in spite of it.” you muttered it gently.

you could feel him relax slightly more.

he protects this town. his friends. you. and you’d protect him from memories. fears. insecurities.

he slept better than he had in a while. and when he woke up, you were still there; wiping down his kitchen after he’d found a bag of snacks by him.

you knew this wouldn’t resolve everything he’s dealt with. but it would be a start, and if needed you’d take it over and over.

sorry that sakura is quite a bit longer (˶╥︿╥) we just know more abt his backstory and mentality, so i had more to build on. i had so many ideas for this request it was tough- sorry if it didn’t turn out how you like!!

[moodswriting]

somebody that i used to know

pairing: corenswet!clark kent x !fem reader tags + tw: angst w/ little to no comfort, yearner!clark, jealous!clark (?),  no smut, clark is a sweetie and irrevocably in love with you, no use of y/n, not many physical descriptions of reader word count: 1.7k summary: you’re not with him anymore. you’ve moved on. has clark? notes: not proofread, first fic…ever??

That shade of blue looks beautiful on you. The thought crosses his mind before he even thinks to stop it. He runs his hands through his loose black curls, still damp from his shower earlier. Gosh, he shouldn’t be so, so–he doesn’t know what to think.

It’s been a couple months or so, since you had both ended things. Months since he’d seen your soft smile as he woke up in your shared bed, or smelled your shampoo lingering on his shirt that you’d claimed as yours. Months of awkward silences, the slow creeping coldness of a just-ended relationship, avoiding each other in the bullpen, the inevitable awkwardness of bumping into each other in the elevator at the Daily Planet.

There’s an award ceremony today, broadcasted on live TV, and there you are, in a beautifully fitted dark blue blazer. You’re confident in your acceptance, Clark can tell of course. He remembers you practicing your acceptance speech in your bedroom. He’d been leaning against the doorframe, watching you in your too-large shirt, hem brushing the tops of your thighs, barefoot in front of the mirror, smiling and rehearsing over and over. In particular, he remembers the warmth of his fondness, his pride, the deep seated i love you unsaid that night that still burns deep within him.

The journalist standing to your right offers you a dashing grin, white teeth shining in the sunlight, light brown hair curly, but gelled back. But Clark pays him no attention, eyes still glued to your place on the screen. Something deep inside him aches though, when he sees the genuine smile you give in return. A couple of months ago that smile had been reserved for him, the cute dogs you saw on your walks, and anything in Brooklyn 99 that made you laugh. 

–

“No, Clark, that isn’t what the Halloween heist is about!” You smile like the sun. 

Your bare feet are tucked under his thigh, a soft blanket thrown over the both of you. You’ve been attempting to explain this part of the show for the last 10 minutes, but Clark, in all his innocent lack of pop culture knowledge, doesn’t understand.

He smiles, and his dimples make your heart soften. The tv cast shadows across his face, bathing him in hues of blue, red, yellow. The light catches the sharp line of his nose, and of his jaw, and for a minute, you forget why you were talking at all.

He’s watching you, too. The show is in the back of his mind, keeping track of it only to make you happy. He feels your cold feet tucked against his thigh, but he doesn’t mind, he always runs a few degrees warmer than you do anyways. But all he can think about is how lucky he is to have you. How you now share an apartment, and he’s able to wake up each morning with you soft breaths ghosting across his face. Also, the fact he knows exactly what’s going on in the show but just loves to see you be so passionate about your favorite part of the show.

–

He blinks. The ceremony is still going on, now a quiet hum in the background. The male journalist's arm is around your waist. Clark is angry–no, he’s jealous. He shouldn’t be, gosh, he knows that he shouldn’t be. He knows he wasn’t good enough as a boyfriend for you. All the good moments you shared were overshadowed by the missed dinners, his perpetual lateness, and the final nail in the coffin–missing your 1 year anniversary.

He still remembers the night it all happened. You had been crying, tears running down your face. The sight tore a hole so deep in heart he didn’t know what to do with himself. In those final months he knew he wasn’t enough, call him selfish, but he wanted to hold onto you, his one constant, amidst the mess of his double life. He was drawing it out, and he knew that.

You’d screamed, beat your hands against his chest, and he had let you, hoping praying that this wasn’t the end, though he knew it was.

So it stung. It stung seeing you smiling with another man. He’d known about it, enough to be in denial about it. The bullpen was busy, yes, but not that busy. Clark had heard your laughter at his–what was his name? John? James?–desk as he’d walked by with his cup of coffee. He’d seen you leaned over his shoulder as you two discussed a piece you were working on. He’d seen the soft barely there touches, the quiet whispers, of the relationship the two of you had been trying to keep under wraps. And it hurts. It hurts because he remembers when those soft touches were meant for him, those quiet smiles across the loud bullpen, they were all from you to him, Clark. And now they were his.

–

“Hey, could you–could you maybe take a look at this piece I’m working on?” Clark asks, hands fidgeting at his sides. His glasses have slipped low on his nose, crooked.

You look up from your laptop, cursor blinking on an empty page. You take a sip of your lukewarm coffee. This is the first time Clark’s talked to you directly, since, well, everything went down.

With all the warmth of a campfire long since cold, you respond cordially. “Yeah. What exactly does Perry have you working on?”

For a moment, Clark says nothing. You watch his eyes, even bluer in the light of the bullpen. After knowing each other for so long, you can tell he’s holding something back. What you don’t know is how much it hurts for him. What was once warmth, laughter, and smiles spun into gold have turned into dull blades, steel, and ice masquerading as workplace politeness.

“Yeah,” Clark rubs at the back of his neck, unable to meet your eyes. “Just a piece on the construction of that new mall, downtown.”

You grab the draft from his hand, and pull out a red pen, pen cap sitting between your teeth. Clark leans against the pillar besides your desk. As you read over his article, you can feel his gaze burning a hole in the side of your face.

You pass the marked up article back to him.

“Yeah, no, it’s good, you have a lot of good stuff there. I think maybe a couple grammar changes ....” As you ramble on about his article, all Clark can do is watch. He knows his article is good. He put those mistakes in there for you, for you to see, just to have an excuse to see you, to talk to you. Even if it was just as cordial as coworkers.

“Clark? Hello? Are you even listening?”

“Yes, gosh, yes. Sorry.” The tips of Clark’s ears go bright red, the flush beginning to spread to the rest of his face.

A soft sigh leaves your lips. “Yeah, those are the changes I’d make. You get all that?”

“Y-yes. Yes. Thank you, really.” He gives you a soft smile, dimples reappearing.

You stand, grabbing your coffee mug. “No problem. Let me know how that goes.”

As Clark watches you walk away, all poise and confidence, something deep within him aches. An ache that grows when he watches James hand you your coat, you grinning a thank you as he slings an arm around your shoulders. Guess you weren’t trying to keep that relationship quiet anymore.

–

Perry’s invited you all to dinner. At a popular Italian place in downtown Metropolis. Clark’s come alone, because of course he has. He only has eyes for you. You’re in a deep, shimmering wine red gown. Thin straps run over your collarbones and shoulders. The color compliments you. It runs down your body like a silken river of merlot.

Jimmy is asking him something, and Clark seems half invested. His eyes stay on you as he laughs animatedly at whatever joke Jimmy made, murmuring a response in return.

You don’t notice of course. Kat is asking you about your weekend. You respond, smiling, as James rubs small circles into your thigh, hand placed there comfortably. 

You don’t notice the pain in Clark’s eyes as he watches the love of his life slip beyond his reach. You don’t notice how his blue eyes darken when he notices James’s hand on your thigh. You don’t notice when his smile becomes strained at the thought of you smiling, laughing, cuddling into James.

You only notice when his chair screeches as he abruptly stands and announces that he’s headed to the restroom. You give him a curious glance as he leaves, wondering what’s wrong. You pull your phone out, tapping away at the keyboard.

You okay?

You put it facedown on the table, and not even a second later, a buzz.

Fine. Sorry to make a commotion.

You like the message, turning back to James. You kiss him lightly, and grab his hand, interlocking your fingers with his. Kat continues to talk, and you let yourself melt happily into the ambience, the food, and the music.

In the bathroom, Clark grips his phone, barely there restraint is the only thing keeping him from crushing his phone in his hand.

Maybe he should have just told you. Maybe he should have told you who he was. But he didn’t. And now all he is to you is a small chapter of your life. A bad boyfriend and now an ex. He should be happy, he thinks. You’re happy. James is good for you. He’s on time, he doesn’t miss out on dinners or anniversaries. He’s supportive. He’s not off fighting dimensional imps when he’s meant to be meeting your parents for the first time. He’s not balancing two lives.

He glances at his reflection in the mirror. His curls are a bit damp with sweat. The top buttons of his shirt unbuttoned from when he was worked up over you. Sleeves rolled up to his forearms, veins straining against his skin from the restraint of not crushing the bathroom sink with his bare hands.

He lets go. Tie loose on his neck. You would have fixed that for him, straightened it and re-tied it, once upon a time. But now, he lets go. He lets you go. He leaves the bathroom, and walks quietly back to the table. He smiles at Jimmy’s jokes, and Steve’s bad lines. And the night is over.

He spares one final glance, watching you get into the cab with James. And somewhere, deep in his chest, something shatters.

[lynnieverse]

I miss u girl

I miss y'all too omg. so sorry I've been gone for so long, I've been working THREE jobs this summer to pay off my car! now that classes are starting back up again I should be posting more regularly (no promises lol). as a thank you for sticking with me, here's a new one shot ;)))

also this is lowkey based on true events in my life between me and the KILLER so maybe i’ll write the happy ending i cant get 😛

lmk if you want a part two!!

friends don't // rafe cameron

oneshot

bsf!rafe x crushing!reader

synopsis: friends don't... but we do.

1.6k words

You stare down at the dim light of your phone, the words practically echoing in your head. 

good night y/n

Simple. To the point. Definitely not something that should make your heart almost beat out of your chest. 

You let your eyes fall closed as you take a deep breath, trying not to overanalyze like you always do. 

You and Rafe are just friends. That’s all. 

But friends don’t…

No. You snap yourself out of whatever trance you’re in and click your phone off. Part of the problem is others feeding into your delusions, so you decide against texting your friends this time. 

Instead you roll over, the duvet crinkling satisfyingly at your movement, and hug a spare pillow tight against your chest. 

After dark is when you become a master director of all things make believe. Daydreaming is nice, but concocting a storyline about your life to fall asleep to is what you’re best at. 

This time you imagine his hand sliding into yours, pulling you down the beach with a secret smile that lights up his twinkling eyes. The scene fades to black and you’re in your living room, tucked against his side watching some RomCom. Your song starts playing through the speakers. You giggle, pulling him to his feet so he can twirl you around on the carpet. He has so much love in his eyes, and he kisses you as Taylor Swift fades to the background.

You can picture it in your head as clear as day. 

“And so it goes, you two are dancing in a snow globe ‘round and ‘round…” 

No; friends definitely don’t do this. 

Fuck.

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The next day you’re meant to meet Rafe early to talk about some upcoming surfing tournament he wants to enter. You must have overslept because the next thing you know the sun is blinding you through a crack in the curtains and someone is pounding on your front door. 

Grabbing your glasses, you stumble down the stairs with a yawn. Whoever decided to disturb your beauty sleep must have a death wish. 

You grip the brass knob and wrench the door open, interrupting Rafe mid-knock with an almost animalistic growl. 

“What the actual fuck, Rafe?!” 

He looks pissed, stuffing his hands in his pockets with a scowl. You’re suddenly aware of how awful you must look. Pajamas askew, hair a mess, and you hadn’t even taken your pimple patches off yet. Warmth floods your cheeks, but Rafe doesn’t notice. 

“I thought you died, Y/N, what the hell!” 

“Died?” your nose scrunches in confusion. A bead of sweat tickles your hairline and you usher him inside quickly. “It’s too hot to be letting all the air out, come on.” 

He follows you to the living room where you sit on the couch expectantly. “Well?” You ask.

“I’ve been calling you all morning, you were supposed to meet me and you just didn’t show up. What was I supposed to think?” 

You roll your eyes. “That I overslept? Literally anything else other than death, Rafe.” 

He blows out a harsh breath and runs a hand over his buzzed head. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m sorry, though. I didn’t mean to worry you. I didn’t get much sleep last night,” you say, biting your lip. No sleep from thinking about you.

His eyes soften and he takes the seat next to you. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up… Well I did, but I wouldn’t have if I’d known.” 

You laugh lightly, patting his leg before immediately retracting your hand. “You’re all good, Rafey.” 

Was that too much? That was definitely too much. 

“So about this tournament…”

You groan, letting your body fall back into the cushions. “Do we have to talk about this?” 

“Okay drama queen. You’ll want to hear about it when you hear what first prize is.” 

You perk up, raising an eyebrow. “Go on.” 

“A trip to Hawaii, all expenses paid, for a week,” he smirks, knowing he piqued your interest. 

“Shut up! That’s so cool!” 

He watches as you bounce in place excitedly, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly. He clears his throat and looks away. 

“Yeah, so I really want to win this. Plus I get to take someone with me.” 

“Holy shit! Who would you take? Sarah? Topper?” You try not to bring attention to how close you’d become, your knee almost brushing his thigh. He gives you a look, eyebrows pulling together slightly. 

“You are really dense sometimes,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “That’s rude, Rafe,” you say with a pout. He smirks but doesn’t reply, and you don’t push. That’s usually how your conversations went; one person would push a boundary, the other would ignore it, and time went on. It’s exhausting. 

“Why would I take my sister to Hawaii?" He throws his hands up. 

“Well I don’t know Rafe, why would you take me?” Your mouth snaps shut in immediate regret. You both maintain eye contact before someone looks away, silence washing over the room. 

“Okay,” Rafe clears his throat. “I guess that’s all I wanted to tell you.” He stands, pulling his keys out of his pocket. He takes his time walking to the door, jangling his keys to some unknown rhythm. You follow him silently, watching his T-shirt stretch across his flexing back. Shaking your head you push down those thoughts, the ones reserved for your pillow. 

Rafe stops with his hand on the knob, turning his head back to look at you. “We could—uh…we could go surfing later? You could give me some pointers?” 

You want to laugh. What a ridiculous notion. You give him surfing tips? He has at least a few years experience on you, and he knows it. But his puppy dog eyes keep you from pointing that out. 

“Um, yeah. That sounds like fun! Let me just eat some lunch and get ready; I can meet you there?” 

He smiles, dimples making your knees weak. “It’s a date.” 

Your eyes widen. 

Why does he say shit like that?

He has to know it kills you every time he gives and pulls away. 

His smile falters, but he keeps up the act, winking at you and slipping out the door. You were hoping to get a little space from him. From everything he encapsulates. But of course you folded like a house of cards. 

You always do. 

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

After surfing Rafe somehow convinced you to have a couple drinks at the local dive bar. 

You’re still in your damp bikini top, one of Rafe’s T-shirts from the trunk of his car hanging from your shoulders. The air smells like stale beer and Pine Sol, an odd but oddly comforting combination. The jukebox in the corner is humming some sixties tune, and Rafe’s leg is pressed against yours. The booth is small, but it feels intentional, and it’s making your head spin. 

“I’m telling you, Y/N, I think I inhaled half the ocean out there.” 

You snort into your drink, salt-crusted hair falling into your face. Before you can blink, warm fingers tuck said hair behind your ear. You snap your head up in surprise, but he takes his time pulling his hand away. His touch lingers, softly tracing the line of your jaw. His eyes flick to your lips—cheeks flushed from the alcohol, pupils blown. 

“What?” You whisper. 

His breath hitches. “I just… I love—” A glass breaks behind the bar, startling you both. It snaps the rubber band of tension between you instantly. You shift in your seat, Rafe rubs a hand down his face. 

“You were saying?” 

Rafe’s eyes cut to you, and he takes a deep breath. “I love this bar,” he says finally. You instantly deflate. “Yeah, we should play that next! I’m going to go queue it up, be right back,” he rushes out, practically sprinting across the room in the name of Toby Keith. 

You stare after him, drink sweating in your hand. 

“I love this bar,” you mutter under your breath. “God, you’re so full of shit.” You try to act normal, swirling the melting ice around in your glass. A minute later Rafe comes back, a smile on his face like nothing happened. 

You feign happiness for as long as you can. You laugh at his stupid Toby Keith impression. You even toast your glass to his. But the buzz is gone, the warmth evaporated. Soon after you’re in an Uber, leaving Rafe with his thoughts at the bar. 

⋆ ˚｡ ⋆୨♡୧⋆ ˚｡ ⋆

You’re startled awake by the shrill sound of your ringtone in the middle of the night. You groan, feeling around your nightstand before gripping the phone in your hand. 

“Hello?” You squint through the darkness, eyes heavy with sleep. 

“Hi.” 

“Rafe?” You check the caller ID and confirm it’s him. “What the hell, dude?” 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called.” 

“Wait, wait. What’s going on?” 

“Nothing. Honestly I shouldn’t have called… I couldn’t sleep and you’re the first person I wanted to talk to.” His voice is quiet, and something about the way he spoke dissipates all previous annoyance. 

“That’s sweet, Rafey. What’s keeping you up?” 

“What do you think?” 

Time stops. Your heart stutters. Rafe goes quiet. 

“Rafe…” You whisper.

“Forget it,” he sighs. 

“Why did you call me?”

“We’re friends aren’t we?” 

“Friends don’t do this,” you manage, practically choking out the words. 

“No, they don’t.” A pause. “We do, though.” 

Your eyes fall closed with a pained sigh. 

“Yeah…we do.”